Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Technically it’s a yes or no question. 

If Mo were a better person, he probably wouldn’t even weigh his options. But he’s not, so he does.

Saying no means he'll continue his current routine. He’ll keep working as a desk genin, saving up and plotting his next move. Mo bets it’ll take another two years for his name to be forgotten entirely, and by then he’ll be financially stable enough to buy a plot of land off books. He’s already planned how to fake his death. He’s already mapped out escape routes and planted gear throughout the forests of Fire Country. 

Defecting from Konoha is remarkably easy, Mo’s realized. He wonders why more people don’t do it. 

“Mamoru-san? Have you-”

“Just Mo. Please,” he says. A little too forcefully, maybe, because the young woman sucks in a sudden breath. “Sorry to cut you off.”

“Oh,” she rubs a hand on her apron before trying again. “It’s no trouble. I know this must be stressful.”

“It is.”

Ito Ito has a straightforward name and a roundabout personality. She’d been the one to contact him in the first place, but it took her three letters and a formal meeting to outright say what happened. Mo thought he’d been found out. He brought quite the arsenal to their first meeting. Disarming himself afterward was remarkably embarrassing.

“Naturally,” her smile is a tad bit pained, but she hides it well. Mo wonders if this situation has happened before. It must have, right? Konoha’s a big village. Tons of bastard kids running amuck. “Have you decided?”

“Did you tell them about me?”

“No, sir.”

Mo licks his lips. Why’s his mouth so dry? It’s humid here, no reason for him to be dehydrated. He hates the humidity. He can’t wait to get out of this place.

“And how old are they?”

“They turn five in January. The eleventh.”

“Right,” he says. It’s September now, so he’s got a bit of time before he’ll have to throw a birthday party. Not that he’d have any idea how to. If he says yes he’d have to figure that out. What even happens at a five year old’s birthday? What kinds of gifts would they want? Do they have object permanence? What if they’re color blind? Does he have to get them tested for that?

It’s a good buffer of time, at the very least. A nice trial period of sorts before anyone gets too comfortable. There’s always the chance they’ll hate him. And, well, he’d never willingly send them back to the orphanage, but he might have enough time to find a nice family for them. Yeah, that’d be good.

He looks through the glass paneling on the door. It’s the same scene he saw an hour ago when he arrived. 

Two white haired boys are in the other room, identical except for the length of their hair. The one with longer hair is working hard to carefully outline a flower on the back of a napkin. He uses practiced strokes to darken his lines, his face mere centimeters away from the table. The other one has short hair that sticks around his head in a spiky halo. He’s frantically scribbling across his own napkin. The scribbler stops to smile at his work, lifting the piece to proudly show his brother. The other boy nods before going back to business: his face too close to the desk, his eyes unblinking. 

The boys look healthy if a bit too pale and scrawny. They don’t seem all that distraught either, but Mo can’t imagine the woman who abandoned him put in much work the second time around. He doesn’t remember much of his childhood before the academy scooped him up, but he certainly doesn’t remember any kindness from that woman.

They’re well fed though. Well groomed too.

Rikona was a dragon of a woman, only ever holding onto what brings her satisfaction. Children, Mo had thought, didn’t fit into Rikona’s unattainable standards. She’s a frugal woman, who hates when things get in the way of her work and pleasures. Being a geisha isn’t easy. It’s nearly impossible with kids.

But she clearly spent at least four years keeping these boys clean and fed. Eyeing their coloring, so different from his own, Mo can guess why. If he’s right, the fate of the boys, if he leaves them here, is… well. It’s not a good one. He’s been in the village long enough to know that. Sage, he wants so desperately to leave.

And yet.

“I want to meet them.”

“Are you sure?” Ito futzes with her apron, her eyes downcast, “these things are… delicate. For them to meet you and for the adoption not to take place would be…”

Awful. He’s well aware of how betrayed he’d feel if a brother showed up to the orphanage just to say hi. He’s also well aware of what he wished that hypothetical big brother or sister or cousin or father or uncle or aunt would say. He played through the scenarios plenty of times as a child. In this very orphanage. In that very room. Ito is more clever than he gave her credit for. She clearly excels at emotional manipulation.

“I’m sure,” Mo says, willingly falling for the wicked woman’s ploy. He’s stalled long enough, any more and he might just leave. He can’t do that to them. He can’t. “I’ve already been pre-approved, right? No reason to drag this out.”

Her fist twists into the fabric a bit tighter. “Well, sort of. Your salary is a bit too low to support all three of you, but your character references were strong. One even mentioned you have a good chance of making chunin, so we made an exception. You’re family, after all.”

Which character reference said that? Mo has no intention of joining those exams. They were in Iwa this year. He would die. 

He bets it was Iruka. That asshole is always talking about ‘potential’ and ‘doing your part.’ What a jerk.

Or maybe it was Yona-sensei. She’s been trying to get him to compete since he turned twelve. He thought they beat that horse dead by now.

“Right,” he says, lying through his teeth. “I’m feeling rather confident in myself.”

“That’s great to hear,” Ito smiles, her tone shifting into something more business-like, “because we check back in with all of our adoptions after four months. We also require monthly income reports during the first year of the child or children being in your care. If you cannot financially support the boys you’ll have to surrender them.”

Great. Now he has to make chunin. Totally cool. He’s going to need a team. He doesn’t know any genin ambitious (or stupid) enough to go to Iwa. He’ll have to ask Yona-sensei.

“Cool,” he flashes his best customer service smile and nods to the door, ready to get this over with, “can I meet them now?”

Whatever nerves Ito had completely fizzle out at that, and she guides him through the door.

“Boys,” she greets gently. The one with the longer hair flinches slightly, but neither give her their attention, “I’d like you to meet someone. This is Mamoru-san. He's your big brother.”

That makes the boys pause. They look up in sync and Mo gives a small wave.

“Hello,” he says, stepping forward as Ito steps back, “Call me Mo. Nice to meet you.”

“You don’t look like us,” the boy with shorter hair says. It sounds more like an accusation than an observation. “You look like Rikona.”

“Your dad must have strong genes.” He says, absently stroking his hair. He knew in theory that he looked like his mom. It’s weird to hear someone say it so plainly.

“Rikona kept saying he would come back for her,” the boy scoffs, “then she gave up.”

“Sounds like her.”

“Aina-oba says Kaa-san’s a junky,” the boy with longer hair lowers his voice to a whisper, leaning closer to Mamoru. “Junky means she does drugs.”

“I know what junky means,” he whispers back. The boy nods wisely and goes back to his drawing. The shorter haired one gives him a proper once over, his eyes stalling at his half-brother’s forehead.

“You’re a ninja?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever seen a dead body?”

Oh man. Not where he thought that was going. “Uh.”

“We have," the kid says earnestly, waving his crayons around as he relays the tale. "It was a long time ago, but one time somebody was really nasty to one of Rikona’s friends- well they weren’t really her friends but she called them that because we all live together. So, I guess it was easier than calling them- what is it?”

“Coworkers,” his twin says softly.

“Yeah, coworkers,” the shorter haired boy shrugs his shoulders, “but somebody was being mean so somebody else killed him. Aina told us not to look, but we did anyway. His face was all smashed up. There was a lot of blood.”

“Well,” Mo says and reaches out to pat the boy’s shoulder twice. He eyes the limb curiously but doesn’t complain. “That certainly sounds traumatizing.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I can explain that later.” Or never. “What were your names?”

“I’m Hiro,” The chattier short haired boy says, “And this is Ko- ow!”

“Jiro,” the long haired boy says, pretending like he didn’t just kick his brother in the shin. “Why do you go by Mo? That sounds dumb.”

“It’s a nickname from a friend of mine. It just kind of stuck.” 

Mo’s genin team consisted of two late bloomers and him, an eight year old. Haruno Haruto and Sato Miyoko had both failed their first exams but passed their second with flying colors. If Haruto was still alive, he’d have a cousin the twins’ age. He was also the one to give Mo his nickname. It started as girlish ‘Momo,’ intended to harm, but evolved into the simplified ‘Mo’ as they grew closer. Mo likes to think they were friends before the team disbanded. He can only hope.

“It sounds dumb.”

“I like it.”

“Oh,” Jiro’s shoulders tighten and he taps his fingers against the table in rapid succession. An interesting nervous tic, but Miyoko did something similar. “Well if you like it, I’ll call you that.”

“Thanks,” Mo smiles and it only feels a little forced this time, which is nice. “But, I- well, I came to meet you two for a reason.”

He spares himself a breath, then drops to the boys’ eye level. He rehearsed this monologue all morning in the mirror. He can do this.

“I’m your half-brother. Rikona was my mother as well, and when I was two she, um, left me here like you. But when I was here there wasn’t anyone to… well, to adopt me. But you guys- you- I- I want to adopt the two of you.” Close enough.

Hiro’s face twists into one ugly wrinkle. “You want to be our dad?” 

“No,” Mo says, mortified. “Definitely not. I’d be your legal guardian. You’d just call me Mo.”

“Not nii-san?” Jiro asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“Well, you can call me whatever you’re comfortable with, I guess.”

Hiro taps his chin in thought, a troublesome glint in his eye. “Momo-nii sounds good.”

“Maybe not that-”

“I like Momo-nii,” Jiro smiles brightly, “It’s cute.”

Mamoru curses his mother for existing.

“Momo-nii it is.”

...

“This place is small,” is the first thing Jiro says. Hiro’s already ran inside. “And smelly.”

Mo shrugs and waves the boy inside, holding the door open with one hand and two overstuffed grocery bags in the other. It wasn’t that bad, he insists in his mind. Sure, it was a one bedroom flat and cheap as hell, but that didn’t make it bad. Small, yes, but not bad. It didn’t have mold and he’s got a plant in the window that yields two cherry tomatoes a year. Practically a castle. "Home is where the heart is."

"What?"

"It's an old saying," he says, waving off Jiro's curious expression, "Don’t worry about it. Go, uh, roam or whatever." 

Jiro huffs before joining his brother in exploring the flat.

Mo gets to work putting the produce away, hoping he still remembers how to fry things. Sure he’s never actually cooked for more than one in this life, but why would that stop him? It’s not his fault Hiro wanted pork cutlets. The twins never had it before. He’s got a vague memory of his Jounin sensei making cutlets for his team years ago. He can do this.

When the raw meat refuses to cower under his glare he makes the active decision to look away. The boys are in his room, which is technically their room now, but it still feels like an invasion of privacy. He’s already cleared most of his (admittedly few) belongings out of it. The more damning evidence of maps and encrypted notebooks was properly disposed of, most of it long since committed to memory. Still, the thought of someone else in his apartment is… uncomfortable. It makes him twitch, senses on high alert for a threat he knows doesn’t exist.

He wonders when the kids will stop feeling like chores and more like… well, something else. Eventually, right?

Everything happens eventually, he thinks as he walks down the hall. It’s uncharacteristically optimistic of him, but one has to be in a situation like this. 

He peeks his head around the corner and watches as the twins jump up and down on his futon. They shriek and giggle, louder than his apartment has ever been before. Mo wonders if his neighbors think he’s kidnapped someone. He hopes not. He’d rather not have a run-in with the police force. He’s heard they’ve been rather strict lately. 

“I see you’ve found the bedroom.”

Jiro has the tact to stop jumping, but Hiro just keeps going. 

“Yeah!” he yells, doing an impromptu backflip, “Cool right?”

His landing was faulty, but Mo doesn't think that's what Hiro wants to hear. “Yeah, real cool. Wanna help me with dinner? You guys can do the curry.”

Hiro shouts his approval and races down the hall, his twin on his heels.

Making dinner is another loud affair and very little of the talking is done by Mo. The twins bounce off each other with practiced ease, flicking between banter and cooking faster than Mo can track. Every once in a while Jiro will remember him, but for the most part, Mo feels like an observer in his own home. They cook and pick up after themselves, but Mo has to reteach Hiro how to hold a knife. Jiro doesn’t like to hold knives, but Hiro’s eyes are sensitive. Mo ends up cutting the scallions. 

“Do we have to share the bedroom?” Jiro asks, placing the pot of curry on the table with careful reverence. He nods to himself, proud of his skill in pot placing before taking his seat. 

“No.” Mo eyes the pot and the table. He should’ve told Jiro to put a towel down first. Would it be embarrassing if he put one there himself? It would be, wouldn’t it? Oh well. It’s an old table, anyway. “I’m on the couch. You guys can have the room.”

Jiro looks over to the couch in question. It’s a green and lumpy loveseat he got from Haruto’s parents after they moved to rural fire country. “It looks small.”

“I sleep there more often than not.”

“Do you have a girlfriend, Momo-nii?” Hiro teases, trying to sneak up behind the elder.

Mo grabs the boy’s skull and directs him to his seat. “If I had a girlfriend I wouldn’t be sleeping on the couch.”

“A boyfriend?”

“Same difference.”

“Aina says shinobi usually like the same gender. That’s why so many Kunoichi visited Rikona.” Hiro shares his knowledge with pride and starts to eat without another word. What a rude little kid. Didn't even say his thanks. 

He tries not to look uncomfortable as he takes his own seat. “I wouldn’t make assumptions like that. It’s rude.”

“Are you a homosexual?”

“I’m, uh, a little too young for that kind of thing.”

“But you look so old!”

“I’m fourteen,” he frowns, bringing a hand to his face. He hasn’t slept well for years, so there are permanent dark smudges under his eyes, but other than that he’s the picture of health. He has to be. Being a nuke-nin is hard work. “How old do I look?”

“So old,” Hiro mutters as he stabs at a piece of pork. The breading keeps falling off. “Like an old lady.”

Jiro’s fingers tap tap tap.

“Like Kaa-san,” he says to the table.

The mood shifts from almost comfortable to suffocating in an instant. 

Hiro’s head snaps upright, his boyish pout replaced by a pinched expression. His hand clenches tightly around his chopsticks as Jiro’s eyes grow distant and unfocused. 

Mo wonders if he should say something. He should change the subject- but what would he say? He doesn’t know their likes and dislikes. He should say something neutral, something to drive the conversation away from appearances. Something like-

“Food’s good,” Hiro smiles. He nudges his twin with his elbow, trying to look at Jiro’s face, “right Aneki?”

Jiro blinks awake and shrugs his shoulders, still looking at a chip on the table. Hiro’s smile brightens considerably, and he launches into a dramatized account of tossing the salad. It was Hiro’s first time and according to him, he did an amazing job. Mo nods along dumbly, knowing full well Hiro isn’t asking for his opinion.

Jiro doesn’t talk to him for the rest of the night.

Mo doesn’t make much of an effort either.

...

His job is as mundane as ever. 

He’s fallen behind on his most recent project, which isn’t like him at all. Taking two days off was Ito’s idea. She said it would help the twins to settle better and wanted him to take a full week. Mo’s not certain it worked, given how they ignore him more often than not, but it did cause the Jounin he’s refiling for to submit a complaint about his work ethic. Mo’s work ethic is, in fact, sub par, but no one was supposed to know that.

He takes lunch at his desk and finishes refiling the Jounin’s taxes midway through a store bought turkey sandwich. If he got mustard on the shinobi’s most recent mission salary, good riddance. The Hyuuga should’ve filed correctly if he didn’t want mustard on his finances.

A coworker tries to talk to him, but Mo’s more concerned with trying to map out the distance between his desk and apartment to listen.

1.78 kilometers.

That’s doable. 

...

It’s been three weeks since the twins moved in. Mo thinks things are going pretty well.

As well as they can, anyway. Ito warned him about how they may have been treated. She couldn’t confirm any of her suspicions, but she said whatever it was wouldn’t be forgotten so easily. Hiro compartmentalizes remarkably well, better than Mo ever did, but Jiro deals with things in a scarily familiar manner. 

Whatever makes him uncomfortable is met with complete avoidance. 

Mo is many things, but he never considered himself a hypocrite. Jiro’s manner of healing may not be the healthiest, but it’s not like Mo’s got any idea of how to offer a solution. He’s not a therapist. The best he can do is make toast when the kid refuses to eat and leave the room when his eyes start to see someone else in Mo’s face.

It sucks though. 

He contemplates why it sucks so much as he lies awake, staring at the off-white ceiling of his first and only apartment. Usually, he spends these insomniatic nights plotting his escape. Tonight, he wonders why he’s gained such a hatred of a woman he barely knew.

Hiro likes him well enough, but Jiro can barely look at him most days without gagging. The longer the twins stay the worse it seems to get. Each day passes and Jiro picks out another of Mo’s mannerisms or an aspect of his appearance to equate to Rikona’s. Jiro loves the idea of a mother, Mo’s noticed. He speaks of her fondly, calling her Kaa-san, but never goes into depth about what they’d do together-- if anything. 

When the twins are alone in the other room, Jiro talks about growing out his hair to braid. He talks about kimonos and jewels and shiny things that their mother used to wear. Rikona is both a role model to him--placed high on a pedestal no one else can see--and the source of his every insecurity. 

Mo takes a deep breath and unclenches his jaw. He doesn’t have the right to be angry on the boys’ behalf.

Mo’s a placeholder. He’s just keeping them safe until he can ensure they’ll live long peaceful lives. One day their dad will come back and he’ll hand them over readily. He’s just here to make sure they live to see that day. He’s not meant to stay. He’s not.

Still. It’s kind of hard to ignore a crying child in his bathroom. 

He leans against the doorway, eyeing the curtain drawn across the bathtub. Jiro’s choked sobbing stopped the second Mo stood up in the next room over, but he made no active move to hide or run off.

“Hey,” he says, not turning on the light, “you okay?”

A small hand peeks out to tug the curtain back. It only moves a fraction, just enough for Mo and Jiro to see each other. Well, Mo can see Jiro. It’s far too dark for Jiro to see Mo.

“I’m- I’m okay-”

Jiro hiccups and stops himself short. His lips press tightly together as he tries to keep himself quiet, inhaling deeply through his nose. His fingers tapping against his knees in rapid succession. Distantly, Mo wonders how long it took Jiro to get so good at self soothing.

The knot in his chest grows a bit tighter. 

“Want some tea? I bought a new brand at the store the other day. It’s a floral one I thought you’d like.”

“Hibis-” Jiro hiccups, “Hibiscus?” 

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Jiro lifts his arms and the pressure in Mo’s chest grows painful.

Mo’s never picked up a child before. Jiro can’t possibly weigh much, being four and blade thin, but the thought that Mo might not be strong enough passes through all the same. He is, obviously, but the unnecessary idea roots itself in his brain and refuses to leave.

He takes a bit too long getting his nerves together before reaching back. His hesitance makes Jiro grow nervous with him, but Mo manages to pull himself together before the kid retreats entirely. He’s lighter than Mo thought he’d be, but Mo’s always been bad at guessing at things like ages and zodiac signs. Maybe he’s a bad judge of weight too.

Jiro doesn’t complain about the sloppy handling, just shifts himself in the dark until his face is pressed into the teen’s collarbone. He sucks the warmth from there, wrapping his twiggish arms around Mo’s shoulders. 

Mo carries him to the kitchen. Lighting the stove proves troublesome, because of course his apartment chooses now to malfunction, so he snaps his fingers and ignites the gas himself. Fire isn’t his first nature or even his second, but he’s seen it used enough to know how to mold it.

At the flash of light, Jiro burrows into his neck a bit further. Mo puts the kettle on and carries him to the couch. He doesn’t bother moving the blanket or pillow he’s been using, letting Jiro curl into them. And curl into him he does. 

“So,” he starts, already dreading this conversation. Problems don’t go away without solutions, though, and if he’s going to be living with the twins he’d like Jiro to look at him every once in a while. “Why no lights?”

Jiro takes his time responding. He sniffs and rubs his nose before burrowing back into his knees, voice muffled by the oversized t-shirt he wears. It’s Mo’s. It’s purple.

“You look like her,” he says, “makes it hard to talk to you.”

“Oh,” Mo shivers as an unexpected cold sweat appears on his neck. He presses his hands together to keep them from shaking. He’s never felt so uselessly angry before, “I don’t really know what she looks like nowadays.”

“Evil.”

“Right.”

“Where are you going?” Jiro asks, no doubt hearing as Mo walks back to the kitchen.

Mo doesn’t reply. He spends some time rummaging through a few drawers before finding what he needs. Jiro watches as he goes from the kitchen back to the bathroom. Mo doesn’t close the door, but the light stays off. 

Jiro may be quieter than his brother, but he's just as impatient. Three minutes in, Mo feels him uncurl from the couch to follow after him. 

Mo flicks on the light as he comes up to the doorway.

"So," he says, blowing stray hairs out of his eyes, "how about it?" 

Jiro blinks his eyes hard as they adjust to the light, but Mo's new appearance remains the same. Where shoulder length waves used to be, Mo's hair is cropped right above his ears with sloppy bangs curling across his forehead. The haircut is rushed, choppy, and obviously done in the dark, but the rich green of his eyes looks brighter and his freckles stand out more without the curtains of light blonde hair that used to frame his face. His eye bags are more pronounced, but his natural tan keeps him from looking dead on his feet.

“Looks like you.” Jiro sniffs. "Looks good."

"You think so?” the corner of Mo’s lip lifts up as he ruffles his own hair, shifting it this way and that. Mo hates it, but he’ll get used to it. Eventually. “I've been feeling up for a change. Glad you like it."

"I like it," he says, one hand coming up to tug on Mo’s shirt. Mo picks the boy up right away this time, placing him on his hip. Jiro’s hands come up to tug at the newly shortened blond locks, getting lost in the thick curls. “Tea?”

“Yeah. The water should be ready.”

Mo flicks the bathroom light off.

Jiro flicks the kitchen light on. 

Chapter Text

The new haircut makes Mo look younger.

Well, younger isn't quite the right way to describe it. The new haircut makes Mo look his age.

"Whoa," Watanabe Genko grins, "since when were you a child?" 

Mo rolls his eyes, tapping a stack of files against his desk to roughly organize them. He’s got a lot of work to get through. He spent the whole morning in an argument with some Jounin over his dogs. Since they’re summonings, they don’t count as ninkin and are not considered dependents. He still isn’t sure why the teenager couldn’t accept that buying your summonings treats is a personal expense and will not be subsidized by the village. He doesn’t care if Pakun only likes the expensive kind. He’s not going to give a spoiled dog taxpayer money.

“I pity your observation skills.”

Genko is an attractive and spindly man in his early twenties. He’s been in the department longer than Mo and he’s probably the only one of his coworkers Mo has any sort of comradery with. More often than not, though, that comradery takes the form of Genko talking and Mo not listening.

Wacky young Jounin aside, Mo’s in a good mood today, so he doesn’t even push Genko off when he plops himself down on the younger’s desk. He gives him a sour look all the same, leaning back to watch as Genko makes himself comfortable. 

"Sure, sure, but now your chubby little cheeks are out," Genko coos, snagging a lemon candy from Mo’s supposedly secret stash. "You look like an itty bitty baby."

"And you look like an old, old man,” he says, plucking the candy from the air as Genko tries to toss it into his mouth. Mo pops it into his own as Genko blinks, checking his shirt and surroundings for the missing sweet. 

“No fair,” he pouts, having the gall to look offended as Mo audibly bites down on the hard candy, “You know I’m out of practice.”

“You could always train some.”

“Bah,” the brunet scoffs, crossing his arms across his chest, “Who’s got that kind of time?”

The tax department hours are short and pay well. A typical day is in by nine and out by four, so Mo finds plenty of time to train and run missions outside of that. He’s about to accuse Genko of being lazy when a new voice cuts in, stern and ice cold.

"Gentlemen, knock it off," the order makes Genko’s back snap straight. Mo sucks harder on the candy to keep from smiling. "You have work to do."

Thank the Sage for Uchiha Bashira.

Bashira is a white haired woman with fifty-two years of active service under her belt. Even though she’s a high ranking Jounin, she joined the genin corps instead of retiring two years ago. Mo had the unfortunate honor of training her. It was the worst three days of his life, but Bashira had whipped the entire department into shape right afterward. Mo’s very grateful Bashira exists. All business. No nuance. So refreshing. 

Genko is terrified of her. As he should be.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, scurrying back to his desk. He leaves a short stack of files behind and Mo narrows his eyes at them. He wanted him to proofread, naturally. Genko’s awful at his job.

Bashira huffs a stiff breath through her nose before turning sharp eyes on Mo. 

“Mamoru-san,” she says and looks at him thoughtfully, “you look well.”

“I do?” Mo blinks owlishly, not expecting that, “I mean- thank you.”

Bashira chances a smile before turning back to her paperwork. She’s never done that before.

The whole of her back is to him and she’s already midway through assessing a chunin’s financial record. Mo nods all the same, not sure what else to say.

He gets to work correcting Genko’s math.

...

Having someone spy on him is a new feeling. 

For most of his life, Mo has coasted under the radar. There was one slip up early in his academy days, but he was still new to all this “planning” stuff so who can blame him for lacking proper foresight at six? Now though, he’s mastered coming off as unassuming and nonthreatening. He looks just shy of generic and sticks to neutral colors. Coupled with his profession at the Genin Corps, he’s the most boring guy around. He works with taxes. He has one single house plant.

That he’s secretly been planning on defecting for the past five years is another story. 

No one knew about that.

“Little dudes, stay close to me.” 

“Why?” Hiro huffs. He slows down to match Mo’s pace but makes a show of puffing up his cheeks. “We know where we’re going.”

“It’s a busy day,” Mo shrugs. The emergency groceries he got on their first day with them ran out quickly. Now five weeks in and midway through October, he’s on his fifteenth grocery run with them. Why do they eat so damn much? He knows they enjoy these trips, but it’d be much better to stay at the apartment- where strange ninja can’t tail them. “I want to keep my eyes on you.”

Jiro tugs on Mo’s sleeve, blinking up at him curiously. “Couldn’t you just sense us?” 

Mo misses a step on flat ground. “What?”

“You’re a sensor, right?” Jiro asks, sincere in the way only children are. “You feel like one.”

“You’re a sensor?” he shoots back, eyebrows raised. “You never told me.”

“You never told me, either.”

“Because I’m not,” Mo lies, trying to salvage the situation. Wait no, maybe it’d be better if he went with this. Yeah, yeah, just go with it. “Well, not really. I never trained in it- I just do what feels right.”

Another total lie. The moment Yona-sensei realized he had an inkling of potential in sensing she had him work until his head spun and he threw up blood. Worth it.

“That’s what I do,” Jiro smiles, his black-brown eyes crinkling, “We’re the same!”

“Yeah, sure.” 

Good. Good. He’s worked hard to keep his skillset to himself, but he can’t have Jiro stand out so soon. He’s only four. Being a sensor at all is a rarity. Having the link draw back to their mom rather than the twins’ potential father is much safer. 

Most likely completely wrong, but much safer.

The rest of the walk consists of Hiro naming all the cool stuff he can do- namely handstands and counting to fifteen. They make it back to the apartment in one piece and if Mo slams the door a bit harder than usual, the boys don’t notice. 

The feeling of eyes on them is finally gone.

...

He asks his old sensei to help him find a team for the exams. They take place in December.

Yona-sensei gives him a strange look before saying she’d try her best.

She also asks to meet the boys.

...

The twins’ initial assessment was correct: Mo’s apartment is small. And smelly. 

It’s never been an issue before, but with the prospect of a pay raise on the horizon and two growing boys running amuck he’s started to think seriously about expanding. He’s never gone apartment hunting before, and even though he’s already found an ad for a great place he’s a little nervous. Leaving the boys on their own was also nerve-wracking, what with their mysterious tail still around. 

Leaving the boys alone for work was one thing: the office was hardly three blocks away and if he tried hard enough, he could sense the twins from his desk. Leaving the boys alone for apartment hunting was another. Especially when the apartment is well outside of Mo’s more detailed sensing range. Beyond two kilometers, everyone felt like a muddy puddle of chakra with no defining characteristics. Within two kilometers, he can identify specific signatures if he really tries. He’s never had to before, so he’s dealing with a bit of a learning curve. The first time he tried to sense the kids at work he’d gotten a nose bleed so bad he had to excuse himself entirely.

But, while Mo’s sensing may be lackluster, his ability to guilt trip a certain chunin can pick up the slack. 

“All I said was that we spar,” Iruka climbs the stairs after him, his voice distraught as he watches Mo’s shoulders stiffen, “I didn’t think they’d take it that way! Honest!”

“Well they did,” Mo huffs, admittedly playing up his annoyance. He’s mainly gotten over his anxiety about the Chunin Exams. Chances are he won’t even get a team and he’ll have to get a second and third job. He’s been looking into it a bit, actually. A few carpenters Genko knows could use the extra muscle of a shinobi. “And now the orphanage expects me to be a Chunin before the year’s up. They might take the twins back if I’m not.”

“I told you I was sorry!”

Umino Iruka was a bit of a weird guy. A bit too patriotic for Mo’s tastes, but he’s the only of Mo’s original classmates to keep in touch with him. Not that that had anything to do with Mo, mind you. When Mo first got his job at the genin corps Iruka had been applying to become an Academy instructor and had to submit his financial records. Iruka had recognized him and just… never left. That was three years ago.

“Hm, sure,” Mo pauses in front of his flat. He turns around to face his former classmate, “I know you’ve got your sensei gig coming up, but are you sure you can handle them? They can be kind of… blunt.”

Iruka waves him off. “All kids are. It’ll be good practice for my class, anyway.”

“Right.”

The door slams open before Mo can turn back around, little arms wrapping tightly around his middle. 

“Momo-nii!” Hiro shouts, pressing his forehead into Mo’s spine, “tell Aneki s- he’s a big doo doo head and should die!”

“Definitely not going to say that,” Mo says, trying to reach around him to grab at Hiro’s skull. He manages to get a grip on the kid’s head firm enough to pry him away. “What happened?”

Hiro tightens his arms around Mo but lets his head be pulled back to look into his brother’s eyes. Black-brown eyes squint up at Mo as the boy pouts. Hiro squints a lot. 

“He wants to play dress up, but I want to play Samurai. We played dress up allllll day yesterday! Aneki won’t play my games at all.”

“Your games are dumb!” Jiro runs up, crossing his arms with a big huff and blocking off the entrance, “I don’t want to be another dragon for you to kill.”

“You’re dumb!”

Iruka clears his throat, gaining the sharp attention of the twins. “Why don’t you play both games? Jiro-kun can design some costumes to go along with playing Samurai. It’ll be more authentic that way.”

Jiro narrows his eyes, looking at the Chunin with a wary expression. “Authentic?”

“Authentic,” Iruka says again, “It means real. Your costumes would make the game feel more real.”

Jiro shrugs and walks back into the apartment without another word. Mo tries to watch him leave, but can’t move much with Hiro still attached to his hip. Jiro’s not usually so rude with anyone but his twin. He must be tired.

Mo sighs and Iruka shoots him a sheepish smile.

Hiro blinks, not letting go of Mo’s waist but stepping around to face the sixteen year old. “Are you Momo-nii’s boyfriend?” 

“Ah,” Iruka keeps his smile in place, patient and measured, “No. We’re just friends.”

Hiro huffs, disappointed. He’s got an unhealthy obsession with romance. Specifically Mo’s. Mo does not appreciate it.

“Good,” Jiro shouts from inside, muffled slightly. "You're ugly.”

“Jiro,” Mo chokes, “don’t be mean. This is Iruka-san. He’s going to be watching you two while I’m away.”

“We’re not babies,” Hiro says, climbing his way up and onto Mo’s back. Mo holds the door open for Iruka. Hiro glares at the chunin as he breezes by. “Rikona used to leave us alone all the time. We don’t need a babysitter.” 

“Of course not,” Mo reaches around to pry Hiro off him. He lets the boy wiggle in the air for a bit, held up by his collar like a disgruntled cat before he drops him to the ground. Hiro lands in a crouch, because of course he does, and springs upright like nothing happened. “But I feel better knowing you guys are okay.”

“Oh,” Hiro says softly and looks down. His ears are pinkish. “Okay, then. I get it.”

Mo wonders vaguely what Hiro gets because it surely isn’t what Mo has in mind. He’s certain the boy isn’t worried about strange ninja bursting through the window to kidnap them. Case and point, Hiro’s already completely at ease around Iruka.

Then again, Mo was the one to invite him into the house. Maybe that meant something. 

No. Probably not.

“Right,” he says, clapping his hands on the twins’ shoulders. “I’m off. Be good.”

Hiro gives a half-hearted promise to be on his best behavior and Jiro huffs, still in his mood. Mo considers telling Iruka to put them to bed as early as he can before thinking better of it. Iruka understands children much better than Mo does. He’s probably caught on by now. 

He digs his hand into Jiro’s long hair anyway, messing up his already sporadic hair. It’ll need a good brushing later. Jiro loves having his hair brushed. Mo ignores the boy’s complaints and Hiro’s cackling as he swings around and out the door. 

He’s hardly halfway down the hall before it re-opens and shuts.

“Mo-” Iruka calls. Mo turns around and his old classmate is smiling, proud and bright like he’s looking at something brand new, and Mo isn’t sure why. “I’m really happy for you.” 

Mo blinks. Iruka was a weird guy. “Hm. Okay?”

“I- I- it’s just- you-” The brunet’s face brightens into a brilliant shade of red and he scratches his cheek, sheepish. He slouches a bit, closing in on himself, but meets Mo’s eyes with a softer smile this time. “You seem better.”

Mo can’t be sure what he’s referring to, but he has been sleeping a bit better lately. He doesn’t want to ask, though. Iruka gets fussy and embarrassed if you ask him to explain himself too much. It’s unbecoming of a future academy teacher. 

“Thanks,” he settles on, “see you soon.”

Vaguely, he wonders about the swell of warmth in his chest, and where it came from.

Iruka really was a weird guy.

...

The apartment is perfect. 

It’s a two bedroom (one large and one more office sized) with a full bath, an open living room and a kitchen on one wall. The windows are large and overlook the Hokage Mountain, which he thinks the twins will like. It’s close to the Academy and the high end civilian school, but out of the way of the busier streets. It’s also near center-city, so they won’t have to hike for their groceries anymore. There’s a playground frequented by clan kids on the next block over and a small lot of grass next door the kids can roll around in. It’s the perfect mix of shinobi and civilian that provides safety without feeling intimidating.

Mo hums appreciatively, running his fingers across the stone countertop. His current apartment had wood, this would be much better for cooking. 

Not that he cooks much, but if he did. One day.

For some reason, though, the landlord fidgets and frets over every little thing. She’s a bit too willing to negotiate the price and Mo frowns. He checks the gas, water, and AC before getting too confident.

Everything checks out. The apartment is dusty but in good shape. 

“Are there any kids in the building?” he asks, pulling his head from the fridge. It works. It might even be a little too cold. He’ll have to warn the boys not to put milk in the back. “I’ve got two.”

“A few,” the woman murmurs, wringing her hands, “one on the top floor. Two families with older kids below you. On this level there’s a retired Kunoichi and her husband, and an older sir who uses the space as a studio.”

“A studio?”

“He’s an artist.”

“Cool.” It might be good to introduce the twins to the arts. Mo was never interested, but he also never gave himself the freedom to try. 

The woman taps her foot anxiously as Mo begins to mentally place his furniture around the place. He should get a bookcase. Maybe some shelves. 

“I’ll take it.”

The woman lets out a huge breath. She practically throws the keys at him.

...

Bashira asked if he had a good dinner today. She’s never done that before. 

He did, oddly enough. The twins and he got takeout ramen and ate it in their empty new living room. Mo didn’t realize there was such a thing as good ramen, he was so used to the instant kind. 

He tells Bashira as much. 

The old woman graces him with another smile--she has dimples--and tells him to get back to work.

He kind of wishes he could talk about it more.

...

"Alright, alright, alright," Mo chants rhythmically, his head hidden in the too cold refrigerator. "What do we want for breakfast?"

"Bacon!" Hiro yells. 

"I want mackerel," Jiro says.

"How about eggs?" Mo asks, squinting at the megar selection before him.

The twins shrug with equal amounts of disappointment and Mo gets to work. He cracks all of the remaining ten eggs in a pan before scrambling them together. As they cook through he slices green onions for Jiro and tomatoes for Hiro. 

“You guys want to go grocery shopping later?” he asks, mentally mourning their lack of hot sauce. He begins to budget for the week, trying not to frown as he contemplates dipping into his savings again. “We’ve got to stock up the new place.”

“Yes!” Hiro cheers. “Let’s go to the playground after!”

“Sure. Sounds good,” Mo hums, plating the eggs. He gives himself the lion’s share and splits the rest equally between the twins. "So Jiro-" 

"Kokoro."

Mo startles at the interruption, “Kokoro?”

"I, um." Jiro fidgets with the hem of his shirt, not meeting Mo's eyes. Hiro shovels a large scoop of eggs into his mouth and begins to glare at Mo, assessing his every move. "My name. I want it- well, it's actually Kokoro."

"Kokoro," Mo repeats, testing it out properly. "That sounds pretty." 

"Yeah. I, um, I'm not- I'm, I want to be-" Kokoro takes a breath, "Imouto. I'm your imouto."

"Huh," Mo blinks. They’ll have to go shopping. "So I've got a little sister and a little brother? Lucky, lucky."

Kokoro shrugs. Hiro's glare loses a bit of its edge.  

"You're not mad?" she asks, her fingers tapping anxiously against the table. 

"No reason to be." He says, "I'm very happy you told me. It must've been uncomfortable going by a name you didn't want."

"Good!" Hiro shouts, "It was getting so frustrating acting like Aneki was a boy! Buy her a Kimono!"

"Now hang on a minute-" 

"I like purple," Kokoro leans towards her older brother, nerves forgotten, "there's one in the shop down the street I like. It's got really long sleeves and lilies on it."

"I don't think you understand the symbolism-"

Hiro smacks the table with his palms, "I want a new hoodie too! A green one!" 

"What's wrong with the one you have?" 

"It's red!”

Mo officially adds his savings to his list of things to mourn.

...

The local playground is loud and buzzing in the brisk October air. 

Usually, fall is temperate and cloudy, but this year’s season has been unusually cold and rainy. It makes Mo think they’ll get a heavy snowfall this winter and part of him pities the ninja stationed at the north border. Chakra is a short term solution to the cold, good for quick walks and emergencies. The frigid air always seeps in eventually-- no one has enough chakra to constantly be generating warmth and keep battle ready at the same time. Shinobi-grad clothing makes up for it most of the time, but the high quality stuff is out of most people’s budget. It’s one reason why so many shinobi stick to the issued uniform. 

Konoha shinobi do famously poor in the snow. Too used to the humid and sweltering heat of their home village.

For this reason, Mo likes to use cold days to practice his control. He stretches his chakra sense to its limits, then retracts it: repeating the process until he can stretch to an exact range of his choosing. Sensing for him is a general thing. He’s no good when it comes to picking out specific signatures like most of the natural sensors can, but he can feel a disturbance to life’s natural patterns from kilometers away. 

It didn’t use to be a problem. Mo hasn’t had steady teammates in a long time, and he rarely runs missions out of the country. He has no use for mastering the art of noticing your allies as well as your enemies. Had. Actually. He had no use for it.

Now, he’s trying to minimize the risk of accidentally attacking his little siblings as best he can.

So, he stands in the park and closes his eyes. The twins’ stalker is on the top of the tallest building in the east. He doesn’t dare prod more into their chakra, unwilling to expose himself, so he focuses instead on the children. Kokoro and Hiro both have obscenely large chakra reserves for being so young, but so do most of the clan kids before him. He picks them out instantly. There’s twelve, including his. One in the sandbox, the twins on the swings, and the other nine running around on the far side, playing ninja.

Frustratingly, he still can’t get a read on the difference between the twins’ signatures. He’ll have to keep working on that. 

The parents around the park are a bit harder to pick out. A shinobi village is made up of many different kinds of people. Identifying anyone over genin is easy. Genin-level and below holds more nuance. It’s difficult to pick out who’s got naturally large reserves and who’s got formal training without seeing how they move. Unless, perhaps, the shape of their chakra itself will give it away. It’s a cold day. Anyone with formal training would be circulating theirs in such a way that-

“Which one’s yours?” 

Mo blinks his eyes open and keeps his breathing steady. His heart rate jumped at the interruption, but it’s not like he didn’t know the woman was standing beside him. He just didn’t expect her to say anything.

He turns to face the obviously Inuzuka woman with the largest reserves here. He doesn’t immediately recognize her (or her ninken), but that doesn’t mean they’ve never spoken before. Should he know who she is or is this a common playground conversation? He can’t tell.

“The twins,” he decides to answer. He points to where Kokoro and Hiro are playing on their lonesomes, still unused to being around other children. It’s not like there are any other twins around, but Mo’s nothing if not thorough. “My siblings.”

The woman frowns, looking between the twins and him. “They don’t look like you.”

“Different dads.”

“Huh.”

They settle into another stretch of silence. Mo shies away from testing out his theory. He’s unsure if his prodding with his sense alerted the woman or not. It probably did, but he wouldn’t know why. Was there a tell in his own chakra that she could sense? That she could smell? The Inuzuka have famously good intuitions, maybe she felt he was acting suspicious, standing here with his eyes closed. He probably looked a bit odd. He’ll have to test this theory at the apartment.

“I see it now.”

“What?”

The woman nods her head at the twins. “They’ve got your eyes,” she says, “mouth too. Different noses though.”

“Oh.”

“You all smell like a family.”

The Inuzuka sense of smell is an elusive thing. Mo doesn’t trust it. “Neat.”

“Mine’s the one over there.” Mo looks in the direction of her nod. It’s the clan kid in the sandbox, so his eyes pinpoint him instantly. Not that he’d need sensory skills to. The woman and the boy share more than a clan- he’s practically a miniature version of her. The boy’s standing with his arms stretched wide, a small pup placed precariously on his head as he yells orders at the rest of the kids in the sandbox. The woman smiles, proud. “Born leader, aye?”

“Sure,” he says, letting out a short breath. 

The woman watches him for a moment before sticking out her hand. A painfully casual way to greet someone in a shinobi village. “Inuzuka Tsume.”

Oh, Mo thinks as he takes her hand, this is the most important person he’s ever spoken to in his life. What a terrible turn of events.

“Mamoru,” he says.

She narrows her eyes at him. Mo tries not to sweat. He’s not entirely sure what she wants out of this conversation. A babysitter, maybe? He hopes not. “You a chunin? I would recognize you if you were a jounin.”

Safe territory. “A Genin.”

“What? Why?”

No longer safe territory. Abort. Abort.

“It’s complicated,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant. It fails to come off as such. Mo doesn’t even think it could pass for defensive what with how his voice cracked.

Tsume gives him a once over, frowning to herself.

Mo knew in theory that the Inuzuka clan are a particularly expressive people. He’ll be sure to avoid them in the future if being expressive means judging him so openly. He’s saved from Tsume’s idle calculation as a shrill yell sounds from across the park. Tsume crosses her arms and tuts as if disappointed. 

“Civilians,” he hears her mutter darkly as he tries to get a look.

A woman has her son by the arm, wagging a finger in his face as she drags him off. She turns around just enough to warn the rest of the children to leave immediately. Mo looks around for danger instinctually and finds none. Aside from the imposing clan head next to him, that is.

“Momo-nii!” Hiro shouts, bounding up to him with Kokoro on his heels. His voice drops to a hissing whisper, as if telling a secret, “That lady was a witch! ”

“A witch?”

“Yeah! She yelled at a kid!”

“Ah. No good.”

Kokoro nods seriously. “She’s a stinky garbage can of poop.”

Tsume coughs, not even pretending to mind her own business. It’s starting to make Mo feel itchy.  

“Hm,” he should get a parenting book. Is he supposed to agree here or tell her not to insult others? Neutrality will have to do for now. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“She said to stay away from him,” Hiro points blindly behind him, the digit leading directly to a small boy a ways off. Ah. Is Hiro a sensor too? Mo’s mildly impressed for all of two milliseconds before he recognizes the boy alone at the top of the slide, his face a shade of fussy red as fat tears well in his eyes.

Oh dear. 

Oh no.

“What’s wrong with him?” Kokoro asks, huddling close to Mo’s legs. She casts a worried look over to the boy. The one which everyone on the playground was now avoiding.

“Is he sick?” Hiro asks, tugging on his brother’s sweater, “back with Rikona, sick people would try to come. They’d get thrown out like that. Aina said they would ruin the business.”

“Oh, um, no. I don’t think he’s sick.” Mo says, smoothing a hand down Kokoro’s hair, “and sick people are still people. Treat them with kindness.”

“Hm. Okay,” Hiro says and runs right up to the jinchuuriki.  

Shit, he thinks, heartfelt, and then, shit, shit, shit.   

Hiro clambers up the slide while Mo’s brain fails to provide a genuine thought. Kokoro tugs on his plantleg. He leans down to hear what she has to say, his eyes trained on Hiro, his every sense on edge, his every muscle tense. He doesn’t reach for a kunai, but he wants to.

“Is it okay if I don’t be nice?” She whispers, softly, sadly, “I’m scared.”

Mo’s pretty scared too, but he can’t just say that.

“It’s okay to be scared,” he says, the words spilling out while his mind whirls with worst case scenarios. Most of them involve Hiro getting his head bitten off by a giant fox. The others involve him getting mysteriously taken away and tortured for talking to a clan head and the village jinchuuriki in the same minute. “Life can be kind of scary sometimes.”

She presses her face into the side of his leg. He feels her nod and grabs for one of her hands.

“Let’s get your brother and go home. I bet you’re hungry.”

She squeezes his hand in hers, before letting go to reach out above her. 

Carrying Kokoro puts him at a grave disadvantage should he have to fight, but it also makes escaping with the twins easier. Mo doesn’t think he can outrun a tailed beast, and he doesn’t think he can fight one, either. The added weight of the twins would ensure that he’d die along with them. 

Mo picks her up anyway.

He feels the stares as he walks toward the slide, so much worse than Tsume’s earlier assessment. He’s never had so much attention on him before. He’s never felt so uselessly terrified before. The playground is busy, so he has to weave around children to get to them. By the time he does, Hiro’s talking to the jinchuuriki, situated in such a way that Mo can’t see the tailed beast’s jailer. Every adult in the park is watching him, blatantly or not.

“Hiro,” he says, “Kokoro and I are hungry. Let’s get going.”

“Okay!” he chirps, switching his footing and sliding down the slide. Mo averts his eyes from a flash of golden blonde hair to follow Hiro. “How come Kokoro always gets to be held? I want to, too.”

“I didn’t think you liked it.”

“I want a piggyback ride!”

“Eh? I must spoil you, using a tone like that with me.”

Hiro huffs and Mo can physically feel his nerves settle now that he’s within reach. The jinchuuriki is watching them, hanging on every word with a childish wonder, but he doesn’t move from the top of the slide. The jinchuuriki sniffs once, loudly, but doesn’t speak.

“Momo-nii, can I please have a piggyback ride?” Hiro says dutifully.

Mo hums and crouches down, allowing the younger twin to scramble onto his back. He hefts Kokoro a bit higher on his hip and taps Hiro’s side.

“Say bye to your friend,” he says, feeling brave and stupid as he walks away. It’s the polite thing to do. He needs to act like nothing’s out of place. 

Hiro turns around and waves. 

“Bye Naruto!”

Chapter Text

Yona-sensei’s favorite saying is this: 

There is always a chance for everything.

She used to say it in the optimistic sense: ‘even when things look dark, there’s always a chance we’ll make it out of here’, or ‘even if you think it’s impossible, there’s always a chance you’ll figure it out.’ Yona-sensei is supportive like that.

Sato Miyoko -- Mo’s dead teammate, one of Yona-sensei’s dead students, and the best friend of Haruno Haruto -- also had a favorite saying. It was this:

Things could be worse.

Mo has always taken his sensei’s advice very seriously. He thoroughly plans his every move and accounts for every option.  It’s not the optimistic advice she meant it as, but it helps him all the same. It wasn’t until recently that he started to abide by Miyoko’s mantra. He’s grateful that he has, though, because thanks to her he’s not completely horrified by the identity of the twins’ stalker.

Seated in the waiting room to the Hokage’s office, Mo keeps his eyes trained on a browning houseplant. He doesn’t glance into the corner that lingers with familiar chakra. As much as he wants to, outing an ANBU is a can of worms he’s got no interest in. 

He feels the ANBU’s chakra flicker slightly. Mo starts to count the floorboards. 

There’s another flicker of chakra, but the ANBU stationed in the office aren’t moving their chakra at all, so either this one is testing him or…  well, maybe they’re injured? Mo’s noticed that a person’s chakra flickering is usually linked to an emotional response- something they can’t help. For an ANBU to be doing it, though, there had to be some significance. A special ANBU healing jutsu maybe? Communications? Testing him-

There’s 248 floorboards in this section of the hall. His eyes do a casual sweep of the room, natural, unassuming, glazing right over the corner containing the familiar presence. See? He thinks, I don’t see you. I don’t. 

He goes back to observing the houseplant. It has fungus gnats.

Although low in probability, he did consider that the Hokage could’ve ordered someone to tail them. The thought makes sitting here (for a full hour now, were they trying to make him restless? They must be.) bearable. He knew this was an option. He prepared for it. Besides- things could be worse.

It could’ve been someone acting completely independent of an institution, untraceable and cruel, set only on using them against their father. It could’ve been a different institution; one where kids go in and don’t ever come out. It could’ve been a crazy fan of Rikona’s. It could’ve been a serial killer.

The thought that they could’ve been after him doesn’t cross Mo’s mind until much later.

“Mamoru-san.”

Mo looks up and meets the eyes of an exhausted chunin. Oh, the joys the future holds. 

“Yes.” he says, standing up. 

“You can go in now.”

“Right. Thank you.”

The Hokage’s office is a place he’s never been before. It’s also a place he never expected to be. There’s floor to ceiling bookcases spaced oddly around the room, filed neatly in a system Mo can’t identify right away. There’s also a few more house plants. And fungus gnats.

“Mamoru-san,” the Hokage greets kindly. Mo’s eyes draw away from the nearest cabinet. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I apologize for the wait.”

“It’s no trouble, Hokage-sama.”

“Do you have any idea as to why you’re here?” 

Yes, Mo thinks. “No,” Mo says.

“Well,” the Hokage leans forward, elbows on his desk as he rests his chin on his interlaced fingers. He closes his eyes, looking old, and sighs like his own head is a heavy burden. It probably is. “This is about the twins you’ve recently acquired.”

“Is it?”

“How have you all fared? I imagine such a change would be hard on you.”

The planets. Mo realizes suddenly, judging the distance between the Hokage’s chair and the book cases. 

The chair acts as the sun, the cases as the planets. Each case contained only information that could relate back to the planet, organized further within each case by constellations. How uselessly complex. 

It’d be much more efficient to organize by the scientific elements. Plenty of ninja know the stars. Few knew more than a passing knowledge of chemistry. The chances of a medic-nin breaking into the Hokage’s office to steal files is remarkably slim.

He’s grateful for it, though. Now, if Mo has to steal something from the Hokage, he knows how to find it. The old man was fond of astronomy. 

“Something on your mind?”

“No, sir.” Mo says. “They’ve been adjusting well.”

“And you?” the Hokage asks, sounding genuinely interested if Mo didn’t know any better. He doesn’t care. He can’t possibly care about everyone. That’d be exhausting. 

“I’m well.”

“Good.”

There’s a beat of silence that feels almost awkward. The Hokage seems to expect something from Mo, though he’s not sure what. He doesn’t have the time to devote thought to the matter, as the Hokage is well versed in navigating tricky conversations. He unlaces his fingers, a motion that makes his body language more open and approachable and smiles kindly. “The twins are quite resilient, no?”

“They are.”

“Good,” he says for the second time, “I’m pleased to hear that you think highly of them. Those boys-”

“Siblings.” 

“Pardon?”

“I have a brother and sister. Not two boys,” Mo clarifies, stilted. “Sorry for interrupting. Sir.”

The Sandaime watches him for a brief moment, then leans into his chair. “I see. Then, I should be informing you that those children have been selected as candidates for the academy.”

Shit. “I don’t recall applying.”

“The twins were automatically enrolled during their stay at the orphanage,” the Hokage explains as he spins to look out at the village. These windows are massive. Why were they so large? It seems like a hazard. “And the twins meet the age requirement to join this year’s bunch. They’ll be younger than their classmates, but this way Umino Iruka-san can be their sensei. You’re familiar with him, yes?”

“Yes.” Mo wills himself to keep from fidgeting. “We graduated together. But I haven’t talked to the kids about school yet. I was hoping I’d have more time to get them settled first.”

“They’re strong, I have a feeling they’ll be fine.”

“It’s more of the, um, academy aspect that I wanted to talk to them about.”

“Oh?” The Hokage leans back, as open and inviting as a venus fly trap, “are you having concerns about their future as shinobi?”

“Well, no,” Mo’s certain that Hiro and Kokoro would surpass him easily with proper training. It’s just a matter of if they want to. “I just haven’t talked to them about being shinobi. It was a conversation I was hoping we could have later.”

“For what reason?” The hokage asks, feigning naivete. 

Because he’d have to tell them about himself. About what he’s done and what the village has done-- is doing, even. It’s not a conversation he wants to have with two four year old strangers. It’s not one he wants to have at all.

He knows a trap when he sees one though. The Hokage is looking for an excuse to pull the kids from him and Mo’s not going to give him one. There’s one man he’ll willingly hand the kids over to and Mo has no idea where he is. If the Hokage wants to find that man, so be it, but until then… 

“I suppose I was being overly cautious,” he says, “I’ll talk to them tonight.”

The Hokage watches him silently for a moment. He smiles. “I’m glad we’re on the same page, Mamoru-san. Talk to Kotetsu-san on your way out. He’ll give you all of the relevant information about the Academy.” Mo doesn’t respond and the Hokage nods, “Thank you for your time, Mamoru-san. You are dismissed.”

“Yes. Hokage-sama,” He says and turns to leave. Just as his hand touches the door, though, a thought slips into his mind and refuses to leave.

“Is there anything else?” The Hokage asks at his hesitance. 

“Hm. Yeah,” he says, turning to face him. “Your plants. Water them less.”

The Hokage blinks, startled. It’s the only honest expression he’s had all day. 

Mo walks away, feeling betrayed and angry and disappointed all in the same breath.

He doesn’t have the energy to delve into why.

...

Mo gives the twins a lackluster pitch before dinner. 

He tells them to think about it and goes to bed feeling sick to his stomach. 

Hiro wakes him up in the middle of the night to tell him he wants to be a ninja. Kokoro is a bit more reserved, but determined to stay by her brother’s side, at least for now.

Mo feels his plan for escape slipping further and further away.

...

Tsukiyoshi Yona meets the twins during the second week of November, just after dinner.

She’s an imposing woman of great height, with scars that run haggard across one side of her face. They peek out from beneath long reddish brown bangs and an eyepatch, and cause one side of her smile to twist downward. Not even feeling her chakra would soften one’s impression of her. Mo hasn’t felt someone’s signature in a long time, but Yona-sensei has been in his life for a longer time. Mo equates his sensei to a jagged rock warmed by the sun. Strong and sturdy and not a place for most to rest. 

Mo must be a snake, though, because he has never met someone more kind and forgiving.

“Hiro, Kokoro,” he tries to give the twins his warmest smile, one worthy of Yona’s arrival, “this is Tsukiyoshi Yona. My sensei.”

Yona kneels to their level and smiles in that twisted way of hers. 

“I’m so happy to meet you two,” she says, her voice deep and rich with emotion, “You’ve done so much for me already, how can I ever repay you?”

Hiro is the son of Rikona and sees no issue with taking advantage of a debt. 

“Teach me a jutsu,” he says quickly, “Momo-nii says he won’t teach us anything until we’re old enough to mold our chakra like he does.”

Yona’s smile gets a bit sharper. “I’ll teach you a jutsu once you’re old enough to mold your chakra like Mo-kun does.”

Hiro’s face puffs up defiantly and Mo ruffles his hair. “Where did you think I learned that?” 

“I thought you were just being weird,” the boy huffs.

“I like your hair,” Kokoro says, one hand holding tight to Mo’s pant leg. He should start wearing softer clothes, maybe. “It’s long.”

“I like yours, too,” Yona smiles, brushing one of the wispy strands out of Koko’s face, “you should wear it up more, Koko-chan. It’ll show off your pretty face.”

Kokoro turns red and buries said face into Mo’s leg. 

“Do you like my hair?” Hiro asks, rolling on the balls of his feet, “Momo-nii cut it for me last week!”

“Yes, you look very handsome.”

“I know! I am very handsome!” 

It takes awhile to move from the foyer, but eventually they make it into the actual apartment. Yona had brought a small houseplant as a housewarming gift, and apologizes for not coming sooner. The kids don’t seem to mind and get to work finding a place for the newest addition to live. 

Mo tells her he didn’t expect her to come in the first place, so there was no reason to be sorry. For some reason this makes her look at him in a strange way.

After a while, the twins begin to grow fussy and annoyed, their bodies need for sleep betraying their need to hound Yona for jutsu and tidbits about a younger Mo. Mo manages to convince them to settle with the promise of a future visit. It’s a battle hard won. 

The corners of his lips quirk as Kokoro and Hiro snuggle into each other on their futon. Kokoro is already fast asleep, but Hiro isn’t far behind. When Mo gets back to the living room Yona is waiting for him, seated at the table.

“Ambitious little brats,” She says, smiling knowingly as he sits across from her, “reminds me of someone.”

Mo frowns, offended. “I was never that bad.”

“No, you were worse.”

“I was not.”

“ Teach me a new technique, sensei. No not that one, ” she says, doing a crude impression of Mo’s voice. “ I know you told me to practice my control, but I’d rather be doing something more exciting, because I don’t value your opinion. ”

“You’re not even trying to get my cadence right.”

“That was spot on.”

“My chakra control is fine.”

“Could use some work.”

Yona has always over exaggerated the importance of control, Mo thinks. She was born with meager reserves, so spent much of her genin and chunin days making the most of a bad situation. It wasn’t until she was 21 and well into her career as a shinobi that her chakra grew to that of the average jounin. She’s thirty six now. 

Yona shoots him a dirty look, as if reading his mind. 

“I didn’t say anything,” he shrugs and changes the subject before Yona could start lecturing about the importance of limits. “How did the search go?”

Her face shifts fluidly from annoyed to pissed. “Do you know how hard it is finding a genin team missing one member?”

Mo hums. “But you found one.”

“Of course I found one,” Yona scoffs, “but you’re not going to like it.”

She clicks her tongue at his lack of a reaction and pushes a file across the table. Mo eyes it for a moment before flipping it open. 

“Oh,” he says immediately, “I don’t like it.”

“I told you so,” his sensei says, because she knows him better than he’d like to admit, “Still, it was the only option to get you into the Iwa exams. Only three teams are going at all, since Kumo is set to attend. This brat was planning on taking them solo, but the other clans complained about favoritism, so I threw your name into the mix.”

“And they just approved that?” He asks, skeptical. It was one thing to call a clan out on being overzealous. It’s another to blatantly sabotage their protege. Mo knows he’s not impressive on paper. He knows he looks like he’ll fail the exams. He probably will.

“The Inuzuka head approved it, actually. She said you were ready and the other clans followed suit.” Yona levels him with an annoyed look. “When were you going to tell me you were tight with Tsume-sama? I could use some tracking tips and tricks, you know. That kind of information is valuable.”

“I’m not,” he says hurriedly, the new piece of trivia confusing him even more. “We talked once. I don’t know why she would think that. I kind of thought she was going to arrest me.”

“Well, whatever you said made her rather fond of you.”

All they talked about were the kids. Was this pity?

“Tsume-sama doesn’t pity people,” Yona-sensei is reading his mind again. “I can’t read your mind. Quit looking at me like that.”

Yona-sensei is terrifying, he thinks but does not say. “Thank you for doing this for me,” he says instead, meaning it just as much.

Yona shrugs off his gratitude and watches him for a moment, her expression unreadable.

“I’m proud of you, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Mo sighs, “You’ve been saying I should take the exams for years. I get it.”

She grabs his hand from across the table. Mo’s green eyes snap to her brown one.

“Mo,” she says again, in the same serious tone that makes him think he’s missing something. Why does he always feel like he’s missing something? 

“I know it’s hard to talk about, but after Haruto and Miyoko, you shut down. You isolated yourself in that shitty apartment and threw yourself into training without a goal. You were gone, Mo. The sweet boy I trained had turned into someone who’d rather chew his own hand off than let someone hold it.”

She squeezes her hand then, as if to enunciate her point. Mo doesn’t return the pressure. He can barely feel her hand in his. He’s so cold, suddenly.

“I thought you weren’t ever coming back. Hell, I thought you were going to go mental and run away. But, well,” she smiles, soft and kinder than he’ll ever deserve, “you must still be the kid I met all those years ago. Taking care of the twins, doing this for them- Mo, I’m really proud of you.”

There’s a lump in his throat and a pressure behind his eyes that he doesn’t want to think about. Yona doesn’t seem to realize. She just takes her other hand and sandwiches his hand between hers. 

“You’re healing, Mo.” She says, “Your friends- they’d be so proud of you.”

He doesn’t believe her.

...

The next day, Genko ambushes him at work.

"I hear you're taking the chunin exams." 

Mo frowns, spinning around in his desk chair to face the man. "How'd you hear about that?”

Genko shrugs. "You signed up didn't you? People are expecting big things from their little runaway genius."

"’Genius’," Mo echoes, his shoulders feeling tight and uncomfortable, "I wouldn’t call myself that. We were fresh out of the war. Anyone could graduate early back then."

"Hm. Still, not everyday someone graduates at eight only to go straight into desk work. People talk, you know?"

"There's nothing to talk about. I want to move up because I need better pay." 

Genko lets out a puff of air, tension Mo didn’t notice he had leaking from his posture. "What a noble and loyal soldier you are, genius-kun. Truly a role model to all." 

Mo shrugs and mock salutes him. “It's my pleasure to serve.”

Genko’s quiet long enough that Mo lets his guard down. He goes back to his work, the young man still leaning against his desk but quiet. It turns out he was just taking the time to gather his thoughts. 

“Good for you,” he says, startling Mo away from his reading. 

“What?”

“Good for you,” he repeats, lighter than his original, more serious tone. “I mean- you don’t actually like working here, do you? I’m only here to help my folks along. I work at their shop after these shifts.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You never asked.”

Genko’s right. He never did ask. Mo doesn’t think he’s asked any of his coworkers what they do post-shift. Mo doesn’t think he talks to any of his coworkers except for Bashira and Genko.

“Oh,” he says, “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” the brunet shrugs, an easygoing smile on his face, “You never seemed like you were ready to make friends, anyway. It’s different now. You’re… nicer.”

“I am?”

“Nicer,” Genko enunciates, “not nice. You’ve always been polite, but… you’re more aware of people nowadays. It’s cool.”

Genko stands up after that and walks away. 

Mo contemplates calling him back. 

He doesn’t.

He thinks he should have. Maybe. 

...

Mo does not avoid Yona-sensei after she visits, because that would be childish and immature. He does, however, start training on Ground 7, which he’s never done before. He also picks up an extra shift on Friday. Genko gives him a funny look, knowing he rarely works Fridays. He usually spends it training.

He’s not avoiding Yona-sensei.

He is, however, avoiding his new teammate. 

He was doing a pretty good job of it, too, before that meddling kid got involved. While Mo may not be a genius, Uchiha Itachi certainly is. The younger boy finds him within the week, which is remarkably quick given how Mo keeps on his toes. It’s not quick enough for his sensei’s tastes, though. 

“We’ve been trying to reach you for days.”

Itachi’s sensei is a man who looks much older than he is. Uchiha Kenji is weathered and scared, with deep wrinkles and graying hair. Mo knows his name and age by heart, even if his knowledge betrays what his eyes are telling him. He knows Kenji is thirty one because his age (along with fifteen others) was beside the Yodaime’s in the record of his graduating class.

Mo used to be a big fan of the Yondaime. Even before he was the Yondaime. He may have been a bit obsessive in his youth. It almost got him killed even. 

“Sorry,” he says, “I moved apartments recently. You must not have my new address.”

“No,” the man huffs, “clearly not.” 

Mo wonders why they didn’t just ask Bashira-san to pass the message along. He wonders if Bashira said she wouldn’t mix clan business and work. That sounds like something she’d say. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Mamoru-san.” Mo looks over to see Itachi in a shallow bow, his eyes on the ground. Mo tries not to fidget. He’s never been bowed to before. 

“Right, likewise,” he says, giving his own hasty show of respect to the both of them.

Kenji cuts in on the pleasantries, annoyance carved deep in his wrinkles. “I don't know what kind of death wish you have, joining the exams this late, but you will not drag the Uchiha name down with you. Itachi is expected to make jounin within the next year. We cannot have you interfere with his progress.”

Mo wonders who ‘we’ is. It certainly didn’t seem to include Itachi. He also wonders when he started to care about such things. This is none of his business. 

“I am Uchiha Kenji, one of Itachi’s private tutors,” Kenji continues, “and I have been charged with ensuring you will not be dead weight during the exams. You have solid academy scores, but other than that, your record is pathetic.”

Kind of harsh, in his opinion, but Mo expected this. Mo designed this. 

“I hope I don’t disappoint,” he offers, “but I do have my own sensei.”

“Tsukiyoshi Yona, yes?” Kenji waits for Mo to nod, “Tsukiyoshi-san currently runs missions outside the village as well as training a new genin team. You expect me to believe the training you received five years ago is enough to become chunin?”

“Oh,” he’s not wrong. He also doesn’t know what kind of a demon Yona-sensei is. “I see your point.”

Kenji nods. “The two of you will spar. We need to gauge your skill level to draw up a training program.”

Mo blinks. “Right now?”

Itachi charges him. 

...

The first thing Mo thinks is damn, Itachi is fast. 

The second thing Mo thinks is damn. Itachi is fast.  

It’s incredible in a way. On the rare occasion that Mo does spar with someone, it’s Iruka or Yona-sensei. Hardly five seconds into this fight, he realizes that in sheer skill and raw talent alone, Itachi outclasses both of his usual partners and himself to a ridiculous degree. He knew this in theory: Itachi is a future clan head and widely considered a genius like no other.

Still, nearly getting decapitated by a ten year old is still humbling. No matter who the ten year old is.

Yona-sensei could probably defeat him, by nature of being a Jounin with just under thirty years of experience, but Itachi would put up one hell of a fight. Better than Mo could ever.

He ducks under another deadly swipe of Itachi’s tanto and clears his mind, falling back onto instinct and training. Itachi is both fast and agile, something Mo’s not used to fighting against. Mo is, however, used to training in evasion with a jounin who refuses to pull her punches. 

He bobs and weaves, keeping to the ground to avoid getting skewered by his opponent. It’s not too hard to keep from engaging with Itachi, but it is exhausting. The younger isn’t giving him any room to breathe, but seems to realize that a test of endurance would not end in his favor. 

Mo is fourteen and has much better chakra control, after all. In a battle of treading water, he’d come out on top.

But this isn’t a battle of treading water, and Itachi gives him one hard swipe to set him off balance before jumping back. Chakra so hot Mo can feel it from six yards away builds in Itachi’s chest and Mo doesn’t need to be told twice. 

He’s only got one foot on the ground thanks to Itachi’s last attack, so his only choice is to parry the Uchiha’s next. 

As he runs through signs of his own Mo feels the cool sensation of water in his chest and can tell right away that it won’t be enough. Itachi’s chakra swirls, then balls into a powerful orb, launching from his being without so much as a whisper of its name. 

“Suiton: Suijinheki!” Mo shouts at the fireball heading straight at him.

The two jutsu clash in a burst of steam. Mo doesn’t stop Itachi so much as shrink his jutsu, but he escapes all the same, leaping to the side and into the tree cover as the fireball barrels into the space he once occupied. The two jutsu’s collision created some nice steam cover, which is a lovely bonus for the one whose specialty is sensing and espionage.

Mo pinpoints Itachi’s signature instantly through the mist, but the vapid fluctuations in Itachi’s signature tells him the younger genin can’t sense Mo. Anxiety does that to a person. He also feels Itachi’s chakra heat up again, this time the chakra swirling more than balling. It’s not as strong or forceful as Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu, probably intended to clear the mist and force Mo into a corner rather than attack. 

It’ll probably kill him all the same, he thinks, surrounded by flammable trees with no clue what jutsu his enemy is sending his way. He doesn’t know which way to dodge and going high is Itachi’s territory. If he goes in the trees Itachi’ll engage him in taijutsu and Mo’s footwork isn’t good enough to repeat what he managed on flat earth amongst the branches. 

Again, Itachi doesn’t need to say the name of the jutsu. It’s power is ridiculous all the same. Fire spits from him in a whipping torrent, spiraling into a cyclone just a bit off center. Somehow, the Uchiha came scarily close to guessing where Mo’s hiding. 

He’s got one good option. Even he admits it might be pretty stupid.

Mo’s never used a high level fire technique before, but he’s used plenty of water and he was just given two flawless examples of how to mold fire into a tangible force. He goes through the hand signs, altering two and fluctuating his chakra in a way that feel wrong but he knows is right because that’s how Itachi moved it and -

The cyclone of fire heading towards him diverts from its path, jetting upwards in a move he’s seen a thousand times before with water. 

Sage that was draining , he thinks and shakes out his burning hands. He’s not built for katon techniques, clearly. He’s not built for techniques , clearly. His chakra feels messy and restless inside him, as if upset by its sudden and unexpected use. 

“That was a suiton.”

“Um,” Mo heaves, exhausted, and looks up. Itachi’s directly above him, his eyes spinning red as he hangs from his feet off of a branch. He’s not even winded. A monster, he’s a monster. “Yeah.”

“You used it with fire.”

“Yeah,” Mo says again and Itachi nods. That’s the only warning he gets before the boy drops down on him. 

They’re back to their game of cat and mouse: Itachi attacking with taijutsu and Mo staying just out of his grasp. It’s- fun almost. The energy between them. Itachi looks stoic and serious, but Mo hasn’t felt so engaged in a spar in- in- well, ever.

Itachi puts distance between them again and Mo decides to run the opposite direction, set on creating even more space. He spins, trying to spot Itachi once more and-

-and then Mo’s foot catches a root. 

Itachi’s chakra twists from its neutral to a vibrant hum the moment he begins to fall. Mo figures out why as he fails to right himself, too focused on his sixth sense to use his hands. Behind him and heading quickly in his direction are a number of projectiles. They’re embedded with trace amounts of chakra. Most weapons thrown by shinobi are.

He rolls left and flattens onto his stomach as a kunai sails overhead. Three more lodge into the spot he fell on, evenly spaced and annoyingly perfect as they almost kill him. A fourth lands even with the others to the right. 

The one on the left falls short though, a mere centimeter from Mo’s nose. His eyes cross trying to look at it.

Itachi’s chakra calms itself, switching from the loud hum to something closer to a buzzing bee as he drops into a crouch in front of him. 

“I didn’t think you’d trip,” he says as an explanation, “I was trying to push you into the trees.”

“I know.”

“You dodged my shurikenjutsu without looking,” Itachi says, sounding pensive. “How?” 

Mo rolls onto his back and shrugs, exhausted. The spar lasted maybe all of six minutes and Mo feels like Itachi crushed him with a mountain. Neither of them even landed a hit, technically. “A good guess.”

Itachi doesn’t look convinced, but Kenji appears from his hiding place and answers for him. 

“A shinobi must make their decisions with certainty and devotion,” he lectures, “there are very few second chances in the field. A guess is a death sentence more often than not.”

If Mo hadn’t dodged Itachi’s attack, he wonders if Kenji would’ve saved him. Probably not. It would’ve been a good excuse to have Itachi take the exams alone.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says and sits up. 

“In the chunin exams you will be expected to fight with everything you have,” Kenji says. “You’ve plateaued, Mamoru. You fight like you’re smaller than your opponent, your style centered around dodging and escapes. Such a style may have been acceptable as a genin and as a child but now you are neither. To become a chunin you must be a chunin, Mamoru. Right now you are much too sloppy and much too stuck in the past to be promoted.”

Ouch, Mo thinks. 

“I will draft a training regimen for you, but your best chance is to become reacquainted with your own body. When in battle, your mind reverts back to how it was five years ago. Train yourself out of that and you might just become something more than worthless. Sparring is the best way to do so.”

Ouch, Mo thinks again. It hurts because he’s right. 

Still, he turns to Itachi who nearly killed him, but showed him the most fun he’s had in… well, in five years. He forgot how much fun it could be to spar. “So we’ll fight again?”

“Obviously,” Kenji answers for Itachi. He does that a lot. “You need to accommodate yourself to fighting with Itachi. The quickest way to do that is through sparring.”

Mo can’t help but feel a little excited. 

He wonders if Itachi feels something similar. 

Chapter Text

Hiro and Kokoro’s chakra signatures are virtually the same.

Theoretically, their signatures will change as they grow and experience different things. Children often feel like their parents, but even closely related adults have distinct differences in how they move and subconsciously mold their chakra. Still, Mo’s never met a pair of twins before. He’s not sure if they’ll be identical forever or not. 

“Hiro’s the one tapping his foot.” He says, eyes closed as he faces away from his siblings. 

“Momo-nii don’t just guess,” Kokoro chides and stops tapping. Hiro falls out of his handstand. 

“Momo-nii you’ve been practicing all day,” he whines, “you suck.”

“I don’t suck,” Mo whines back. “I just need to think about it from a different perspective.” The thought of starting from scratch again is exhausting. Optimism doesn’t suit him.

The kids don’t have open pathways, so he can’t sense the differences in how their chakra moves. It’s a shame, since he’s been getting pretty good at doing that. Yona-sensei has told him time and time again that chakra has personality, but he has no idea how to grasp it. Everyone just feels like their elemental nature if they're a shinobi, or like a person with X amount of chakra if they’re not. He lacks whatever natural intuition most sensors have. Years ago, he thinks he may have been able to. He can remember Yona-sensei’s chakra, after all, and Haruto’s and Miyoko’s. But then Haruto and Miyoko died and the Kyuubi attacked a month later and… well. It was a bad time for everyone. So much sorrow and grief in the air, sensing it would've been unbearable. 

“Did you try upside down?” Kokoro offers.

“I don’t think that would help.”

Maybe he needs to get out more. He’s been hanging around two four year olds and Itachi. None of them are particularly good for conversation. 

“Alright twerps. Who wants to bug sensei-san?”

...

Iruka is surprisingly receptive to the impromptu visit. 

Mo expected to have to guilt him into it again or pull the “fellow orphan” card, but the older teen just smiled big and bright and ushered them in. Iruka lives with his grandmother and aunt, who are the only non-shinobis to come from the Umino lineage. They’re also the only living members besides him, which is a bit depressing. 

“Rude little boy,” the grandmother chides, wagging her finger at Hiro, “use honorifics with your elders. And point your shoes to the door, as guests do.”

Mo may have been a bit too lax on the kids. Especially when it comes to manners. It’s not like he really cares for them, but watching Iruka’s grandmother chastise his siblings is enlightening. 

It would’ve been funny to send the twins to the academy like that, though. Little menaces terrorizing the clan kids with unintentional rudeness. How funny.

“So,” Iruka says, pulling him away from his family and the twins, “What do you need?”

“Need?” Mo echoes, “We were just in the area, is all. Thought we’d drop by.”

Iruka does not believe him.

“I need help sensing,” he amends.

Iruka’s expression switches from annoyed to bewildered in a flash. “And you’re asking me ?”

Mo shrugs. He thought that was obvious. “Yona-sensei’s on a mission and you’re a sensei, aren’t you?”

“An academy sensei,” he frowns, “You’re above my pay grade, Mo.”

Mo shrugs again. “I’m a genin. That’s pretty close to academy-level.”

“No you’re not.”

“I mean. Legally speaking…”

Iruka gets that funny look on his face again, like he can’t accept Mo is a real person with real person thoughts. Then he sighs and accepts it. “Alright. Walk me through your trouble and I’ll see what I can do.”

Mo gives him the gist of it: he can sense chakra’s movements but not identify the chakra itself. He feels like he’s looking at a lake and seeing his own reflection rather than the depths below.

“But isn’t it supposed to be a feeling?” he asks, frowning slightly. “You’re talking like a person’s identity is going to be written on the wall. I always thought sensing a person is more… personal. More unquantifiable.”

“Yes. I know that.” That’s the whole problem. 

“You don’t.” Mo sends him a dirty look. Iruka holds his hands up in surrender and hastily adds, “at least not yet!” 

When Mo’s hard stare fails to lighten, he backtracks. 

“I mean,” he says, “it seems like you’re trying to identify the purpose behind every action someone’s chakra makes. That’s good, I guess, but you’re focusing on the action not the chakra. I think you need to stop looking at it as something to decipher and start looking at it as something that simply is. There’s no analysis that you need to conduct, just… look at the person for who they are.”

Iruka is much more talented than Mo’s given him credit for. Emotional intelligence is a terrifying thing. 

“You’re going to make a good sensei,” he says, feeling a little awed and a little stupid.

“Oh,” Iruka squeaks, a healthy flush creeping up his neck, “Thanks, Mo.”

“Take me to your bedroom.”

“What.”

Two hours of deep meditation later, Mo can do it. Sort of. He finally knows why so many sensors are empaths and why very few ninja can identify signatures beyond their closest friends and family. To sense someone at that level means you’re sensing the very thing that makes them them. It’s theorized that Chakra is attached to the soul, after all. It grows alongside a person and retains the struggles and the joys they face.

The first time Mo actually senses Iruka, he throws up.

Iruka moves to get him a basket, but the overwhelming cold that Mo feels soaked into his friend’s very bones makes him recoil entirely. It’s shrouded with a halo of warmth and fluidity, but it’s unmistakably there. It’s horrifying. Knowing that about a person. It’s made worse because Mo doesn’t know why this uncomfortable cold is so integral to Iruka’s being. What put it there? Is it even his place to ask? 

“Well,” Iruka says placidly after the worst of it has passed and Mo’s breakfast is in the trash. He doesn’t smooth a hand down Mo’s back but Mo can feel the desire to comfort from him and it's sickening. “Isn’t sensing a natural thing? It’s probably because you’ve suppressed it so long that it’s hitting you with such intensity. You’ll get used to it.”

“I didn’t,” Mo chokes, gagging on the new thickness the air holds. “I didn’t suppress anything.”

He might start, though. He doesn’t think he can take feeling all this… stuff.  

“I’ve never once seen you use your sensory skills in a spar,” Iruka frowns, “and no offense Mo, but if being a sensor relies on empathy and emotional maturity, you’re not a very good one.”

Rude, he thinks and halts his senses entirely. He shivers once, feeling remarkably vulnerable and off balance. The lesser of two evils, but now he won’t start crying the second he leaves the room. 

“It doesn’t rely on anything. It’s just genetics.” Though Mo can see how proper emotional processing could help regulate the effects of sensing someone on an individual level. If one can recognize the emotional implication of the chakra’s feel, then they would also be more well suited to compartmentalize and continue-

“Quit overthinking it.”

“I was not.” He totally was. 

“You were,” Iruka frowns. “Mo this isn’t something you can logic your way into. It seems like you’ll either use it or you won’t. Using it requires being able to deal with those… feelings.”

“Then I’ll use it,” he says and stands up.

“Mo-”

“I’m using it,” he says, not using it. “I’m going to use it. Just, not on you or anyone else I know.”

Iruka blinks. “You’re going to use it on strangers?”

“Yes. Since I lack an... attachment to those people it’ll be easier to stop myself from overreacting.” 

“Aw,” he grins, “you have an attachment to me?”

Mo resists the urge to smack him. “Shut up. Can you watch the twins for a little while longer?”

“Sure,” Iruka shrugs, looking very much like the sixteen year old he is, “I’m pretty sure Oba-chan has been lecturing them on manners this whole time. She won’t mind having the extra time.”

The twins are going to kill him when he gets back, he thinks, climbing out the window.

“Thanks!” Mo calls and drops out of the house. 

Time to emotionally violate some strangers.

...

He throws up again. And again.

He’s getting better, though. His range is shrunk as small as it goes, barely ten meters around him, and he’s finally able to regulate how deep into one’s core he senses. Now, when people pass by him, instead of feeling hidden iciness or sharpness or sliminess he feels the top layer. He equates it to Iruka’s warmth and fluidity. Kind of like spring water. 

After it stops being terrifying, it’s almost… fun. Equating people to other things. 

The woman at the flowerstand is a civilian Yamanaka. She feels like upturned dirt and leaves rustling in the wind. The winds rustle more harshly as a man tries to ask her on a date.

The man feels like a dry sponge, lacking in something obvious but unable to create it for himself. Perhaps he has a poor balance of Yin and Yang chakra. 

The Uchiha police officer who keeps glancing Mo’s way feels like simmering embers, dangerously hot but more likely to cook your food than burn you. 

He decides to move locations. 

As he walks, he contemplates what he must feel like to another sensor. It’s nearly impossible to sense yourself, but Mo’s gathered that a person’s elemental nature plays a part into the… vibe they give off. His dominant element is water, followed distantly by earth. Maybe he feels like a damned river. Or a particularly dirty puddle.

He’d ask the twins to tell him, but they’re at the baby stage of every future sensor: easily overwhelmed by the brightness of chakra and incapable of focusing on movements. They feel the disturbances in life’s natural patterns, like Mo did when he first adopted them, but that’s about it. 

He could ask Iruka or Itachi to try, now that he knows what he’s doing, but…

It’s kind of embarrassing. What if he does feel like a puddle? That would be too great a blow to his ego. He wouldn’t be able to face Itachi again if that were the case. He’s already getting beat half to death on the daily by a ten year old. What’s he supposed to do if said ten year old thinks he feels like gutter water? That’s just too much. He could ask Yona-sensei. There’s a chance-

-he runs into a wall. 

No, he thinks right afterward, walls don’t laugh, and they surely don’t have chakra. 

“Sorry,” the wall says, not sounding sorry at all, “you looked kind of distant, but I thought you’d notice me.”

Mo looks up at his wall. He’s an Uchiha, older than Mo by a couple years, and dressed in the classic blues and high collar. Mo hasn’t interacted with many of that clan in his life, but of the three whose names he knows, none of them feel quite so easy going. 

This teenager feels a thunderstorm on a rainless summer day. Hot and oppressive but familiar in the way the summer season is. The fresh and electric twang of lightning that lies just beyond his lungs is distinct enough that Mo can feel as the hairs on his arm raise. The sheer power and warmth of this teen’s chakra seeps into Mo’s bones and stays there, a new weight that makes the water of Mo’s nature boil.

He can’t help but gape as the Uchiha’s smile takes on a more amused lilt. He stands with a casual lack of concern and smiles like he knows something Mo doesn’t. It’s charming, in a terrifying kind of way. He’s got dimples, too, which is actually kind of-

-what the hell is he thinking about?

He’s too inexperienced, clearly. He shouldn’t go around peeking into peoples’ souls if he can’t keep from- from- from whatever that was. 

“I don’t fraternize with strange Jounin,” he says stiffly, blocking out his chakra sense entirely. It’s doing him no good, clearly, and Mo is not comfortable with the energy on this random bit of pavement right now. He doesn’t know this boy. The Uchiha has short curly hair and an almost familiar uptick to his eyes, but other than that he looks like every other Uchiha Mo’s seen. “Sorry.”

“Eh?” It’s the Uchiha’s turn to gape as Mo breezes by him. “Hang on a minute-”

“Sorry,” he says again, embarrassment creeping into his cheeks. Sage, was he just staring at him that whole time ? “I have to go.”

“But what about-”

“Bye!”

He gets all of two meters away before the older teen’s in front of him again. Mo recognizes the technique as a shunshin but only barely. The way this teen uses it is so far removed from the academy jutsu that he may as well equate lighting a campfire to the grand fireball technique. 

The lightning quick teen holds out his hand. A painfully familiar way to greet someone in a ninja village.

“Uchiha Shisui,” he introduces, still smiling like he’s got Mo all figured out, “Jounin. Of the out guard.”

“Cool,” Mo says and does not return the standard introduction. Iruka’s grandmother would not approve. “Have a good day.”

Uchiha Shisui doesn’t stop him this time, content to watch the genin’s clumsy getaway. 

Mo feels thoroughly humiliated. 

...

Iruka has the tact not to ask about why Mo’s face is so red. 

Hiro hounds him about it, but a quick stop at the ramen place they all like shifts the conversation easily enough. They run into a friend of the twins’ there, but Mo is too mortified by today's events to really pay attention. He listens with half an ear as the three kids complain about table etiquette and honorifics.

The ramen shop man keeps looking at him oddly, as if he expects him to explode or something. He and the three kids are the only ones there, so he’s not sure what’s got the usually kind old man on edge. Maybe Mo does look like a creep. Should he start dressing better? Did Shisui think he was a creep? The police officer surely did. Mo doesn’t want to be perceived as creepy. 

He should ask Genko for advice.

...

Genko laughs in Mo’s face.

He also gives him a coupon for a facial, which was actually pretty nice of him. 

Mo barely has enough time to switch between offended and grateful before Bashira comes up behind him. She drops a heavy hand on his shoulder and says he should stay far far away from Uchiha Shisui. She looks very serious doing it. Like she was telling a child not to get too close to the stove. 

Abruptly, Mo looks at the heavy curls of her hair and the familiar uptick of her eyes. He thinks of the dimples she has when she smiles. He thinks of the dimples he found so charming yesterday.

He decides to avoid rainless thunderstorms in the future. 

He pockets the coupon though. 

...

“Stop that,” he says and bats Hiro’s hands away from his coat’s drawstring. He finishes buttoning the coat as the boy pouts dramatically. 

“I like the bunny knot better.”

“It’s a low integrity knot.”

“Is not.”

“Is too,” Mo snipes back, “the reef knot is stronger. Keep it.”

Mo shoves a knit cap on his fuzzy head, cutting off the boy’s retort. “Don’t mess up my hair!” Hiro shouts, waving his little fists at Mo. 

“I already messed it up, you might as well wear the hat.”

“I will! But not because you said so!”

“Sure, sure,” he says and stands up. Kokoro slips her hand into his and tugs Hiro along with them by the knot. Hiro fusses and frets but eventually gives up on untying the knot as they march down the stairs.

The kids had been badgering him for a return to the playground and he’s finally caved. Mo can only hope their second trip to the park doesn’t involve a certain blond boy he’s not supposed to make eye contact with. There’s only so much his heart can take. He’s going to get indigestion if things keep up the way they’re going. 

Speaking of indigestion: his sensing has been going… well? He still doesn’t want to sense the kids or anyone he interacts with regularly, but he’s getting used to filtering out the noise and focusing on the essence. It makes it less overwhelming that way. Still, he’d rather not throw up at the playground so today he’ll keep his senses to himself. He is not having a repeat of The Wall Incident. He refuses.

Luckily, late November is fairly cold and the playground is fairly empty. He can rely on his other senses to keep him alert. So what if he’s spent his entire life banking on his chakra sense? There’s no way anything’s going to get the drop on him. He’s a shinobi, after all. 

“Momo-nii!”

Mo does not jump, because that is unbecoming of a shinobi. He does, however, feel the sudden urge to kill something. Not a common feeling. Not a good feeling. He schools his beating heart and frowns at the unfamiliar call of his newest nickname. He doesn’t recognize the child’s voice, and he doesn’t particularly like someone using it without permission. There’s a correction on his tongue as he turns.

The jinchuuriki stands behind him. Arms outstretched with a determined look on his face. He wiggles his hands a bit, as if to gather Mo’s attention.

“A piggy back ride,” he declares urgently. “I want one.”

His lungs freeze. His stomach sinks. “What?”

The jinchuuriki’s face grows pinched and annoyed, as if Mo’s said something wrong. Maybe he did. Is this really how he dies? 

“Eh?” the nine-tail’s jailor says, deliberately lowering his voice and giving it a more flat cadence. “What are you using that tone with me for? I spoil you!”

The Jinchuuriki blinks up at him, expecting… something. 

“Um,” Mo says, bewildered and terrified. “Sorry?”

He looks almost disappointed before shaking his head of whatever thought passed through. He lifts his arms, making grabby hands at Mo like Kokoro would. “Can I please have a piggy back ride, y’know?”

Is he allowed to refuse this? Legally speaking? He’s seen store owners refuse the jinchuriki service before but… Mo’s fairly sure the jinchuriki outranks him. The rules of what is and isn’t acceptable might be different for him, as a shinobi. 

“Oi! Leave that kid alone!”

He snaps to attention. “Sorry,” he rushes out, unsure what he’s apologizing for. Everything, probably. “I’ll just-”

“You should’ve learned your lesson last time,” the gruff man interrupts him, his eyes looking right past Mo and at the Jinchuriki. “You’re not welcome here. Just go home.”

It’s a public park, Mo thinks automatically.

“It’s a public park!” the jinchuriki says automatically.

The man-- a civilian father by the looks of it-- reaches out as if to grab the boy and snarls. “Not for the likes of you.”

The jinchuriki ducks away from the hand, inadvertently putting himself beside Mo. He sticks his tongue at the man. 

“Shut up old man!” he shouts. The force of it makes Mo’s control slip.

The jinchuriki’s chakra feels like sunshine after a windstorm. The brightness of it catches Mo completely off guard, but the child’s signature is dampened slightly by an unexplainable coolness that doesn’t quite fit. It drips down his spine and sits there, unsettling and cold where warmth should be.

It feels nothing at all like the nine tailed fox from all those years ago. 

Dammit, he thinks and curses whichever ancestor blessed him with this gift, sensing fucking sucks. 

“It’s alright,” he says out loud, dropping a hand onto the kid’s head like he would to Hiro. “You must be confused, sir. We were just talking.”

The boy has gone carefully still beside him. Wide blue eyes blink up at him, his mouth moving without sound. The man begins to sputter. 

Clearly, no one expected him to speak. Mo didn’t even expect him to speak.

“Go play with the others,” Mo orders, giving the kid’s head a gentle shove in the twins’ direction. “I’ll settle this.”

The kid stumbles forward dumbly. He pats the top of his head as if feeling for Mo’s hand as he runs off obediently.

“You ought to stay away from him,” the man warns, voice cold and icy as Mo snaps his senses shut again.

He watches the kid climb up the slide, meeting Hiro and Kokoro at the top. Hiro tries to shove him back down but ends up falling along with him. They tumble in a heap at the base of the slide, Kokoro giggling madly above them.

Mo nods along as the man rants about demons and village pride.

...

Three days before they’re set to leave for the Chunin exams, Kenji tells him something terrible. 

“You’ve done far better than what was expected of you.”

What a swift and effective way to ruin Mo’s mood. 

“Itachi was meant to embarrass you,” Kenji says to his dumbstruck face, unsettlingly honest and cruel in the same moment. Mo’s starting to admire the man and his determination to completely ruin Mo’s day. “You were completely outmatched and exhausted time and time again. Yet, you persevered and kept up. You are not at his level, but you are closer than I had hoped.”

Mo’s torn between reveling in the disappointment Kenji feels and trying to convince himself things could be worse. Meeting unrealistic expectations isn’t going to put a target on his back. It isn’t going to affect the twins. 

“Oh.”

“Indeed. When you are in Iwagakure, Konoha expects the two of you to succeed. You are expected to set an example of the village’s excellence to the world. Both of you.”

“Oh,” Mo says again. Kenji’s been talking about him. He expected the man to report back to his clan but Kenji must have been talking about him to the Hokage for him to say that. 

He’d gotten so caught up in the fun of sparring with Itachi that he forgot Itachi was an outlier. A real genius Mo had no right to interact with. He was a clan heir for crying out loud. It’s only natural the Hokage wants to keep tabs on him.

Kenji nods, satisfied by his reaction of horror to the news. “Itachi, let us go.”

“I’ll join you in a moment,” Itachi says and Mo almost forgot he was still there, too horrified by the concept of him. “I’d like to speak to Mamoru-san if that’s alright.”

Kenji looks like he wants to argue but ultimately nods, leaving in a brisk shunshin. 

It takes another five seconds of silence between them for Kenji to return to the Uchiha District entirely. Mo waits until then to drop face first into the grass. 

His scream comes out with muffled force. 

He can feel Itachi’s chakra flicker anxiously behind him. His sensing, at least, has improved a great deal. Not only can he sense the chakra embedded in Itachi’s weapons, and techniques, but he can feel that it’s Itachi’s chakra. He’s getting rather good at identifying people. Their emotions too, if he spends enough time with them. Even then it’s an art, not a science.

“Are you alright?” 

Maybe it’s his exhaustion, but something about Itachi’s tone makes him want to be honest. The idea of Itachi may be a terrifying thing, but the kid behind the clout is not someone Mo fears. He’s standoffish and a little stuck in his own head, but Mo’s been getting a lot of practice dealing with people younger than him lately. Genius or not, Itachi’s starting to feel like another younger brother. 

“No,” Mo says through a mouth of grass. 

“Why not?” Itachi asks. Isn’t that a great question?

He sits up and rubs the dirt off his tongue with his sleeve. Itachi’s chakra flickers again, and Mo is beginning to recognize that particular twitch as disgust. 

“This is my nightmare,” he says, “I was kind of banking on disappearing entirely. Now everyone expects me to put on a show. To be compared to you. ”

Mo feels like some kind of hamster. Purposeless as he spins and spins and spins in the same ten-inch cage he’s been in his entire life. And now with the exams, he’s being put on display like he’s something that deserves praise. It’s horrifying. It’s dehumanizing. It’s the last thing Mo ever wanted to happen.

Itachi’s chakra does another uncomfortable swirl, the boy standing carefully balanced beside him. Mo takes a page from Hiro’s book and switches gears. “What did you want, anyway?”

“Your fighting style,” Itachi says, looking grateful for the switch, “it’s based around defense.”

Mo winces. He hasn’t considered outright beating someone since he was nine. It’s a hard mindset to get out of. “Yeah.”

“You do not lack offensive power, why limit yourself?”

“Oh, uh. I guess I just don’t want to fight anyone.” That’d be counterproductive. It’s much faster to run away from an enemy than it is to overpower them. 

For some reason, though, Itachi sucks in a quick breath. He looks sharply away, his eyes avoiding Mo entirely. “I see,” he says softly. 

Mo blinks but doesn’t comment, determined to let Itachi stew in whatever impression he got from that.

“I prefer to end battles quickly,” Itachi says in that same soft tone, “sparing with you is… a learning experience.”

“Ha. We’re a weird pair, huh?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

Mo has no idea where this conversation is going. He struggles more often than not at guessing what Itachi is thinking. He’s never been good at reading people, but Itachi seems to spend a lot more time than socially acceptable thinking about him. Mo hates it. 

“So, um,” he starts, trying to gear the conversation towards something he can better predict, “How many tutors do you have, anyway?”

“Seven.”

Jeez. “Are any nicer than ponytail? I’ve only known him a week, but he’s kind of a prick.”

Itachi’s chakra does a quick shuffle-- amusement --and one side of his mouth quirks. “No,” he says, “they’re all like that.”

“Jeez,” Mo says, out loud this time, “how do you manage?”

“It’s not that bad,” Itachi offers, settling beside Mo in the grass. “I’m learning a lot.”

“Yeah, you’re super strong,” he says and then, because he can, but shouldn’t, asks, “why are you?”

Itachi is ten years old. Mo would consider himself out of practice, sure, but good enough to give a low jounin a run for his money. He probably can’t beat one, but he’s confident enough in his skills to be able to run away. All things considered, Mo knows he’s pretty strong. One has to be if they’re planning on defecting. Itachi, though, is four years younger and stronger . 

The boy is quiet for a long moment. His hands, smaller than Mo’s by a fair margin but much more dangerous, dig into the grass. It’s something that reminds him of Hiro for a fleeting moment. 

“I have goals,” Itachi says finally, “I need to be strong to achieve them.”

“Goals?”

“Peace,” he confesses quietly. Like he’s afraid someone might overhear, “I learned early on that… very few people actively share my desire. If I want my dream to become reality, I need to make it happen myself.”

Itachi is much a much better person than Mo, he thinks then. He wants Itachi to know this fact as well. “I’m doing this for my siblings. I need the money.”

“I see. Mamoru-san is a good person.”

“Hm. Not really,” he flops onto his back, set on watching the sky darken while he regains his chakra. “Wanna watch the sunset?”

“Why?”

“I dunno. It’s pretty.”

“I see,” Itachi says but does not lay down. He watches Mo expressionlessly, his chakra is just as unreadable. “Do you watch the sunset often, Mamoru-san?”

“I didn’t use to,” he says, and he likes to think Itachi understands.

The young boy lays down beside him, stiff as a board but watching all the same, and Mo smiles. 

“Itachi?” he calls.

“Yes?”

“You can call me Mo.”

“I’d rather not.”

Eh. Worth a shot.

Chapter Text

When Uchiha Itachi graduated, he received a warning. 

Don’t turn out like Mamoru, his academy sensei said, you’re much too valuable to fade like him. 

Itachi had no idea who Mamoru was. He assumed he was a legend or a long forgotten constellation. He thought his sensei was being cryptic. As it turns out, Mamoru was a boy who graduated just three years earlier than the Uchiha heir. He was four years older and, according to his test scores, as clever as they come. Itachi’s academy scores were better in taijutsu, genjutsu, history, and shurikenjutsu. Mamoru’s were better in mathematics, politics, and espionage. They were just about even in the remaining subjects, top of their class in both their years.

Time goes on and Itachi trains his ear to listen for Mamoru’s name. He’s got his own training and family to think about, so he never actively seeks the older boy out, but… as the tone Mamoru’s name was spoken with changes from pity to disdain, Itachi wishes he did.

Itachi graduated at seven. Mamoru graduated at eight.

Itachi came back to active duty after his teammates were killed. Mamoru didn’t.

He begins to feel responsible for the dirt on Mamoru’s name. It was an unfair comparison: Mamoru was a clever civilian born and Itachi was a clan born genius. No one should expect them to end up in the same place when the dust settles. 

And yet.

“Iwa’s so dry,” Mamoru hums, making a visor with his hand and squinting at the sun. “So different from Konoha.”

“I agree,” Itachi says, trying to make conversation. After Kenji-sensei confirmed Mamoru’s skills, the clan told Itachi to investigate a bit further. A clanless shinobi appearing out of thin air is suspect. A clanless genius doing so is a threat. “What do you think we should do?”

They’d breezed through a logical ruse of the first portion of the exam, designed simply to weed out chunin hopefuls with overzealous senseis. The second and current portion was a bit more complex, though nowhere near difficult. 

Each team was randomly allotted a “mission” to retrieve a scroll. The scrolls were being carried by chunin level Iwa-nin and there was one scroll for every two teams, automatically cutting the number of passable teams in half. To know which chunin possessed your scroll, each team was given a series of clues. If a team is unable to deduce the correct chunin, they can make up for it by stealing two scrolls from other chunin. However, if they bring two scrolls and one is the assigned scroll the team is disqualified. 

Itachi puzzled out their chunin from the clues instantly, with Mamoru nodding along beside him. It was a broad man in his late twenties who had traces of gunpowder on his fingers and ink on his forearm. A sealer. A part of the demolition squad. A father of two, apparently.

“You’re asking me?” Mamoru asks, surprise in his voice. 

There’s no one else Itachi could be talking to. Mamoru is rather strange. “Yes.”

Mamoru looks to the left and then the right like he’s searching the area for hostiles. There are none, Itachi knows, but Mamoru’s impromptu sweep was poorly done regardless. 

“Uh, okay,” he says, as if to himself. “Hm. Okay?”

Perhaps Itachi should not have asked Mamoru after all. It’s clear now that Mamoru expected Itachi to lead. It was a fair assumption, given their difference in skill, but Mamoru was the one with more knowledge of Iwagakure. He served a few missions here, early in his genin days. Still, Itachi planned for as much, because a good ninja is always prepared, and is about to inform Mamoru of his own plan when the older boy turns to him.  

“The southernmost point is where chunin-san is,”  Mamoru says and sounds rather sure of himself. “Iwa’s not known for their sensors but they’re pretty nifty trappers. The eastern route will be less traveled, and Chunin-san won’t expect us to come from the ravine, so if he doesn’t move north he’ll set up camp by it.” 

“You know for certain?” Mamoru nods but fails to explain. Itachi catches on regardless: the way Mamoru always knows where Itachi is. The way he recognizes a jutsu and its intent even with his back turned. The way he smiles with his eyes closed, seemingly unaware of the world around him. “You’re a sensor.”

He nods again.

Dangerous, the part of him that is his clan says. Useful, the part that is his village hisses back. 

Itachi files the information away and nods, expressionless. 

“I see,” he says, genuinely pleased by the convenience. Mamoru’s method cuts down their chances for error to a remarkably small margin, should he be as good at sensing as he implies. Itachi’s worked with trackers before, but never a sensor. 

He feels… He’s looking forward to this learning experience. 

“Let’s move, Mamoru-san. We can cut across the river and into the forest.”

“Call me Mo,” he says back. “You take point. I’ll tell you if his location changes.”

Itachi nods. 

…

Mamoru describes the chunin’s chakra as like a cloud of dust, stirred up by the wind.

Itachi is not sure what this means. 

He tried to explain further, but the blond’s flowery descriptions did little to bring light to the issue. Shisui does something similar when he’s trying to explain a new technique to Itachi. In the rare event Itachi asks him to explain something, Shisui’s words are filled with half-baked metaphors and onamonapias.  

“No, no,” Itachi can’t see Mamoru but has a clear picture in his mind of the older teen shaking his head. He’s not certain if he’s projecting Shisui onto him, or if Mamoru is actually shaking his head. “Okay- so picture a sealing tag. You know the moment right before you ignite it? When they hum and pulse, but still aren’t dangerous? That’s what he feels like, only, bigger. And with wind instead of fire. More of a shi-owi than a fuu-wa .”

Itachi’s never taken the time to examine a sealing tag so closely. Sealing wasn’t an art he had much more than a passing interest in.

“Are you interested in sealing, Mamoru-san?” He asks, because why else would Mamoru be feeling sealing tags instead of detonating them.

He doesn’t dare turn around, but Itachi hears as Mamoru makes an uncharacteristic stumble. A loose rock cracks against another once, then he hears the displacement of air as Mamoru drops down to correct his mistake. 

“No,” he says, “I mean, sort of? It’s neat, but I don’t have any interest in learning.”

“Why not?” It’d be an incredibly useful skill to learn. There are very few with more than a chunin’s worth of knowledge in the art, but if Mamoru proved particularly talented one of the Sannin Jirariya’s disciples might take him under their wing. He would be an excellent asset to the village, should he master the art. 

“It’s, uh, complicated.”

Itachi sees no point in pushing the matter, so he nods and files the information away once more. Mamoru is incredibly honest, Itachi’s noticed, even when he doesn’t want to be. He always seems to backtrack and clarify, wanting to be understood.

Itachi can relate, in a way. He can’t, in another. 

Mo screamed into the ground and then confessed he wanted to disappear, after all. Itachi isn’t certain he can relate to someone who’d be so open about such things. He’s not sure if he wants to. 

Still, there’s a slim chance Mamoru shares his dream. That, at least, is worth something. Itachi will continue with this false comradery until he can confirm his suspicions. 

“Sixteen minutes at this pace,” Mamoru says a little while later, “is the plan a go?”

He’s expended very little chakra in the three hour trip to and through the ravine, so Itachi nods his head. Mamoru takes one hard leap to run beside him and nods back. He flashes through a few Konoha standard hand signs and one Uchiha specific Itachi taught him on the journey to Iwa. Itachi signals his confirmation before jetting ahead.

He doesn’t have much experience in espionage, but Itachi doesn’t find himself concerned. He coils his chakra tightly to his core and runs across the walls of the ravine. His sensory skills are not quite adiquent just yet, but he can hear as the chunin fuddles with his bag. He stops his run, keeps his chakra as close to his person as he can, and casts a simple stealth jutsu over himself. Once he’s confident the chunin won’t notice him, he peers over the edge of the ravine. 

Their target is seated cross-legged at the base of a large boulder. It’s just high enough that jumping over it would leave the chunin open, so he clearly intends for them to take the bait and strike him head on. The boldness of it makes Itachi think he’s keeping the scroll on his person. Most likely it’s in the mission pack he’s futzing with. There’s a loose buckle.

He leaps over the edge and runs. 

The chunin is ready for action before his feet hit the ground, broken buckle forgotten. He expected Itachi to run head on, designed it to be his only option even. Itachi twists his chakra into an arc as he runs straight ahead.

With his Sharingan active, it’s rather easy to predict the chunin’s next move. He can see the way he shifts his balance, the way his left hand twitches, and the way he scans his surroundings. Before the chunin can pull his seal out Itachi’s chakra expands and shrinks once. Before he can throw the seal he’s already memorized and recognized its pattern. Before he can act Itachi has reacted. 

The chunin throws the projectile, an explosive tag on its hilt, and Itachi doesn’t blink as the man lifts a hand to detonate the tag. It goes off just a meter before him and Itachi drops low, sliding across the dirt with the momentum of his run. 

Mamoru shoots out of the ground in front of him and sticks out his hand. The explosion contains itself in a much more volatile water-prison jutsu. Itachi slides between Mamoru’s legs and under the heat of the explosion.

Mamoru-san may be strange, but he’s rather good at what he does. 

The Chunin’s eyes are wide open, his focus on the explosion which seemingly halted mid-air. Itachi wastes no time in kicking him in the jaw, his hand snapping the remaining buckle off the man’s mission pouch as he stumbles back. He’s mid-twist, set on casting a genjutsu with his free hand when Mamoru yells.

“ Itachi! ”

He doesn’t have enough time to finish the job, which is unfortunate. He aborts the movement and flips backwards. Itachi runs through the signs, calling on his second nature as he slides back under the fiery ball. 

He pulls Mamoru from his own jutsu and sinks into the earth. The heat of the explosion warms the surrounding earth to an almost unbearable temperature, but, in the dark of the cave he’s created, Mamoru places one hand against Itachi’s back. 

An aura of cool encases him and he gives a shallow nod to show gratitude. Regulating the heat away himself would have proved chakra intensive. Mamoru’s reserves are a bit smaller than Itachi’s, but he has better control and lacks a Sharingan.

The thought that Mamoru should be a healer comes and passes within a second. He’ll tell him later. When they’re not about to be cooked.

Itachi tries to grab the hand not shrouding him in chakra, but Mamoru pulls away. He gives him his other and Itachi tugs them through the earth. They emerge a ways away. Most likely not out of the Chunin’s range, but it’s the best Itachi can do with his second nature.

“Thanks,” Mamoru says. “I was getting kinda hot.”

In the light, Itachi can see the hand he’s not holding is blistered and burnt, but not unusable. If he had been slower to pull him away, Mamoru would’ve released the altered water prison due to the pain and died. 

He has a better understanding of Mamoru’s limits now, and the risky-ness of his impromptu jutsus. They’ve failed before in their spars, but one’s never backfired on him like this before. 

“Is he coming after us?” He asks.

“Sort of, but there’s another team coming up.”

“Will they intercept?”

“A good genjutsu could make them,” Mamoru smiles. “Just put that mission pouch back on him and we’ve got ourselves a solid escape route.”

Itachi gets the impression Mamoru is using him. 

He checks the pack first, just to be sure. There’s rations, a photograph of a small family, neatly coiled wire, and a fair amount of explosive tags wadded together. At the very bottom is the scroll. 

“Fine.”

Itachi won’t turn down an excuse to use genjutsu. It’s his favorite of the shinobi arts, though he’s lacking a teacher. His mother will take him as a student when he becomes a chunin. She promised. 

For now, he can’t quite beat down the swell of pride in his chest as the Iwa squad passes right over them and towards an objective that doesn’t exist. 

“You don’t think you overdid it?” Mamoru asks him later. Itachi doesn’t pause in re-wrapping Mamoru’s injury and shakes his head. He’d sent the rival team after the chunin and then sent a different team after them. There wasn’t a single scroll between the three parties. Itachi finds that wasted effort is the best way to kill one’s motivation.

“A tiger gives its all, even when hunting a mere rabbit.”

“So it had nothing to do with the Tsuchikage’s granddaughter?”

Hm. He noticed. “Naturally.”

“Naturally,” Mamoru echoes. “So Kenji-sensei didn’t interfere in the drawing of the scrolls?”

Ah, he’s caught on.

Every year the hosting village skews the exams a bit in their favor. It’s only natural the visiting powers do what they can to even the playing field. Kenji-sensei hadn’t interfered with the drawings, but he did gather enough information to map out who was expected to fight who and when. The manner he gathered that information was not shared, but Itachi trusts Kenji not to lead him astray. He wouldn’t trust his sensei not to lead mamoru astray, but that hardly matters.

Chunin exams are never about the contestants. They’re about the villages putting their best foot forward to show off to potential buyers. Peace is present, but only loosely. Water Country is still in ruins and is expected to remain that way. Kumo is hunting other villages’ bloodlines and Wind Country is at the start of an economic recession. Iwa is tight lipped about their own struggles. It’d be best for Konoha to show absolute dominance during this exam. 

Konoha ninja are the strongest. It’s Itachi’s job to solidify that piece of propaganda. 

“You’ve got more than one reason for being here,” Mamoru hums and picks at his bandage. “I won’t interfere.”

“Then why did you ask?” 

“Wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.”

Itachi’s stare sharpens a bit. He’s always had a rough time reading Mamoru. “Are we?”

“Sort of,” the teen shrugs. “I don’t like Iwa-nin much. I’ll be happy to see you kick them in the face some more.”

Right. His genin team. Itachi’s still not sure if the two of them are allies, but he knows for certain Mamoru hates Iwa. It is the reason he was selected as Itachi’s partner. Mamoru’s unfortunate past guaranteed that he would not turn Itachi over to the first Iwa nin he saw. Itachi’s eyes and bloodline are safe from traitors. For now. 

“Quit it with that face,” Mamoru groans. “You’re looking at me like I might betray you.”

“That’s highly improbable, Mamoru-san.”

“Then stop glaring and call me Mo. The honorific is making me itchy.”

No, Itachi thinks, Mamoru-san will not betray him. Not because of his hatred for Iwa, but because Mamoru is a good person. He’s here for his siblings. He trusts Itachi to pull him from danger. 

“Mamoru, then.”

…

Mamoru and he are more efficient than Itachi first suspected. 

Even with the delay, they are the first team to finish the second stage. They are also the only team to retrieve the scroll from their intended target. Only three teams pass at all. One is from Kumogakure and the other is the team of the Tsuchikage’s granddaughter. Disappointing, but not unexpected. He’s a bit concerned about not knowing their skills and attributes until he sees Mamoru’s posture is far too balanced and straight to be paying attention to the Kage before them. He’ll get Mamoru to tell him their elements and chakra levels. Having a sensor is a handy thing. 

The genin are all told the third and final round will be a tournament and the matchups will be randomly allotted the day of. They’re given a week to prepare and heal. 

Being a welcomed foreigner in a rival village is… interesting. 

He constantly feels on edge, always aware of being seen as an outsider. It’s not a horrible feeling. The Uchiha clan has been viewed similarly within the walls of their own village, albeit not as blatantly. Itachi is already used to these accusatory stares. 

It’s made worse by the rumors surrounding his and Mamoru’s names. Most of the ones about Itachi make sense: over exaggerations of his Sharingan’s abilities and a strange notion he’s actually a jounin in a henge. Mamoru’s rumors are much more whimsical. Apparently, Mamoru will try to exact revenge for a tragedy that happened to his genin team. Apparently, he already plotted to assassinate the Tsuchikage’s granddaughter. Apparently, he’s the long-lost son of the Yondaime. 

Mamoru laughs when he tells him.

Itachi meant for it to be a warning, not a joke. He tells him as much.

“Are you worried about me, Itachi?” Itachi does not like how pleased Mamoru’s voice sounds.

“No,” he says and doesn’t look up from his book. “I am confident no one will act on their impulses while we are guests in the village. There is always a chance, however, so you may want to take precaution.”

“You are worried about me.”

“I am not.”

Mamoru hums, noncommittal, and is quiet for a long moment. He flips up from his place on his cot and begins to rummage through his small pile of belongings. Itachi looks up from his readings just as a flimsy piece of paper is thrust into his face. 

“Check it out,” Mamoru says, his voice earnest and excited in a way Itachi hasn’t heard from him before. “I got a letter.”

Itachi has also received letters whilst in Iwagakure. “I see.”

Mamoru grabs his hand and puts the paper in it. Wordlessly ordering Itachi to read it.

Quickly scanning the contents of the letter, he finds nothing of note. There is no grand announcement or heartfelt request to return home safe. It’s a generic ‘how are you?’ followed by a short and stilted account of making dumplings. The handwriting is poor. The spelling is worse. There is a drawing that may be a kunai or a bird at the bottom.

“I see,” he says again, not seeing a thing. Perhaps this is a code?

Mamoru takes the paper back and carefully folds it. He tucks the neat square under his forehead protector, smiling brighter than Itachi’s ever seen him smile. 

“It’s the first I’ve ever gotten,” he says, “I never had anyone write to me before.”

Itachi’s brain refuses to work, suddenly. A strange sensation of both heat and coldness nips at his lungs and throat as he tries very hard not to make his vulnerability obvious. For some reason, his cousin Obito comes to mind, alone and ostracized by the clan.

He always liked Obito-nii.

“It was poorly composed,” he hears himself say.

Mamoru laughs. “I never claimed to be raising future writers. Or artists, for that matter. Do you think that was a bird or a lizard?”

Why would Mamoru share something of such personal nature with him? What does he gain from Itachi’s opinion? Why would it matter? “I thought it was a kunai.”

“Can’t be, Hiro thinks swords are cooler.”

“Sasuke thinks the same,” Itachi says before his better judgment can intervene. 

Mamoru pauses, curious. “Sasuke?”

There is no tactical advantage to informing Mamoru of Sasuke’s existence.

“My brother,” he says anyway. “He likes dinosaurs,” he adds pointlessly. 

Mamoru looks pleased with the information regardless.

They spend the night together at the foot of Itachi’s cot. It isn’t the desperate honesty he shares with Shisui, away from their clan and village alike, but it feels just as intimate. It’s… kind of nice.

Hiro likes fuzzy things and may need glasses. Kokoro likes the color purple and gets nervous easily.

Mamoru loves his siblings more than anything else in the whole world, even if he doesn’t say so.

Itachi can relate.

…

Mamoru convinces their Iwa escort to take them to the library. 

Itachi is fairly sure it only worked because Mamoru was about to bore the chunin to death with his comparisons of their villages’ tax systems. Itachi can’t imagine taxation is Mamoru’s only reason for going to the public building, but he did sound rather passionate. It’s a convincing lie. 

But Itachi knows Mamoru. He knows that he’d much rather spend his time meditating in their quarters than training or leaving the compound. He knows being too close to too many Iwa nin makes him nervous. He knows he would not leave without proper motivation.

And yet.

Kenji-sensei is not allowed to enter the building, staying outside with another Iwa Jounin. Just after they’re greeted by the head librarian and given numerous threats and warnings, Mamoru slips away. He does it so seamlessly Itachi takes a full three seconds to get his wits together enough to cover for him. Mamoru comes back thirty seconds later looking exactly the same. Itachi tries to end the conversation with their chunin about native poisonous plants as naturally as he can. Social situations have never been his selling point as a ninja. His infiltration skill is average at best. Mamoru’s though…  

Itachi taps his foot twice, a general and vague affirmation he knows Mamoru understands. 

The blond snaps a random novel he pulled closed and throws his own two cents in. The chunin and he talk like Mamoru was there the whole time. 

They do end up in the financial part of the building and Itachi listens with half an ear as Mamoru asks the attendant a few questions in terminology the Uchiha doesn’t know. It’s easy to forget Mamoru worked at a desk for the past three years. For a ninja so many criticize for living in the past, Mamoru’s rather skilled. He surely did not let up in his training during his hiatus. Odd for a prospective career genin. 

He also wants to know what Mamoru stole, if anything.

He’s very close to telling Kenji-sensei about it, but he catches sight of a corner of paper sticking out of Mamoru’s headband. 

Probably just a souvenir for the kids, he tells himself. Nothing to worry about. 

Nothing to worry about. 

… 

Itachi is starting to grow worried about it. Not because Mamoru is acting suspicious or anything, just because Mamoru is actually a rather large threat. 

“Like this, right?” He asks and holds up his hands. Between them are visible lines of static, the beginnings of a lightning jutsu Itachi made when he was Sasuke’s age. 

“Yes,” he says, “congratulations, you can mold lightning.”

Mo hums, looking at his wrists. “I thought it’d be harder.”

“It’s to be expected. Mamoru has excellent chakra control.”

“Call me Mo.” His frown only lasts a second before morphing back into curiosity. “How’d you figure? I don’t remember telling you that.”

“The Sharingan,” Itachi says and Mamoru nods, knowing he wouldn’t elaborate further.

The Sharingan copies techniques by memorizing how chakra moves. An Uchiha performs copied jutsu exactly as they saw, which isn’t always good, especially if the original was inefficient or incomplete. It makes that aspect of the Sharingan the least useful, in Itachi’s opinion, unless you were a man like Hatake Kakashi. Hatake-san frequently fights highly dangerous, highly talented shinobi and copies their jutsu. Other Sharingan users aren’t so… determined to make use of their eyes. Hatake-san seems to think he has something to prove. 

Itachi finds seeing chakra as it is molded a much more valuable skill.

It is because of this ability Itachi knows Mamoru molds chakra highly efficiently. It also makes him suspect Mamoru uses his chakra sense like a watered-down Sharingan, mimicking the way he feels chakra move in a foreign body. His elders would probably be insulted by such a notion. 

Itachi thinks he will keep that discovery to himself. Unless specifically prompted, of course. 

“Chakra control filters into nature control, huh?” Mamoru muses. “I wonder if I could change my chakra signature at will.”

A threat indeed. “That’d be very useful for infiltration.”

Mamoru’s quiet for a long moment. Itachi feels as his chakra twists into something almost unrecognizable before the blond shivers and gags. 

“Nope,” he says, “totally gross. Not doing that.”

Itachi activates his sharingan. “Try again.”

Mamoru’s chakra retreats into his coils completely, vanishing from Itachi’s senses entirely before creeping back out again. His tenketsu visibly swell before shrinking again as chakra that should feel like Mamoru but is slightly off somehow pours out of them. Mamoru cuts off the same as he did before, with a gag and a shiver. 

“You’re doing the opposite of purifying your chakra,” Itachi says. “I wouldn’t explore that more without a master. Your tenketsu almost started rejecting your own chakra.”

“Ah. Not good.”

“Indeed.”

“What distinguishes chakra from person to person, anyway?” Mamoru asks. “Why is purified chakra accepted into the body if the body wants nothing to do with foreign entities?”

“You’ll have to become a med-nin to find out,” Itachi offers. He’d make a good one, in Itachi’s opinion. It’d also get Mamoru off the field, which would do good for his clan’s collective blood pressure.

“I-”

“What are you doing out of your station?”

Itachi feels a vague sense of annoyance at the interruption. He turns around to the voice and finds himself faced with the blond boy on the Tsuchikage’s granddaughter's squad. Mamoru said this boy was strong, stronger than his teammates with a blood limit he couldn’t identify. Most likely explosion release, knowing Iwa. 

Itachi glances at Mamoru, wondering why didn’t warn him, and is met with a shrug. The annoyance comes back, this time directed at Mamoru.

He always seems to expect people to ignore him.

“Our guide told us the courtyard was a fine place to train,” Itachi offers to the boy. The genin is Itachi’s age, possibly younger, and stands confidently before them. His face scrunches up as he openly assesses Itachi. 

“You’re Uchiha Itachi, yeah?” 

“I am.”

“You’ve got no character,” the boy says firmly, leaning close to Itachi’s face. “You’ve got to spice things up if you want to be recognizable, un. You’re a boring guy.”

Itachi beat this shinobi once before. He’s not sure how to kindly remind him of this. “I’m not sure that matters much, in the end.”

“Of course it matters! How are you going to live with yourself if all you do is stuff anyone else can do? There’s no passion in that! A total lack of artistry!”

Mamoru blinks at the fuming blond boy. “Are you an artist?”

“Shut up old man! I wasn’t talking to you!”

“Old?” The genuine hurt in Mamoru’s voice is so surprising that Itachi chances a look at him. He holds a hand to his face as if trying to feel for wrinkles.

The blond glares openly at Mamoru. “At least pretty boy has an aesthetic, un. You’ve got no sense of art at all.”

“Aw man...”

“Deidara,” a stern voice snaps. Itachi’s back snaps straighter and Mamoru breaks into a cold sweat. The Tsuchikage walks right between the two genin and up to the blond. “Don’t antagonize our guests.”

“They started it,” the blond huffs, sticking his nose up at his own kage. 

Mamoru looks at the small man, stunned. Itachi elbows him in the gut as he goes down into a bow. 

“Tsuchikage-sama.” He says. Mamoru repeats the greeting hastily. 

“No need for that,” the old man says. “I’m here to collect this runaway. I hope he didn’t cause any trouble.”

“Not at all sir.”

The Tsuchikage glances at Itachi once before nodding to himself. He looks at Mamoru next and his eyebrows furrow just a bit. 

“You are?”

“Um. Mamoru, sir.”

“No family name.”

“No sir.”

“Konoha always valued their clans and their names,” he says, boldly critical. “It tends to leave brats like you in the dust, hm?”

“Um.”

“No matter,” the kage waves off Mamoru’s discomfort and snags Deidara’s tunic, pulling him down to his height. “Come on boy. Kurotsuchi wants to train.”

“Eh? I already told her to bug off.”

“That’s my granddaughter, you brat!”

“You’ve got bad genes, old man.”

“Why you-”

Itachi turns away from the argument. He’s not going to concern himself with this odd family dynamic.

Mamoru is still frowning, a troubled look on his face as he watches the Tsuchikage drag Deidara away. He had sensed Deidara’s approach, but Itachi has the sneaking suspicion the Tsuchikage caught him off guard somehow. It must’ve been troubling for a sensor. 

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Mamoru blinks once, his expression shifting from worried to thoughtful as he runs a thumb under his eye. “I’m starting to think I need a skincare routine.”

Itachi does not sigh, because a shinobi should not display their emotions so honestly in a foreign land. He does, however, reach out and hit the back of Mamoru’s head, because a shinobi should not be thinking of trivial things in a foreign land.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Focus on our objective Mamoru.” 

“Your skin is worse than mine, you know. Let’s go get facials. I have a coupon for a place in Konoha.”

Itachi hits him again. Because he can. 

.

.

.

Theirs is the first match of the tournament. 

By theirs, Itachi means his and Mamoru’s.

The wicked tension in the air when the match was announced is still thick as they stand before each other. The crowd is eerily silent, waiting anxiously to see two of Konoha’s finest face off. The teams from Iwa and Kumo sneered at them, no pity in their eyes at the teammates forced to fight for the title of Chunin. 

And fight they will.

Itachi knows he will win, but Mamoru has never been properly motivated in their matches before this. Mamoru fully intends on making chunin and Itachi fully intends on winning this tournament. He plots and plans as he watches Mamoru shift as if testing his sandals. Mamoru will most likely retreat, waiting for Itachi to attack head on. If he is smart, he will keep to the ground and play it safe, waiting for Itachi to do his part and put on a show. Mamoru will use Itachi’s flashy ninjutsu as an opportunity to display his own before they go back to playing cat and mouse. 

In a battle of treading water, Itachi will lose. 

In anything else, he will win. 

So, Itachi will not let Mamoru evade him. He will force Mamoru’s hand and make the older boy come to him. Forcing Mamoru onto the offensive plays to Itachi’s strengths and throws Mamoru off balance. 

He’s still shifting in his sandals. Perhaps they are not the right size? Mamoru’s height has increased by a fair margin since he and Itachi first met five weeks ago. 

The blond shakes out his hands, before rubbing one on his jacket. Itachi cannot decipher the meaning behind this action. Checking for a weapon maybe? 

The proctor lifts his arm into the air, announcing the start of the match.

Itachi lowers his stance a fraction and watches his enemy. 

He can feel his Sharingan form in his eye. Using it is wasteful, but grants him an advantage over Mamoru’s superior sensing. He watches as Mamoru’s fingers twitch.

Mamoru steps forward, just as planned. 

He takes another even step forward, not as planned. 

Itachi watches as Mamoru walks right up to him, his eyes training on Mamoru’s chakra for some kind of jutsu. He finds no jutsu. Instead, he finds Mamoru’s outstretched hand. 

A trap, clearly.

No, he thinks immediately after, Mamoru is honest. He would not betray Itachi so openly. He shakes himself of the thought entirely and grabs Mamoru’s hand. A show of comradery before their battle is a good idea. It shows that there is no bad blood between the Uchiha and the village. It shows that they are both leaf ninja, in the end. 

Mamoru shakes his hand once.

“I forfeit,” his voice carries in the wind, echoing a bit in the stadium. “Good luck, Itachi. You deserve this more than me.”

Itachi’s hand is dropped and Mamoru turns around.

He walks out of the arena with his head held high. The loud complaints of spectators drowning out every other sound. Boos and wicked insults are thrown at him, curses and accusations of cowardice bouncing around the stadium.

Itachi ignores the mysterious pressure in his chest and turns around as well. 

He has a tournament to win. 

…

Itachi comes in first.

He beats Deidara for the title. The blond boy is at a disadvantage without the opportunity for preparation, but he puts up a good fight nonetheless. He went on another tangent about art during their match. A good shinobi never lets their mind wander during a fight, but afterward, Itachi can’t bring himself to remember the exact words Deidara used. How unlike him. It was something about Itachi developing an art form of his own. Something about them being rivals. 

Standing at the top of a podium created from a jounin’s doton jutsu, Itachi searches the crowd for Mamoru.

He can’t find him.

Chapter Text

Itachi doesn’t talk to him on the way back to Iwa. 

Which, okay, yeah, Mo expected this to happen but it still hurts. He kind of thought they were becoming closer. The sort of star-crossed-platonic-lovers type Kokoro would make him read at night. He likes Itachi. Not the worst case scenario: what with the kid’s blatant distaste for the way the village is run, maybe he’ll even join Mo on his journey to the unknown. It might be fun to travel with a friend.

“Mamoru,” Kenji says when they get to the main gate of Konoha. “You are dismissed. Return back to your family and… shower. Please.”

He gives a bow to his temporary sensei. Asshole who may have tried to kill him or not, under Uchiha Kenji’s totalage, Mo’s improved leaps and bounds. He finally feels comfortable fighting on uneven terrain and he’s… open to the idea of a tactical offense. Still not really his style, but he’s learned running away won’t always be an option. Not when people like the Tsuchikage exist, able to mold their chakra into something unrecognizable and sneak right up to you. 

Mo thinks he could do it. With a lot of trial and error. 

“Thank you for everything,” he says and straightens. “Good day.”

Itachi nods from behind his sensei. He’s got that look on his face, like he wants to say something but thinks he shouldn’t. He wears it a lot. 

Mo would probably ask if he wasn’t already running down the street. 

Sage, he really missed the twins. 

…

He also missed the first snow of the season. And the second. 

The twins recount their time alone in great detail. Going over how bored they were and repeatedly telling him how he’s not allowed to travel for such a long time ever again. At least, not without them. They didn’t go to the playground, not because they were scared, but because they didn’t remember the way. Mo lets the lie roll over his shoulders and thinks about asking Iruka how to help isolated children reacclimate. Hiro is doing well, but Kokoro doesn’t interact with others unless prompted. He wonders if that will be an issue at the academy. 

For now, Mo allows himself to be pushed into the kitchen by Kokoro, who demands he teach her how to properly make dumplings. The ones Hiro and she made kept splitting open.

“Naruto couldn’t figure it out either,” Hiro chirps, his butt on the counter as he watches Mo fiddle with the too-thin dough. 

His senses expand and Mo breathes in deeply. It’s hard to look for specific signatures, especially with the trail so old, but if the jinchuriki was in his apartment he’d like to know about it. 

He can feel Yona-sensei’s chakra lingering here and there, mainly just at the front door, and the twins’ saturate the whole room. With ample focus, he can tell there’s traces of the vaguely familiar chakra in the kids’ room and all over the kitchen. Most of it’s on the oven, of all things. 

“Did you put the dumplings in the oven?” Mo asks. That’s got to be a fire hazard. 

Kokoro looks incredibly guilty and Hiro’s gone quiet for a rare moment. Chakra sense or not Mo can already tell something happened.

“Did the ji- I mean, uh, did Naruto get burnt using the oven?”

“It wasn’t our fault!” Hiro yells. “He’s the one who put the temperature too high! And he’s fine just stupid.”

“Burns can be pretty bad if left untreated,” Mo chides and feels like an idiot. He asked Yona-sensei to drop in on them every once in a while, but he can hardly remember being five. He’s an idiot for thinking they’d be fine on their own. Of course they asked the jinchuriki for advice on how to live alone. Of course they’d struggle. 

Kokoro taps her fingers against the counter and shrugs. “I gave him a bandaid and that special ointment you got from the scary lady. He said he’d be fine…”

“You gave him the ointment!? That-” was so expensive. And was meant to be used on extreme wounds. And cost him half a paycheck because it was Hyuuga quality. And had a shelf life of four years. “That- was for emergencies, Ko. Is there any left?”

Hiro scowls at him, deeply offended that Mo would yell at his sister. “It was an emergency! Naurto’s fingers were the wrong color and he was crying!”

Oh man, did his siblings permanently scar the jinchuriki? What the hell. He can’t believe no one taught any of these kids kitchen safety 101. How irresponsible. 

Wait, he thinks a beat later, he’s supposed to teach the kids kitchen safety 101. Shit.

And that’s how day one back home ends. The twins sit on the counter, dumplings forgotten and take-out udon in their hands as Mo goes through the dos and don’ts of knives, fire, and oil. It’s a little surreal, trying to repeat the lecture he got when he was eight and living on his own for the first time. He’s lucky Haruto’s parents were so kind. He’d probably be dead without their help, all those years ago. 

“Do you know where Naruto is now?” He asks at the end of his lecture. The Haruno family was kind to him, a skinny little rat of a child who threatened to skin their son twice, so it’s not right of him to keep vital information away from the jinchuriki, who’s just trying his best. He wants to, but it’s best for the twins that their only… friend doesn’t end up burning his fingers off. “We should make sure his burns aren’t too serious. He may need medical attention.”

“He’s upstairs,” Hiro says tiredly, exhausted from the lecture.

No wonder rent was so cheap. Mo really feels like an idiot. 

… 

He knocks on the door with the Jinchuriki’s signature behind it. Hiro asks loudly how he knew it was the right one but Kokoro kicks her brother for him and squeezes Mo’s hand.

“Too loud,” she hisses, “it’s night time, dofus. And Momo-nii is a sensor, remember?”

“Aren’t we sensors? I can’t sense Naruto,” Hiro hisses back.

“Momo-nii is better than us.”

The door opens a crack. A single blue eye peaks through, wary and assessing before the door snaps wide open. 

“Momo-nii!” The jinchuriki yells, looking like Mo just offered him a lifetime supply of mochi. “You’re really here!” 

This was a terrible idea. “I came to make sure your hands were alright. Hiro said you got burnt while I was away.”

“Yup!” The boy smiles and wiggles his fingers up at Mo. No scars, no bandaid, just a little lingering redness. “I can’t feel them but they’re fine!”

“You can’t feel them?” he repeats, maybe a tad hysterically as he crouches down and grabs one of the jinchuriki’s hands. 

The boy’s face flushes as Mo pokes and prods at his hand. “It’s just a little numb, you know? Like I put ‘em in the snow.”

He’s got accelerated healing, Mo realizes suddenly. He can feel as the jinchuriki’s chakra pools towards the injury naturally. It’s acting much faster than even a jounin’s chakra would, and they train their bodies to react to injuries that way. Which probably means the burns he got were really bad. Way worse than the kids initially led on.

The jinchuriki of the nine tails is going to kill himself in the kitchen before he ever reaches the battlefield. How bizarre. 

“Okay,” he says, mainly to himself as he drops the kid’s hand. “Okay, cool. Let’s do this.”

“Do what?” all three kids ask at once. 

“Can I come in? I brought you some things that will help you not burn our building down.”

The kid steps aside, blinking owlishly as Mo breezes by and heads straight for the small kitchenette. The boy follows hesitantly as the twins groan their way to the table, already knowing where this is going.

Mo scowls at the kitchen, the state of it offending him. There’s dishes piled high in the sink, knives placed precariously on counters, flammable ramen cups by the stove, and he doesn’t even have an oven mit. No wonder he almost lost his fingers downstairs. 

“Here,” he says, reaching into the bag he brought along. He hands the jinchuriki a small kitchen towel. He only has one mit of his own, but he’ll keep an eye out for future ‘two for one’ deals. “This is yours now, alright? Please use it when you’re handling hot things.”

Naruto blinks at the grubby kitchen towel in awe. There’s a little frog embroidered on it, but that’s all that makes it unique. “This is… for me?”

“It’s for the taxpayers funding this place,” Mo grumbles. “I won’t let their sacrifice be in vain.”

“Huh, you’re kind of weird, Momo-nii.”

Mo’s just glad kitchen safety 101 is easier to teach the second time around. 

…

It’s been four days since he and the twins visited the jinchuriki and things have been remarkably quiet. One ANBU futzed around the treeline on the second day. Two on the third, but the fourth has brought none. His fear of being spirited away to an underground interrogation site fades slightly, but he continues to keep his distance when the jinchuriki is around. He’d rather not risk it.

The boy seems to think they’re close. He also seems to think Mo’s actual name is Momo-nii. Mo doesn’t have the energy to correct him at this point. It’d be too much of a hassle. 

His hands are itching for a map, but it’d be too risky to have physical evidence in the apartment. He lays on his bed and stares at the ceiling. It’s something he hasn’t done in a while, honestly, but the library in Iwa had been a rare opportunity. One that relit his will to get the fuck out of here. 

He’s glad Itachi didn’t ask him about it, because he didn’t have much of an excuse. Trade records between Iwa and the smaller nations below them are valuable and the implications of grabbing them are… well, Mo’s not entirely sure what Itachi would conclude. Still, cross referencing between the information he got from the library and what he’s gathered from working in finances shows that Grass and Waterfall country are closer to Iwa than they publicly show. Iwa is especially good at keeping tabs on their potential enemies, as detailed by the records of civilian caravans through rural Grass Country. Neither Konoha or Iwa have a strong tie with Rain Country, so maybe he’ll go there. 

He doesn’t like the rain much. Too gloomy. 

The land of Hot Water was beginning to shy away from the shinobi lifestyle. It would’ve been his first choice, but since he’s gotten the twins his name’s become a tad more recognizable. Since the chunin exams, there’s a chance his face has as well. Not fighting Itachi was a good idea, to the other hidden villages he’s more of a disappointment than a danger. One that’s undeniably loyal to his own and will not unset the status quo. Ha.

He’s not above facial reconstruction or adding a scar or two, but he’d rather not. He’ll have to wait and see how his forfeit affected his reputation in Konoha. Best case scenario, he makes chunin and nobody cares how. Worst case, his actions are seen as an appeal to the Uchiha, he’s taken in for questioning, and ultimately killed. 

By the time he’s done with his mental map, there’s small black Xs on most of the countries north of Konoha. 

What to do? What to do?

… 

It’s kind of ridiculous that you have to buy your spare chunin vest.

It’s also kind of ridiculous that he passed, but it’s more ridiculous how expensive it is to be a ninja. The amount of gear and upkeep there is, as well as the food it takes to stay a healthy weight is outrageous. No wonder clanless ninja are rare. Even if you do beat the odds and pass the academy the cost of promotion is enough to dry out Mo’s first account. He’s deep into his savings now.

Mo doesn’t buy the second vest. 

He’s got two pairs of the classic blues, a chunin vest, and a small pile of gear in his hands. All of it is standard issue, high quality, and better than anything he used as a genin. It’s almost embarrassing to be wearing cotton right now. 

The Hokage continues his vague congratulations, the Jounin Commander nodding behind him at the appropriate times. To explain their promotion he cites Itachi’s dominating victory and Mo’s sacrifice to the greater good, as well as their overall skills as described by Kenji-sensei. 

Kenji-sensei is actually a pretty big deal, Mo’s learning, and his word has a lot of weight. He’s a jounin of renowned skill who was the second choice for clan head. Fugaku-sama got the job because he married Mikoto-sama, a descendant of Madara’s bloodline. His prowess in the third war and working closely with the Yondaime didn’t hurt, either. Itachi’s rather tight lipped about his clan, but Mo’s figured out what he could from the two Uchiha he’s been training with as well as their respective rumor-mills. Bashira is absolutely no help, but that’s to be expected of a woman who’s fought in, like, every war ever. 

Still, never underestimate chatty civilians. They know more than the average chunin when it comes down to it. Genko’s been a wonderful source. His good looks make people tell him things. It’s kind of annoying. No one ever talks to Mo so easily.

“I expect you two to serve me well,” the Hokage says and pulls his pipe from his mouth. Smoke clouds around his head in a loose halo as he smiles. “The tides of war have come and passed, but there is still much to do. A shinobi must always be ready. Your spring has yet to come and I look forward to the fruit you will bear.”

What a cryptic old man, Mo thinks dully. He hopes he can leave soon. 

They’re dismissed a beat later, but that just means everyone else in the room is put at ease as well. He watches sympathetically as Itachi’s pulled away by a group of shinobi. Not enough sympathy to do anything, though. Mo’s leaving as soon as possible-

“Mamoru-san,” a chunin calls and ruins his plans. The young woman doesn’t grab him, but Mo can feel the determination radiate off her. She wants to speak with him. She really wants to speak with him. 

“Yes?” He says, trying not to fidget in place. Behind him Itachi’s been cornered by two jounin and the Jounin Commander himself. Itachi looks completely at ease between them. He’s probably been selected for the jounin track, as expected. The two of them are probably expected to be networking or something. Mo doesn’t know. He didn’t think he’d make it this far.

“Congratulations,” she says, her chakra softening into something more approachable. 

She’s got a fire nature. Nowhere near as powerful as Itachi or The Wall he met over a month ago, but blazing all the same. Without Itachi’s grounding earth nature or The Wall’s simmering lightning, her fire’s a little much. He doesn’t like it as much.

“Thanks,” he offers and dims his sense a bit. There’s no use in reading into this interaction. He doubts he’ll see her again. 

“You’re rather noble for a shinobi.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I think so,” she says and leans a tad bit closer. Mo leans a tad bit away. “The village is buzzing about you. It’s rare for someone to play the chivalry card like that. The civilians like you- the clans might too.”

Fuck, he thinks with feeling. This was not the plan at all. Why’s he always thrown into the worst case scenarios? The twins are friends with the jinchuriki, he’s running out of escape routes, and now the village thinks he’s making a power grab. A moderately successful one at that. What the hell.

“I’m no good at cards,” he says, taking a blatant step backwards and just running his mouth. “You know Itachi is- I mean, Itachi-san is a lot more noble than me. He’s a good person.”

“Is Mamoru-san not?”

“Pretty average in that respect,” he squeaks. “I’d say I’m just as selfish as anyone else.”

The young woman laughs for some reason.

“You’re a funny guy, Mamoru-san.”

Genko’s always telling him he lacks a funny bone. He’s not sure what this chunin wants from him. 

A tug on his arm is his saving grace. Itachi stands beside him now, the top of his head coming up to Mo’s shoulder. 

“Pardon,” he says, “I’d like to speak with Mamoru, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” the young woman says, her chakra taking on a hint of sour. 

Mamoru nods to her as they leave and bows to the Jounin Commander. The Hokage’s already busy speaking with some of his aids, so he doesn’t worry about talking to the old man again. He doesn’t particularly want to. The twins are starting the academy soon and it’s a sore reminder of the amount of power that man holds over him. Too much, in Mo’s opinion.

Itachi doesn’t ditch him after they leave the room, which Mo takes as a good sign. The Uchiha loiters beside him and is polite enough to give him space as he gathers his wits together. 

“You’re not very good at delegating,” the dark haired boy says.

“I’m not a very good cook either,” Mo shrugs and feels so, so old. Too old for this political nonsense. “But apparently I’m good enough at running away to make chunin. I guess we all have our strengths and weaknesses.” 

“You ran away from me then.”

“Tactical retreat sounds better, but yeah, a serious fight with you isn’t really on my ‘To Do’ list.”

Itachi nods then, slow and thoughtful. 

Mo could really go for something not stressful or earth shattering right about now. The past few days have been a little much, honestly. He digs a hand into his pocket and thanks the stars he didn’t do his laundry. 

“I don’t suppose you’re up for those facials?” he asks and tries for one of Genko’s winning smiles. “I’ve got that coupon on me.”

Itachi’s standing beside him with perfect posture, his chakra deliberately blank. It’s how most shinobi feel when they’re in a new place or on missions. A careful neutrality that dampens their emotions and reveals nothing. That the blankness is Itachi’s default probably means something, but Mo doesn’t think they’re close enough to ask just yet. One day, maybe, but not today.

“We should stay away from each other from now on,” Itachi says, holding his own vest. “It would be best for us to remain unacquainted.”

“Oh,” Mo feels as the forced smile drips off his face. He barely keeps from openly frowning. “I already feel pretty acquainted with you, though?"

“For your goals and for mine,” Itachi says in that serious way of his, like he’s already made up his mind well before this conversation, “we cannot risk being influenced by each other. Being… more than acquaintances would bring attention upon us and sabotage our future plans.”

He’s right of course. Itachi’s rarely ever wrong. 

He’s gathered by now that Mo doesn’t intend on moving up the ranks. Mo’s gathered by now that Itachi does. From here, their paths aren’t likely to cross naturally. Itachi will go on to become clan head or hokage or whatever and Mo will run away into the woods once the twins grow up enough to understand why he’s leaving. It’s best that they keep their distance and let rumors of a rivalry die.

The problem is, Mo likes Itachi. 

He likes him a lot more than he’s ever liked anyone since Haruto and Miyoko died. If he was going to be sticking around for the twins, he thought he might as well stick around for Itachi too. Having someone strong and clever and kind who can match him in spars and watch the sunset with him and maybe do other stuff that friends do. Someone who he doesn’t have to watch his words around. Someone who doesn’t expect anything from him. 

It sounded really nice. Having a friend like that.

But Mo’s always been good at running away. That’s been his goal for a solid chunk of his life and not being friends with Itachi will be more beneficial. Mo shouldn’t be getting attached to Konoha. He’s planning on leaving. He’ll be labeled a traitor and a scoundrel and all of this… emotional stuff will disappear entirely. 

He’s being foolish, debating this. He let his chakra sense get the best of him, like he did with Shisui. He doesn’t know Itachi and Itachi doesn’t know him. There isn’t enough trust between the two of them to argue with logic. There never will be.

He nods once and Itachi nods back, just as impersonal as the day they met. The Uchiha pulls a storage scroll out of his mission pouch and hands it to him. 

“Congratulations on your promotion. You deserve this... Mo.”

His hand closes around the gift as he watches Itachi walk away. It was a kind gesture. Probably something thoughtful and practical. Maybe some new equipment. That sounds like something Itachi would do. 

Mo throws it out the window.

… 

Hiro brings him soup in bed.

Kokoro tells him they think he’s cool even if he didn’t make chunin. 

Mo sighs and ruffles the kids’ hair. He tells them he did, in fact, get promoted and not to worry about him.

Hiro gives him a funny look. He asks why he’s so upset if he got what he wanted. 

What a great question, Mo thinks. He hopes he never gets the answer and settles into fantasizing about running to a far away land without so many complicated relationships. 

One day, none of this will matter and Mo will finally be happy again. So what if Itachi doesn't want him? He'll find someone better one day. 

One day.

…

Winter is a time when the whole world seems to settle. 

It’s the dullest time of the year for a shinobi. The missions that need to be done are espionage in the capital, clearing the Fire Country’s rural villages of snow, or extensive missions of great importance that cannot wait until the weather improves. The frost that kills the leaves never harms the roots, though. There is always work to be done within the village. Paperwork, that is. 

All in all, it’s considered the worst time of year to become a Chunin. Mo is grateful for this. 

“So are you going on missions?” Genko asks, watching curiously as Mo packs away his desk of three years into a chunin-issued storage scroll. His eyes bug a little as two more secret stashes of hard candy are revealed. “Are you going out of the country? How exciting! I don’t have many chunin friends.”

Mo finds that hard to believe, given how chatty he is. He says as much. 

“I know plenty of people who are chunin. Jounin, too,” Genko huffs. “That doesn’t mean I’m friends with them.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’ll be in the village for the foreseeable future.” Mo smiles at his sulky expression. “Chunin get the option to specialize and specialized chunin are paid on salary. It’s a much better gig than just running missions and hoping for jounin.” Unless you’re selected for the Jounin track, but that’s rather rare.

“Boring, though.”

“Yeah,” Mo hums, sending a burst of chakra into the scroll laid out on his desk. The items above it disappear with a puff of visibly gassious chakra, appearing like smoke around Mo’s hand. Storage seals really were neat. “But not as boring as this place.”

“I’ll say,” Genko snorts. “So what’s your specialty gonna be anyway?”

“I wanted to join the wall team or archives, but neither petitioned for my application.”

“Bummer.”

“Not really,” he shrugs, “the hospital and a jounin petitioned me, but I could always apply without a petition.”

“A jounin petitioned you? For an apprenticeship?” Genko’s mouth is agape. Mo nods. “Who?”

“Oh, uh, Might Guy. He said he heard about my match with Itachi and thought the... spirit of youth runs in my veins? I guess he values sportsmanship or whatever.”

Genko gives him a deliberate once over, taking in eyebags, unwashed hair, and a flat expression. 

“I don’t think you’d be a good match.”

“I agree,” Mo says honestly. “The Hospital might be nice. I wanted to learn some sealing before the kids got older, but I don’t want to make a career of it. Learning medical ninjutsu would be cool and apparently high level med-nin use seals. I already planned for the archives, though, so I’m at a bit of a loss.”

“Why would the twins need to learn to seal?”

Mo ignores the cold sweat on his neck. “Ah. It’d be useful, is all.”

“Hm, well, whatever you choose I’ve got a feeling you’ll be great at it,” Genko claps him on the back. “You genius-types are like that.”

“I told you I’m not a genius.”

“Whatever you say. Keep in touch, alright genius-kun? I’ll be rooting for you.”

“I will. Thank you.” Mo turns to leave but hesitates, the weight of unfinished business settling in his stomach. “Where’s Bashira-san? I wanted to say goodbye to her as well.”

Genko plops into Mo’s vacated chair and crosses his hands behind his head. “Oh, didn’t you hear? She quit the day after you left for the chunin exams.”

What an odd coincidence.

…

The twin’s first day at the academy is the day before they turn five. January 10th.

“Okay,” Mo says, re-wrapping a bulky scarf around Hiro’s head. Mo knows he looks a bit foolish, acting like the fussy mothers around him. He can’t help it. “Remember what I told you- don’t cut in line and don’t tell people they’re dumb. But if someone says you’re dumb, I give you full permission to hit them so long as you don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“Momo-nii!” Hiro cries, swatting Mo’s hands away. “I got it! Get off!”

“There’s snow on the ground. You’ll freeze without it.” And die. 

“I can do it myself!”

“But-”

“I can do it!”

Kokoro tugs on his sweater. Mo turns to face her big brown eyes. “What do we do if a meteor hits us?”

Mo swallows down his sudden irrational fear of meteors. “I don’t think that will happen.”

“What if it does?”

“Hide behind Iruka-sensei. He’s very strong.”

“Stronger than a meteor?”

“I’d hope so,” he shrugs, now going through the logistics of how strong one would have to be to defeat a meteor in combat. If he knew it was coming Iruka could probably knock it off course. If he didn’t he’d probably die. The size of the meteor is also a factor. Should he start training for possible meteor attacks?

“What if there’s a tsunami?”

“We aren’t near the ocean.” Mo knows a few suiton jutsu that may save them. 

“What if there’s a forest fire?”

“There’s protocol for that kind of thing.” The same suiton.

“What if-”

“Aneki!” Hiro huffs and grabs his sister's hand, “You think too much! Come on!”

Mo watches helplessly as the kids run off to join the small gathering around Iruka. They’ll be fine, he chants in his head. They’ll be fine.

“Mamoru-san.”

Mo blinks and comes to the sudden realization he’s still kneeling in the snow. His pants are wet. One quick flick of his hand as he stands saps the moisture from his knees. The chunin blues are so nice! Cotton doesn’t do that nearly as well. He looks at the man who called him and wishes he just stayed on the ground. 

“I didn’t know you had kids,” The Jounin Commander says once he’s upright. Nara Shikaku is a man of imposing height and he uses all of it as he stares down at Mo. 

“My siblings,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely at the direction of the academy. What’s with clan heads and thinking he’s a creep? Does he really look that weird? “They’re not my official dependents just yet, so they wouldn’t be on my file.”

“Is that why you refused the jounin track?” 

“The wha-huh?”

“The jounin track,” he repeats. “I usually speak personally to the shinobi selected for it, but since you and Itachi were so close I gave both the scrolls to him. He should have passed it on.”

“Ah,” he says, breaking out in a cold sweat. “Right. That scroll. The scroll he gave me. He gave it to me. I’ve just been, uh, busy. Sorry.”

Shikaku frowns. “Right. Well, I wanted to check in with you regardless. It’s not an option I hand out readily, you understand.”

“Totally,” Mo chokes out, “but I was planning on applying for the archives anyway.”

“Why in the fuck would you do that to yourself?”

“Um.”

A booming laugh keeps him from properly replying.

“Don’t be too hard on the kid, Kaku. He looks like he’s gonna cry,” Yamanaka Inoichi claps his ally and fellow clan head on the shoulder, smiling down at Mo with unsettling pupil-less eyes, “if he wants to drown himself in paperwork, good for him. Makes our lives easier!”

“So much work to be done in a village,” a deep baritone says from behind him. A hand the size of a small dog lands on Mo’s shoulder, successfully caging him in front of the clan heads. Akimichi Choza smiles kindly down at him, a stark juxtaposition to his intimidating size. “There is no shame in wanting to help from within.”

Shikaku looks like he disagrees, but says nothing. Inoichi actually rolls his eyes. 

“Bit of a disappointment when skills like yours go down the drain,” the Yamanaka says, leaning down to be eye-level with Mo. “Be a jounin, would you kid? It’ll make Shikaku’s life a lot easier.”

“Inoichi,” the other head says warningly.

“What? I’m tired of hearing you complain about it.”

“You talk too much.”

“You talk too little. All those brains and no charisma. It’s no shocker the kid’s scared of you, coming at him the way you did.”

“I did not-”

“If you want him to do all you want him to. You’re going to have to tell him.”

“Not. Here.”

“No time like the present, Kaku-kun!”

Choza’s oppressively massive hand is still on his shoulder as the clan heads bicker about who knows what. Mo gets the impression it’s about him, which is terrifying and makes him want to melt into a puddle. The grip isn’t tight, but it still makes escape virtually impossible. There’s no possible way he can slip out of this without offending at least one of the most powerful clans in Konoha. Now is the time to choose which one.

He’s already thrown the scroll Shikaku personally wrote him out a window, so he could just keep up with his streak. Then again, he might as well just call it quits and go for three. Shit. He’s an idiot. He’s such an idiot. Why would Itachi ever give him a present? He’s so stupid. This is so stupid.

“Momo-nii!"

This is a nightmare, he thinks and watches as the jinchuriki barrels right up to them, shouldering his way between Shikaku and Inoichi’s legs. Mo considered lighting himself on fire for a split second, before deciding it’d be a bit of an overreaction. People would finally keep their distance, but he’d probably get burnt. Maybe he’ll stop showering. If he’s disgusting looking, surely no one will bother him. 

“Momo-nii,” the boy repeats in a huff. Apparently shoving your way through a crowd of clan heads takes some effort. “I found you.”

Mo frowns at the sky. The hold on his shoulder is finally gone but at what cost?

“Shouldn’t you join your class?” He croaks, “Iruka-san is going to be upset if you’re late.”

“I told Jiji that you’re super cool and he says you’re strong,” the boy says instead. He’s got an agenda, clearly, but Mo doesn’t want to know who the jinchuriki’s grandfather is. He was under the impression the boy was an orphan no one was permitted to get close to. Is he even allowed to talk to him? The jounin commander is right there. Mo’s so screwed. 

“Eh,” he shrugs, feeling weak. 

“Are you going to be Hokage?”

“Hell no,” he blurts and then remembers he’s in front of children. “I mean, uh, heck no?”

“Why not!? Being Hokage is the coolest, you know!”

Mamoru’s never coming early to something ever again. There’s still ten minutes until the opening ceremony and he’s tired of being harassed by people stronger than him. He never asked for this. 

“It’s not really my style,” he mutters and looks over to where Kokoro’s chakra is getting more and more restless. Shikaku’s got a kid over there, and the boy’s looking thoughtfully in his father’s direction. Mo hopes Kokoro and Hiro don’t befriend the clan kids in their class. From first glance it looks like most of them are heirs. 

“Well what do you want to do?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs again, still focusing on where Hiro is pushing and shoving with the Inuzuka heir. What a rascal. “I guess I just want to see the twins grow up.”

He turns his head when the jinchuriki’s chakra does a unique kind of swirl, something he’s never felt before. His blood is ice in his veins but the kid's just looking at him in a funny way, like he just said something incredible. Mo blinks at him, watching as the kid's mouth wobbles for a moment before he huffs and rubs at his face. 

“Well I’m going to be Hokage!” the kid yells, his face still a little red but determination is shining bright in his eyes. “And when I’m Hokage you’re going to be in charge of all of the kids! Every single one, you know!?”

“I'd rather no-"

“Momo-nii!” the kid yells again, cutting him off and running to join the rest of the group. He's loud enough the whole group of parents hears him. “I’m gonna make you proud! Believe it!”

Damage control, he thinks desperately and tries to ignore the numerous stares on his person. He needs a boat load of damage control right about now.

“Peach brother,” he muses loudly and looks at Akimichi-sama, “that’s a funny nickname for you, sir.”

“No one is falling for that, Momo-chan,” Inoichi’s arm loops around his shoulders now, which might be worse than Choza’s skull crushing grip. The man leans his weight onto Mo, and the newly minted chunin actually stumbles a bit under the force of it. Clan Heads are so cruel to simple shinobi like him. “I hope you’re ready for the storm you just invited.”

“I didn’t invite shit.”

“Ha! You’re great. Can we keep him?”

“Mamoru,” Shikaku says sternly. He cranes his neck to look over Inoichi’s broad shoulder. Shikaku’s still got that serious business look on his face, so Mo ducks back and pretends to struggle under Inoichi's weight. “You really should consider the jounin track.”

“I’ve considered it,” he chokes, trying to subtly push this giant off of him. These men were too tall. And weirdly needy. “It’s just not something I want to pursue at the moment.”

Inoichi’s wife inserts herself then, tugging the clan head off of Mo with a gentle grace. 

“Come on, love,” she says, a laugh in her voice. “The ceremony will begin soon. Stop harassing your subordinates.”

Nara Yoshino, a kunoichi of great power and a driving force in the last war so great the entire village mourned her retirement, just smacks her own husband upside the head. 

“Talk business on your own time!” she hisses and tugs on his ear. “This day is about our son. Quit acting out.”

Terrifying. Mo admires her greatly. 

Choza laughs heartily and meets his own wife halfway. She’s got their son on her hip and Mo watches as the clan head gives a few words of comfort to the boy before sending him off to join the group. The boy stands hesitantly beside Shikaku’s son and shies away from Kokoro’s curious gaze.

They better not fall in love, Mo thinks with venom. 

With the clan heads distracted by their wives, Mo coils his chakra tightly to himself and steps back. None of them seem to realize he’s moved so he continues walking backwards until he’s out of their sights entirely. Diminishing his chakra to such an extent doesn’t make him invisible so much as it makes him… unnoticeable. Eyes seem to slide right over him, acknowledging but unconcerned as someone weak walks by. The opening ceremony starts a minute later. The Hokage in all his robed glory comes out and starts talking about his stupid garden again. 

Well, Mo thinks and tries to ignore the people who murmur his name, things could be worse. 

Chapter Text

He manages to slip away from the clan heads. 

The village hospital is conveniently placed near the academy so he heads straight there. He was planning on applying for the archives before accepting the Hospital’s petition. Working at the archive was tiresome and bland, but it paid the best and he’d be able to take his work home. Since the fiasco at the academy though, Mo’s not taking any chances. He’s getting this specialization business out of the way as soon as possible. No excuses. 

“My youthful apprentice! To think we would meet in such a place! It must be fate!”

He turns around. One excuse. 

“Mamoru-san!” the village’s green beast calls. Mo swears he was behind him a second ago, and yet the honorific was yelled straight into his face. The legend’s breath smells like roses. “Don’t go, dear comrade! I must speak with you about our partnership.”

“We don’t have a partnership,” he says and turns around. Guy’s still in front of him.

“Not yet,” the man insists, “but if you give me a chance, dear comrade, think of the adventures we’d go on! The places we’d see! The strength we’d gain!”

The amount of exclamation marks is making his head hurt, but this is Might Guy. He’s a legend. He’s one of the strongest shinobi in the village. Also one of the weirdest. “Are you giving me a recruitment pitch?”

“That I am!”

All of the jounin in the village have officially gone insane. 

“I respectfully decline.”

Guy doesn’t miss a beat, apparently well reversed in rejection therapy. He drops to a knee and flings his arms out, displaying the whole of himself for Mo to see. “Then I propose to you a challenge! If you defeat me, you may continue on your quest to greatness as you were. But if I prove victorious, you will become my apprentice!”

“No. No,” Mo says, mortified. So many people are watching them. “None of that. You’re a jounin. I’ve been a chunin for two days. I’d lose so fast in a fight with you. Not fair.”

“Not a fight! A challenge,” as if that changes anything, “I’ll even let you pick it!”

“I uh-”

“Guy, what the hell are you doing?”

Guy’s face turns a funny shade of red and he shakes his head, hands on his hips. “Well, if it isn’t my cool and hip rival.”

Guy’s cool and hip rival is a white-haired teenager Mo doesn’t recognize, but his chakra is vaguely familiar. He must be jounin, with control so good and reserves as large as his, but other than that he can’t get a read on the slouching teen. He is, however, reading some rather inappropriate fiction. In broad daylight.

Guy’s cool and hip rival is flanked by a woman and a man, both with large reserves and generally unknown by Mo. He recognizes the man vaguely as one of the Sandaime’s many children. He might be wrong about that, but their chakra feels similar enough that he thinks he’s right.

The teenager snaps his book closed and sticks his hands into his pockets. He glances thoughtfully between them before speaking. “Why are you harassing this sick chunin?”

“I’m not sick?” Mo blurts, blinking dumbly at the teenager.

“You’re not?”

“No?”

“Damn,” a new weight falls onto his shoulder and the Hokage’s son laughs into his ear, “You should get some shut eye if Kakashi thinks you need it. Pretty bad sign, kid.”

“He smells ill,” Guy’s cool and hip rival shrugs, not looking the least bit sorry. Kakashi, apparently. Possibly Kakashi of the Sharingan eye. Yet another infamous ninja set on harassing little old nameless Mo. “Ill and stressed.”

What does stress smell like? Why is Guy’s cool and hip rival smelling him? How does Mo get people to stop smelling him? 

“Come on, dude, quit messing,” the Hokage’s son laughs, “the poor kid looks like he’s gonna throw up.” 

Somehow Mo gets the impression these jounin weren’t actually going to help him. Is this harassment? Can he sue?

“Yuhi Kurenai,” the woman introduces, shoving the Hokage’s son off his shoulder with a stiff arm, “Chunin. Of the defense squad.”

“Oh,” Mo could cry he's so grateful someone here as a brain cell. “Mamoru, no clan name. Gen- uh, Chunin. Undecided?”

She smiles and elbows the Hokage’s son hard in the gut. Maybe he got his hopes up too soon. She must be as crazy as the rest of them. 

“Sarutobi Asuma,” the man says hauntily, “Jounin. General.” 

Guy’s rival nods to him, pulling his book back out. “Hatake Kakashi. Jounin. Of the outguard.”

“Might Guy!” the current bane of his existence introduces properly. “Proud Jounin! Of the outguard!”

“Cool,” Mo mutters. “But I actually-”

“So, Mamoru-kun,” Kurenai cuts in with a smile, “I hear you’re on the jounin track.”

Mo really wants people to stop talking about him. Very few people talk to him, he’s not sure why he’s such a hot topic. “I’m not.”

“Oh? But you and Itachi-kun made such a big impression.”

“I’m, uh,” how does he explain to some of Konoha’s greatest shinobi that he’s just doing this for the money? That he’d betray all of them if given the chance? No one should trust him with the influence of a jounin. He’d get so many people killed by his own inadequacy. “I’m good as a chunin. Being a jounin is a responsibility I’m not ready for.”

Asuma scoffs like an angsty teen, slouching away from them all. “You sound like my dad, kid. Lighten up.”

“Well I-”

“Mamoru-san is very noble, Asuma!” Guy slams one hand onto the ground and points the other at Asuma’s patchy stubble. “He’s correct! Being a jounin is a responsibility not to be taken lightly! Which is why you should be an apprentice!”

“Thanks for defending my honor,” he says weakly. “But I’ll pass.”

Guy deflates into a puddle. Mo wishes he could do the same. 

“Oi, oi, oi,” Hatake calls, “let’s leave chunin-chan alone, yeah? He looks like he’s had a rough day.”

Hatake Kakashi deserves the world. Mo owes him so much. 

Asuma frowns. “Eh? It’s not like you to interfere, Kakashi.”

“Well, I’d like a word with him alone, is all.”

Hatake Kakashi deserves nothing. Mo will seek vengeance on him. 

The others seem to recognize that as an unusual request and readily follow it. Kurenai bids him farewell with a blown kiss. Asuma shoots him a heatless glare before sauntering away. Guy declares one last time that he should be Mo’s mentor before Kurenai drags him off.

The street before the hospital is already rather empty. A bunch of jounin shouting at each other tends to make civilians scatter. Mo’s about to excuse himself entirely and run away when Kakashi beats him to it. 

“You’re rather close to the jinchuriki.”

“Ah,” Mo wills the cold sweat on his neck to leave already. He feels like it’s been present all day. “I wouldn’t say we’re close. We live in the same building.”

Kakashi hums. His facade of indifference is rather convincing, but shinobi don’t just bring up the nine tails in casual conversation. Hatake either wants the kid dead or far away from Mo’s influence. Or maybe he wants to kill Mo. Mo’s relationship with the jinchuriki would be a good excuse. 

Mo doesn’t think he’s important enough for assassination though, even with his promotion. He sure hopes he isn’t. 

“Is there anything else?” he asks, wanting to end this neatly. 

“Are you going to kill him?”

“What?”

“The jinchuriki,” he clarifies, voice terribly casual. “Are you going to kill him?”

There’s a plethora of shinobi who seem to think not killing anyone under the age of twelve makes them morally superior. There’s even more who think such thoughts are a waste of effort. Mo’s always been a part of the second group, but recently the thought of harming a kid makes him a bit queasy. He'd still do it, but he might feel a little pity afterwards. A little. Maybe none.

The thought of blatantly abandoning one has always left a bad taste in his mouth. Hits too close to home. 

Still, he’s not particularly fond of the kid who’s latched onto his siblings. The jinchuriki is an unexpected hazard he’d rather not deal with, but he’s already felt his chakra down to the bone. It's getting hard to equate the scruffy blond kid who hangs around his siblings to the beast that demolished half the village five years ago. Not when he knows intimately how both of them feel. 

Kakashi hums low, his chakra still carefully blank as he studies Mo’s expression. He’s not sure what he gave away in those few seconds of silence, but it seems to be enough for Kakashi.  

“You’re an odd one, Mo-chan,” he says and snaps his book shut. “Try to stay out of trouble, yeah?”

He’s gone before Mo can blink.

Damage control, he thinks and throws the doors to the hospital open. He needs a lot of damage control right about now. 

… 

“-and then Iruka-sensei made us stand up and say our names and one thing we wanted to learn this semester.”

“Yeah?” Mo hums and shakes the pan a bit. The sausage is sticking and he’s not sure the carrots are cooked through. He’ll just add more soy sauce. It’ll be fine. “What was your something?”

“Everyone’s names!” Hiro grins. “Now I learned my thing and don’t have to go anymore!”

“You still have to go.”

“But you never told me about homework,” he pouts and drops his face into a textbook. Kokoro’s already five pages ahead of him. “I thought it was just cool ninja stuff. All we did was talk about numbers.”

“Numbers are important. I worked with numbers before I became a chunin.”

“But your job was boring.”

“Every job is boring after a while.”

“Momo-nii,” Kokoro says, looking up finally, “are you going to get a new job?”

“Sort of,” he shrugs. “I’m apprenticing at the Hospital. If I end up getting good at it they’ll give me a job, but for now they’re just paying me to train.”

“Are you making a lot of money?”

Mo narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Well, it’s just,” Kokoro futzes for a moment, tapping her fingers against the table. “Tomorrow is our birthday…”

“Worried about your present?” 

“No!” she cries and buries her face into her arms. “I just thought you forgot.”

It’s a pretty hard thing to forget. Ito Ito from the orphanage was dropping by to make sure he hadn’t killed them yet, so it’s kind of a big deal. “Don’t worry about it. I got your gifts before I left for Iwa.”

“You did?” Hiro perks up, “Are they here? Where?”

“You won’t be able to find them if you don’t go to the academy,” Mo laughs. “They’re hidden with a genjutsu. Ask Iruka-sensei what that is tomorrow.”

… 

Ito Ito approves. 

She’s all smiles when she comes by on the kids' birthday. The twins don’t remember her, but Hiro readily accepts the chance to brag about his gifts to a new face. Iruka dropped a gift off, which was rather nice of him. He got them a set of training kunai to share, the kind clan kids teeth on as infants. His grandmother also gave them a book to share. It’s on proper etiquette, naturally. 

Mo got Hiro a new hoodie, green this time, and a yukata of the same color. He got Kokoro a yukata with a fancy floral pattern on it and a skirt with pockets made of a thick material. Both are purple, naturally. He gets them a large stack of colorful square paper to share. Origami is an inexpensive way to increase finger dexterity and focus. Kokoro takes to it readily, eager to have something to do with her hands. 

“We can’t wear them till the spring festival,” Hiro explains to Ito proudly. He practically shoves his yukata at her, pointing at the cranes on the bottom and making sure she sees the clovers on the sleeves. “It’d be weird to wear a Yukata in winter time, but I don’t think Momo-nii can afford to buy a real Kimono so that’s okay with us! All the ladies where Rikona worked had them but they always complained about how much they cost!”

“Do you miss Rikona-san, Hiro-kun?” Ito asks gently, handing the boy’s garment back to him. 

Hiro snatches the robe back and outright glares at her. “No way! Rikona’s a witch! Momo-nii is way better.”

“And why’s that?”

“He always remembers to feed us! And he got me the hoodie I wanted! Check it out!”

Ito leaves with a thorough itinerary of everything Mo’s ever bought the twins, courtesy of Hiro’s big mouth. She also leaves with a paper pinwheel, courtesy of Kokoro. 

“I happy I found you,” she says as she leaves. “You know, the only reason I did is because we grew up together.”

“We did?” Mo blinks and squints at her. She’s plain looking, with ashen brown hair and dark eyes that smile. Mo doesn't recognize her.

“Yes,” she laughs, gentle in the way you’d expect from someone who works at an orphanage after growing up in one, “I’m not surprised you don’t remember- you were always so stuck in your books. It’s hard not to remember the Yondaime’s biggest fan though.”

Mo feels his ears heat up. “I was a bit much, wasn’t I?”

“When you weren’t reading you were trying to reverse engineer the rasengan. Remember when Kairi-san found out? I thought she was going to kill you!”

His knuckles hurt thinking about it. Kari-san caned them in front of the whole group. “Not my finest moment.”

“I’d say,” she laughs again. Ito smiles at him, bright and proud in the way people have been doing more and more often. Ever since he took in the twins, really. “I’m glad you made it out, Mo.”

“Yeah,” Mo nods, “I’m glad too.”

… 

Time passes easily after than. The kids do their best at the academy, thankfully testing rather average in most respects. He finally claims them as dependents and their adoption is official. A little while later, Mo gets settled into his new job and takes to the healing jutsu like a fish to water. His control has always been good, but being a sensor gives him an unexpected edge in replicating techniques. Before he knows it, it's been three weeks and January is coming to a close.  

The twins are at school when there’s a knock at the door. 

Mo doesn’t recognize their chakra, but it’s not like he knows very many people to begin with. He hefts himself out of his chair with a sigh, casting a longing look at the scroll he’s been trying to read for the past week over his shoulder as he goes. It was so interesting too. Sure, it was one of Orochimaru’s and he’s a well known traitor who committed atrocities but damn if he doesn’t write a good research paper. One of his new coworkers lent it to him from their private collection. Genko’s never done that before. He’ll have to up his friendship game. 

Mo gets to the door mentally debating whether he should’ve put socks on today and opens it with little concern, still eyeballing his bare toes. 

His greeting dies in his throat. A face almost identical to his own stares back at him. 

“Mom?”

…

In his mind, Rikona had always been unreachable. She was a high class woman of great regard. A sought after geisha he would hear rumors about amongst ninja and civilians alike. She was beautiful. She was rich. She was wicked and clever and so many other things. 

The woman sitting across from him is skinny and pale. The hair he remembers being shiny and thick lays limp and dull down her back. Her clothes are simple and plain. 

“I’m not giving you money,” he says as she drinks her tea. Mo had contemplated just shutting the door on her before thinking better of it. He’d much rather nip this in the bud than let the twins see her. “I don’t know what you heard but I don’t have much of it. I only just got the new job and thanks to someone I’ve got two more mouths to feed.” 

Rikona’s appearance doesn’t damper her mannerisms though. She places the plastic cup down like it’s fine china. “You weren’t supposed to take them in. That wasn’t your place.”

Mo nearly chokes from the heat of his anger. “And what was I supposed to do, then? Let them rot there like I did? Let them get kidnapped by who knows who just so my life could be a little easier? So I could save a few bucks?”

“Not just a few,” Rikona frowns as if he’s the one who’s being unreasonable, “80,000 ryo.”

“You sold them?”

“Almost,” she corrects with a sigh, “you and that girl at the orphanage thwarted that. Who would’ve thought you two grew up together? I bet you didn’t even realize.”

His tea is cold and his palms are bleeding from the bite of his nails but Mo swallows down his hate and breathes. 

“Who?”

“Who what?” she asks back, checking her nail beds. 

“Who wanted to buy them?”

Rikona tuts and places her palm flat on the table. “The village thinks you’re a smart boy. You should know then that I can’t tell you.”

“You’re a monster,” he glares.

“I think I earned the right to be one,” she snaps, meeting his glare head on. “After what your father did to me-”

“He has nothing to do with this. That was ten years before the twins.”

“I loved him!” She shouts, raw and angry. “I loved him more than anything and he runs off with some other woman leaving me with you-”

“I don’t care!” Mo hisses back, “That’s no excuse for throwing three kids into the wind like they don’t matter. The twins and I suffered because of you. You were supposed to be a mother, not our pimp!”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Fuck off.”

“It wasn’t like that!” she says again.

“Then why!?” He shouts. “Why go through all this?”

“Their dad!” she snaps, quiet and wary like someone might overhear but just as angry as he is. “Or who he might be. I can’t be sure. There’s a lot of white haired ninja around, you know… It wasn’t hard to fake it.”

Mo breathes. In. Out. he knew from the start who their dad might be. He knew that Rikona would’ve never gotten pregnant from someone who wouldn’t make her a profit, not after what happened with him and his father. Her designing this web is a new one. That’d she go out of her way to profit and put him and the twins in danger to do so-

“Their father isn’t even Jiraiya?” he says, his voice dangerously low.

“He might be,” she shrugged, “he visited me, but I had a few others come by too. That they all looked a little like him was handy but it’s not like it paid off.”

Mo breathes. In. Out.

“I don’t know who wanted them,” she confesses. “He never came to me directly, a guy just told me that if I send the kids off I’d be compensated and that was that. It’d been four years and I hadn’t heard a peep from the bastard. Someone must’ve told him though. I mean, the Hokage had a ninja check in on them from time to time. Even he thought they were his student’s. It’s not like he ever did that with you.”

“Why are you here?” he asks. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Rikona takes a careful sip of cold tea.

“He came back.”

“Who?”

“The man who offered to buy them,” she says. “He asked about you.”

Mo goes cold. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him everything. It’s not like it’s a very exciting story or anything: I’ve got a little Senju in me, just like anyone else, and your father is a capital bastard who scammed me.”

He scammed Mo too. Promised to write and promised to take him to the capital over and over before finally he just… never came back. Selfishly, Mo hopes something terrible happened. He hopes he wasn’t just abandoned in the same way Rikona did. At least Rikona has the gall to admit what she did. Maybe his father’s dead. Maybe he didn’t want to deal with a bastard. Mo will never know. 

“And he paid you?”

“I’m not giving you any.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

“...He did.”

Rikona says her piece in chunks. 

Getting the whole truth from her is like pulling teeth, but Mo weasels it out in time. His mother is crafty, but she’s easily riled up and impatient. It’s not hard to yell and shout and get the proper reaction from her. It’s hard to pay attention sometimes. He didn’t think he’d be so mad. He thought he was done with this anger. 

He’s learning enough to make it worth it. 

A plainly dressed man with dark hair and brown eyes asked of the twins. The same man came back six months later, just two days ago, to ask about him, this time with a scar over his temple. Rikona was paid for her information both times, but was never paid for the acquisition of the twins. He has Ito to thank for that. She had recognized Rikona’s name and contacted him before all other proceedings. Standard protocol, but whoever was looking into the twins didn’t know he existed. That, or his adoption of them was uncharacteristic enough for them to not expect it.

It’s probably the second option, he thinks dully, nervously. He had a slip up early in his academy days, right before the Fourth Hokage was inaugurated. It pinned him into a corner and resulted in his early graduation. There’s no way they didn’t make note of him back then. There’s no way he came out of it completely clean. 

There’s missing kids in the shadows, after all. Many of them familiar faces from his stay at the orphanage. He came very close to becoming one. The twins did too. 

He can’t run missions, he realizes with Rikona still babbling before him. Even if he wanted to, the jounin track is now firmly out of reach. So is his chance to refresh some of his stashes in rural fire country. If he leaves the village for too long, there’s a good chance someone will swoop in and grab the twins. That they didn’t during the chunin exams was a blessing, but he had Yona-sensei to thank for that. She promised to drop in and check on the kids. 

Also, he notes with even greater ire, he might have a certain blond kid to thank for it. 

The Hokage is letting whoever is taking the kids slide, so it’s probably someone in his circle. However, if he hasn’t given the jinchuriki to them yet, he probably never will. Kokoro and Hiro being… friends with the boy puts them in a spotlight. Unfortunate in most cases, but bold enough to keep them from randomly disappearing in the dead of night. The jinchuriki kicking up a fuss is something no one wants. 

“Mamoru,” Rikona says sternly, “listen to your mother when she talks to you.”

He hates her, truly. He might even hate her more than he hates himself.

“What now?” he snaps tiredly.

“I told you everything I know,” she says and bites her lip. “If it’s any consolation, I’m sorry about what happens next.”

“What?”

Rikona’s mouth opens at the same moment Mo feels a new presence behind him. A kunai slices through the air and Mo grabs the attacker’s wrist before the knife stabs into his temple. The shinobi drops it instantly, catching the blade out of the air with his other hand. 

Mo’s forced to flip, letting go of the masked shinobi’s hand as he kicks his chair at him. The kunai strikes through the cheap piece of furniture with ease, splinters of wood shattering around the three of them. 

Four, actually, Mo notes and his eyes snap to the second shinobi shrouded in a concealment jutsu. They used his emotional distress to cover their infiltration. They know he’s a sensor and they know Rikona would sell him to the devil before comforting him. 

Mo crouches on his table, his back to Rikona as he spreads his chakra out into a plate around him. Suddenly, he can feel Rikona’s heart beat rapidly as she scrambles under the table, just as he can feel the steady heartbeat of the man in the corner, and the muscles tense in his attacker’s legs as he leaps at Mo. Mo knows exactly what the boy wants to do and slips right past his guard to strike him in the jaw. His mask flies off, the chakra sticking it to his face disturbed and Mo dodges to the left, putting the door to his back and all three of his unwelcome guests in front of him. 

He can’t see the shinobi in the corner. The one staring blankly at him from the table is dressed in ANBU blacks with a grey vest. He’s young. Probably just older than Itachi. They’re around the same height, barely coming up to Mo’s shoulder, and they both have shoulder-length black hair. The resemblance ends there, his chakra a clear wind nature and carefully neutral. Chakra pools automatically at this boy’s stomach, an indication of moderate malnourishment. 

The boy launches forward without a word, kunai in hand as his leap creates a dent in Mo’s table. 

He’s never been one to talk during a battle. He can appreciate his would-be assassin’s professionalism if nothing else. 

He spins around the frontal attack and ducks under a swipe of the kid’s leg. Mo keeps with the momentum to jab the heel of his palm into the kid’s ribcage. The shinobi barely stumbles before his hand swings down to stab at the top of Mo’s skull.

The kid didn’t even flinch at two broken ribs. The thought that he’s been groomed to handle such pain is worrisome. The kid’s barely eleven and clearly not of a clan. There’s no way he should be as good as he is and completely unrecognizable. 

He grabs the boy’s hand itself this time, right before the kunai reaches his scalp. Mo tightens his grip until he can feel the bones creak, forcing them to hold the hilt of the kunai together. The boy doesn’t flinch, just comes at him with his other hand. Mo grabs that one just as easily.

He slides his grip from the kid’s wrist to his fingertips, feeling the blatant burns where his fingerprint should be. 

It’s not hard to close his hand back over the kid’s entire hand. He feels a bit dirty, using his advantage of size so blatantly, but that kind of guilt’s been beaten out of him since he joined the academy nine years ago. 

Mo pierces through the kid’s augmented skin with his own purified chakra. The healing jutsu is specifically designed not to be rejected by foreign bodies. It should come as no surprise a shinobi would bastardize a technique made for healing into something that can kill.

And Mo’s a rather good shinobi, patriotism be damned. 

The hands in his grip shatter like a civilian’s, and the kid openly cringes. Mo pulls the shinobi’s arm against his back and the kunai in their grip comes against the kid’s neck. The kid struggles against him, giving a weak attempt to elbow Mo in the kidney. He still has the audacity to go through an almost textbook method of escaping this standard hold, which is, frankly, insulting.

Mo jabs a heel into the back of the kid’s knee. He collapsed into a kneel, completely at Mo’s mercy with two broken hands and a knife at his neck. 

The fight feels like it’s over before it begins. The kid’s a chunin, clearly, but his control is pitiful in the face of Mo’s and his speed leaves much to be desired. Mo’s almost offended they’d send this shoddy kid after him. He wonders if it was the boy’s first mission. He wonders if they thought he’d go easy on someone who looks like Itachi. 

“Not one to show off, are you?” The second shinobi tuts, revealing himself as he steps out of the shadow. He's a plain looking man with a scar at his temple, just as his mother described. “Shame. We were hoping for a more accurate assessment of your abilities.”

“I’m not interested,” Mo snaps, pulling the kid’s hand and blade closer to his neck. “Leave now or I’ll kill him.”

“You can kill him if you’d like. Let off some of that steam- I insist.”

Mo has no intention of slitting this shinobi’s throat.

He already broke a chair. It was Hiro’s favorite and now he’s going to have to explain to the kids why it’s gone missing. Stabbing him in the neck will result in another mess he’d have to clean up. The chakra from the blood would soak into the floorboards and there’s a chance the twins will sense it. There’s also a chance he won’t be able to clean it up before they get home in two hours. 

He does, however, readjust his hold and snap the kid’s neck.

The plain looking man with a scar over his temple smiles in a way that doesn’t suit his face. Rikona sucks in a startled breath from under the table as the kid drops lifelessly to the ground. 

“I don’t want any part of this. Leave now or I’ll kill you too.”

“You can kill me if you want,” the man says. “It won’t make a difference.”

Mo narrows his eyes. The way the man’s chakra moves around his throat is odd. He’s not well versed enough with the brain to be sure, but the chakra there seems almost… too much. The only explanation he can think of is the Yamanaka clan's prized jutsu. But why would a Yamanaka want to kill him? He didn’t think things went that poorly between Inoichi and him. 

The man stands with an air of authority that doesn't suit him. His almost condescending expression turns smug when Mo makes no move to kill him. 

“You evaded your duty to the village for too long, Mamoru,” he says, “I have a mission for you. So listen well and do as you're told.”

Chapter Text

Mo takes the path of least resistance.

Since his team died, he’s resorted to following the crowd and keeping his head down. It’s not that hard, really. When he was younger he may have dreamed of being the next Sage or Hokage or whatever, but for the last couple years his goal has been to lie low and eventually leave this mess of a life behind. He’s not suicidal or anything. He just never saw a place for himself in Konoha. Not since Haruto and Miyoko died. But he’s reasonable enough to know the world’s a big place. Surely, somewhere out there he’ll find another two people who love him. Hopefully, they won’t die for him. They better not.

Lately, though, things have been muddy. 

He’s a chunin now (something he thought he buried when he accepted his position at the genin corps). He’s a big brother too (something he never expected). 

He’s also being blackmailed into committing treason, which is significantly more muddy than the other two developments. 

“I trust that you’ll be clean,” the man says, his voice serious as he leans forward on his elbows. 

Halfway through his speech the man with the scar righted Mo’s dining table and sat himself down. If the rhythmic tapping of his foot is a little too close to the still-warm body of the ANBU boy, Mo doesn’t mention it. That’s not really his place. 

For a long moment, Mo stares at the man. It’s pointless to memorize the features of someone he’ll probably never see again, but he does it anyway. Old habits. 

The angry arch of one dark eyebrow makes him nod. 

“Of course,” Mo says, voice rough from disuse. His eyes cut away, the aura of the man before him is oppressive and dangerous. His chakra is just as wicked. 

“Good,” the man hums, standing up. “Good. I’m glad you understand the situation.” 

“Of course,” Mo says again. 

He doesn’t smile at Mo--the man, whoever he is, is much too serious for that sort of thing--but the fleeting stare he sends the younger shinobi feels mocking all the same. In one swift movement he seals the dead boy in a scroll and vanishes. It takes hardly two minutes for him to evaporate from Mo’s senses.

Mo takes the path of least resistance.

This time, however, he finds none. His mind twists and turns, trying to map a way out of this, but his hands are well and truly tied. In the end, it’s his own hubris he has to blame. 

Things would be so much easier if he didn’t care-- if he had done as he intended and kept his head down. He could avoid this entire thing without a second thought, but Mo’s developed a conscience recently and something like that is hard to get rid of. The thought of losing what little he’s gained sinks its claws into him and it hurts. Mo never imagined a simple thought could hurt so much.

He can’t place the exact moment it happened, just that somewhere along the line the kids evolved from an unexpected chore to something that might just be a family. A little sister and a little brother. Two weaknesses newly formed and immediately exploited.

He hates this village.

He hates its cutthroat desperation and its selfishness. He can’t stand how willing people are to take advantage of each other. It’s in their nature as shinobi to use what is useful and throw away what is not. Mo does it, just like anyone else. He hates himself for it: abiding by the rules that let Miyoko and Haruto’s deaths go unpunished, remaining unremarkable in the sea of Konoha’s violence. It should’ve been a tragedy, losing two kids as bright and kind as them, but a simple accident on what should have been an easy mission cannot be mourned by shinobi. That’s not what’s expected. 

He wasn’t even allowed to retrieve their bodies. 

He-

He needs to pick up the kids.

The thought strikes through him so suddenly he swats at it like a fly. His palm hit his own cheek, the smack of it satisfying and loud in the dreary quiet of his living room. 

He takes a deep breath, the first he’s taken in what feels like hours and begins to count the cracks on his ceiling. He can’t risk spiraling now. He can’t think about all that. Not now. Not ever. 

Across the room his mother flinches. Rikona stares at him like a deer, frozen midway to pick up her coat. It had fallen from the back of her chair during the brief skirmish between Mo and the boy. The boy who is now dead, locked away in a sealing scroll, and only the sage knows what’s to become of that body now. The sage and the man with the scar who took him away. 

“Sorry,” he says. Apologizing is an instinct he didn’t think he still had, but his tone of voice is too flat to be meaningful. It makes his mother flinch again as she snaps upright.

She blinks at him, startled and wary like he might snap her neck too. The thought hadn’t crossed his mind until now. It’s rather tempting. 

“I didn’t know what they wanted from you,” she says in a hurry. “They told me to tell you everything, but they didn’t say why. I don’t know why they sent me here.”

He doesn’t know her well enough to get away with murder. Sure, it’d be one less thorn in his side but he doesn’t even know where she works nowadays. She might have told someone she was coming here.

Besides, the thought of his hands anywhere near her makes him a little sick. He doesn’t want to think about why seeing her so scared of him makes him want to scream. He doesn’t want to think about why he still cares, even after everything. 

She doesn’t deserve his pity. 

“You should go,” he says, tired of looking at people he doesn’t know. He doesn’t have the time to mope about this. 

The man with the scar left maybe two minutes ago but he’s already out of Mo’s range. Troubling, since Mo’s range is now most of Konoha, but not unexpected. If they went into this knowing he was a sensor, of course they’d have measures to ensure he couldn’t track them down afterwards. 

There is, however, a small trace of a different chakra in the corner he hid in. It feels something like the collection of chakra in the man’s throat, mouth, and brain, but it’s still totally off.

“You can’t be serious.” 

“I am,” he says as he walks over to the corner. The window is right next to it, so he has to pull the curtain back to get a good look at the chakra there. 

A seal blinks back at him, stark black against the cream of the wall. What a learning experience: medical seals and whatever these are feel completely different. To think people could put seals on their body for a purpose that isn’t medical. This one in the corner must be for surveillance.

It’s also, he thinks, leaning closer to the dainty square-ish swirl on his wallpaper, not at all in the Senju sealing style. I wouldn’t know where to start with this. 

Internally, he hopes whoever’s on the other side can see as he flips it off before letting the curtain go again. 

“That’s it then?” his mother rasps. He frowns at her over his shoulder, a furrow in his brow that matches hers. “You’re not going to do anything?”

His eyes flick to the spot of drool on his carpet. “Killing them didn’t help.”

“You know what I mean,” she scoffs. “I never knew they were- that they’d tell you to do something- something treasonous. ”

Mo looks at her and wonders, for just a moment, if she really cares. Probably not, but the thought is annoyingly nice. He knew he hated her. He didn’t know he missed her.

“What happens now is none of your concern,” he says, voice carefully flat. “You’re already way too involved as is. Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and stay there, if you know what’s good for you.”

“They’ll kill me.”

“Not if you’re quiet.”

“They’ll kill me, ” she says again. “Aren’t you going to do something?”

“No.” 

They’re the same height these days, with the same mossy green eyes and platinum hair. They might as well be strangers with how they look at each other. 

“I’d like for you to leave now,” he says, stiff. “Don’t come back. Please.”

And she leaves.

It’s not heartbreaking. It stings, just a little, but it’s not like he expected more from her. She’s just another person, one he barely even knew, no matter what she was supposed to be to him. If this all happened a year ago, he might’ve asked for her to stay. Now though, he’s got two little people who need him to be better than that. He needs to be what she never was. For them.

He sweeps his chakra through the apartment as best he can, covering up the intrusive signatures. There’s not much he can do about the busted chair. He’ll have to buy a new one later today. Hopefully before dinner. 

Moping might’ve been one of his core traits a few months ago, when his only goal was to run far far away from this place, but now he doesn’t have the time. He has the twins to pick up, a chair to buy, and an assassination to plot. A full plate, if you will. 

Mo steadies himself with a breath and looks out the window, still wide open and inviting the cold air in. 

The Hokage mountain stares back at him, asking about his next move. Hiruzen’s glare looks surprisingly passive in this light. The Yondaime looks oddly sad. 

Mo thinks he must be seeing things as he slams the window shut.

…

“Momo-nii,” Hiro whines, the title drawn out and dramatic as he collapses into Mo’s arms like a sack of meat. “You made us wait forever!”

“I’m two minutes late.”

“Forever!”

An amused breath escapes him before he can help it. His hand comes up to run through Hiro’s fine hair automatically. He uses his chakra to warm the both of them. The dampness of Hiro’s clothes looks uncomfortable. He must’ve been wrestling with the Inuzuka boy again. “Where’s your sister?” 

“Hanging out with Choji,” Hiro mutters into Mo’s waist, wrapping both arms around his brother as he leans his full weight into the hug. “She likes him.”

Exactly as Mo feared. 

“Why’d your face get all ugly?” 

“Because Koko’s going to be a child bride at this rate,” Mo chokes. “We have to save her.”

“Kokoro-chan has a healthy friendship with Choji-kun.” 

Mo glares at Iruka, offended that the chunin felt the need to stop his plans. Iruka shrugs and nods to where Kokoro and Choji are digging a hole in the snow. “Leave them be, Mo. They’re five.”

“Stop reading my mind,” Mo frowns, rubbing a hand through Hiro’s hair and pulling the moisture from it. The water splats into the snow as he knocks the boy away. Hiro catches the hint. 

“Bye Iruka-sensei,” he chirps, running off to go bother Choji and his sister. “Tell Mo to buy me a new kunai set!”

The moment Hiro’s out of earshot Iruka grabs him by the arm. Mo blinks at the uncharacteristically firm grip and troubled expression on the academy teacher’s face.

“What?”

“Did you know they’re friends with,” Iruka ends his sentence with a sharp nod. Mo’s eyes glide over to where Naruto’s seated at a swing, apart from the other children and their guardians. 

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Mo says quietly, already dreading this conversation. He’s grown kind of fond of Naruto. In a weird your-neighbor’s-pet-cat-who-shits-in-your-garden kind of way. That doesn’t mean he wants to publicly acknowledge their relationship. “He lives in our building.”

Iruka’s face does a fun sort of emotional journey as he realizes every visit he’s paid to Mo’s home has also put him beside the jinchuriki’s homebase. Mo wonders vaguely how he doesn’t combust each day teaching the kid. How does he hand out tests if he’s scared of one of his students? Not that Mo blames him. Naruto’s pretty scary.

“Cool,” he wheezes. “That’s super cool. No wonder everyone’s saying he’s your pet.”

“It’s more like I’m his,” Mo murmurs. Naruto perks up when he notices Mo staring and the blonds wave at each other. One is much more enthusiastic than the other. “I think I’ll buy him a chair later. I gotta go shopping anyway.”

Iruka raises a brow, well aware of how much he hates the activity. He made Iruka buy the furnaching of his current apartment. Genko gave him the old bookcase though. Hiro’s favorite chair had been Yona-sensei’s. The table was from Haruto’s family. “Why?”

“Broke one.”

“A chair? How?”

The fresh memory of red hot rage and ice cold fear shoots through him. A reminder of what he has to do and what will happen if he doesn’t. He remembers, suddenly, that he’s a terrible person. He’s gotten good at compartmentalizing over the years. He doesn’t have to think about that right now if he doesn’t want to. He does not want to.

Across the field, Itachi’s little brother stands beside Uchiha Bashira’s nephew.

The kid chats excitedly with his cousin, waving his arms in what might be newly learned throwing motion.

Shisui glances over and Mo looks away.

“Broke it,” he shrugs. “I was in a mood, I guess.”

“That’s not like you.”

“Mm, no, it’s not.”

Naruto barrels up then, latching onto Mo’s knees. 

“Walk me home!” he orders, beaming up at the teen. 

Mo digs a hand into his hair and presses his face into the fabric of his pants. It successfully muffles his loud mouth and keeps him entertained as he bats at Mo’s grip. 

“Anyway this was not my intention,” he says to Iruka, loud enough that anyone spying can clearly hear. Iruka eyes Naruto warily but handles himself well. He’s always been surprisingly easy going. Mo’s not surprised he’s been put in charge of this motley crue of a classroom. “Two is too much as is. I don’t want three.”

Iruka rolls his eyes. “You love the kids.”

Mo grunts in answer. Naruto attempts to climb up to Mo’s back. 

“Are you friends with Iruka-sensei?” He hisses in a whisper. He failed to climb up Mo’s side so instead stands on his tiptoes, tugging at Mo’s shirt until he leans down to keep the fabric from stretching. 

“None of your business,” he whispers back. 

“But he’s mean .”

“He can hear you,” Iruka chides and Naruto ducks behind Mo. The two chunin share a glance, pity flowing both ways to the sensei and the pet of the jinchuuriki. 

Iruka sighs and goes back into teacher-mode. “It was nice to see you Mamoru-san. Let’s meet up sometime soon.”

Mo hums, noncommentle, and waves as Iruka walks off to chat with more of the guardians. Mo grabs Naruto’s head again, pulling him out from behind him. 

“Go get the twins,” he orders, giving the kid a gentle shove in Hiro’s direction. “I’ll be here.”

“Yes sir!”

--oh wow a cutscene that’s crazy- 

Mo has barely closed the door before he notices Kokoro’s back go ramrod straight.

“Ko?” he eases, dreading what’s to follow, “are you o-”

“Was Kaa-san here?” 

 He should’ve been ready for this. He cleaned up as best he could. He scrubbed his chakra over every crevice but Rikona still lingers. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. 

“I can feel her,” Kokoro mumbles, running a small hand across the edge of the table. The far edge. The one their mother cowered under, fearful of her life and the one that’s still soaked with the reminisce of that terror. “Just a little.”

“Sensor types are troublesome,” he mutters, ruffling the girl’s hair as he passes by. It’s not late enough to go to bed but the thought is very appealing. He wants this day to end. He barely makes it to the hall before she catches the back of his shirt, tugging hard at the cheap fabric.

“Was she here?” Kokoro looks at him with big brown eyes. They plead, begging him to give the answer Kokoro’s been dying for since she first met Mo. “Did she come back for us?”

The silence that follows lasts too long for Mo to deny anything. 

He could have played it off, saying it was another woman. He could’ve claimed to be messing with a jutsu that changed his signature. It wouldn’t have been the first time the kids came home to the apartment feeling off. Mo’s been working on purification, and that changes his signature ever so slightly the more he improves. He could’ve sweeped the room again then looked at her confused, asking if she really felt what she felt.

Maybe he could tell them the truth. That their mother came by as a part of a ploy, set to get him off balance and leave him exposed. That she sold their information to an unknown entity. That she never cared for a single one of them. 

That Kokoro and Hiro were always a means to an end for her.

“I,” his grip on the doorway loosens and he blinks away the pressure behind his eyes. Kokoro’s watching him with bated breath. Hiro’s standing stiff behind her. “I, um...”

“Momo-nii,” Hiro murmurs. He’s standing right beside him, blinking up with the same eyes as his sister. His, however, look far too old for a child so young. They look far too understanding. “She’s not coming back, is she?”

Mo swallows his heart and drops to a knee. 

“No,” he says. He wills words of wisdom to strike him, something encouraging and meaningful that will lift all their spirits. Hiro’s lip wobbles and Kokoro swallows hard. Mo looks between them, begging for the mind people keep praising him for to work but finding nothing. Their mother isn’t coming back. That’s all there is to say. “She’s not.”

Hiro sniffles, glaring at the hardwood. He barely manages to choke the words out, some getting caught in his throat by his uneven breaths. “Good,” he sniffs, “I like you better anyway.”

“I-” Kokoro’s mouth wobbles, her eyes glassy and big as they continue to stare up at Mo. He opens his arms slowly, not wanting to be touched right now, not so soon after everything that’s happened but willing to make the exception. He’s been making a lot of exceptions lately. 

Kokoro falls into him and her twin is pulled along with her. 

“I just-” Kokoro hiccups, digging her face into his chest. “I wanted us to be a family.”

“I miss her,” Hiro curses, fat tears welling in his eyes and spilling out onto Mo’s shoulder. “I miss her so much.”

They stay like that for a while. Kokoro and Hiro are boneless in Mo’s arms as their energy is drained drop by drop. They weigh so little and so much at the same time, but it’s second nature for him to support them anyway. He tucks Hiro into his chest and hefts Kokoro a big higher, so she can burrow into his neck. He doesn’t say a word in reply. The twins will learn when they’re older than their mother isn’t someone worth their affections. 

For now, Mo lets them grieve. 

“I love you both very much,” he says in a whisper. The words are almost drowned out by Hiro’s sobs, but he tucks the boy further into his chest and squeezes with all his might. He’ll never be a dad. He’ll never be a mom. He hopes being a brother will be enough. He knows it never will. “You are my responsibility but you are not my burden. Everything I do, I do because I love you. Everything is for you.”

Kokoro and Hiro squeeze back with their twiggish arms, just a mighty.

…

The day Mo picks for his mission is sunny, but still freezing. 

It’s his day off, two weeks after that shit day and he’s just waved the kids off as they jet to the academy. The jinchuriki boy chases after them with his backpack half-open, papers spilling every which way into the snow as he shouts for them to wait. Mo watches the three of them run off with a twang in his heart. It’s still uncomfortable to see that boy around the twins.

It’s a necessary precaution, he reminds himself, and wraps a scarf around his neck. He closes and locks the door behind him, three extra traps set up just in case, and begins his trek.

The path he takes is direct, if slightly neglected, and soon he’s standing before a large ornate gate that predates the village itself. The symbol for ‘Unity’ is etched into the crest of it, much younger than the old, illegible inscription that Mo squints at. 

Unity is a good motto. It’s a shame Konoha’s not very interested in enforcing it. He doesn’t bother to wonder why. That’s not his job. 

His judgment of the gate is the only hesitation he spares for himself. Mo steadies his heart and thinks of the plain man’s threats. He thinks of his siblings, young and sweet in a way he never got to be, and he crosses the threshold. Mo steps onto the path laid before him with his own two feet.

His path leads to a traditional home lined with smooth river rocks and remnants of a garden out of season. The house speaks of old money and importance. It’s more secluded than the buildings in the center of the compound. Barren plum trees bracket it. An ornate vase with a pinwheel pattern sits in one window.

The two signatures inside mill about, one more urgently than the other. Mo is in no rush, so he’ll let them say their goodbyes uninterrupted.

Only a few minutes pass before the sliding door of the estate snaps open and closed. A teenager who feels like a dry thunderstorm and a forest fire wrapped in one leap across the garden in one swift bound. The power of his chakra hits Mo harder than usual. 

“Oh,” the teen blinks, startled but not displeased by Mo’s presence as he lands right before him. “It’s you again.”

Mo looks between Uchiha Shisui and the traditional home behind him. He feels his heart sink to his feet.

“Yeah, me,” he says and even with the fair amount of warning he had it’s the most his brain can come up with. “What’s up?”

Shisui hums, low and long as he takes Mo in. His eyes do a blatant sweep of Mo’s person, taking in standard blues, a worn-out coat, a more worn-out scarf, and civilian boots in place of sandals. He didn’t dress his best today. He didn’t think he needed to. Maybe he should’ve. It seems rude not to have. 

“I feel like I should be the one asking that,” the teen teases, his voice light. “You’re standing outside my house, after all.”

“Oh. Sorry about that.”

“Can I help you?”

“No,” Mo says and rocks back on his heels to keep his blood pumping. It feels like ice in his veins. “I’m not here for you.”

Shisui blinks at him, his eyes just a bit too distant before he breaks into a startling laugh.

“I, uh- what?” Mo squeaks and Shisui grabs his wrist, keeping him in place even as he tries to retreat. The absurdity of it makes Mo lose his already fragile resolve and he stares, taking in Shisui as he laughs at whatever conclusion he’s come to. The warmth of his chakra soaks into the cool of Mo’s and it hurts to be so close to someone so bright. He clenches his fist, biting his nails into the muscle of his palm. The pain is grounding, a reminder of his purpose here, but Shisui smiles and suddenly he’s floating again.

“You two are peas in a pod,” he says, wiping a tear from his eyes and positively beaming at Mo. “So serious and shy. It’s a shame you’re both so stubborn.”

Mo crashes back to earth. The warmth of Shisui’s chakra overshadowed by Itachi’s absence.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lies, glaring down at the hand holding his wrist. Itachi’s chakra lingers around Shisui’s shoulders. For the young shinobi to be so present on him, Shisui must mean a lot to Itachi. Mo beats down the hot rush of jealousy that creeps up his spine. He’s not entitled to that feeling. He’s never been entitled to any of this. He never will be. Not after-

“He misses you, you know?”

Well, that’s his own fault, Mo thinks bitterly and snaps his eyes away from Shisui’s lashes. They’re too long. “We’ve both been busy.”

“Hm. Right. You’re working at the hospital, yeah?”

Why hasn’t he let go of Mo’s hand yet? He gives it an experimental tug, but the grip remains tight. It’s not suffocating just- there. “...Yes.”

“Our medic is taking apprentices. You should drop in. If you’re as talented as people say I’m sure she’ll love to have you.”

Mo contemplates chopping his hand off. 

“Thanks, but I’m happy with what I’ve got,” he says and chances another tug. The grip stays. “Um, could you let go?”

“No,” he says like a breeze, smiling easily at Mo and making the pain in his chest grow three times as big. “You’ll just run away if I do.”

He’s entirely correct, but Mo’s saved from replying by a new, similarly familiar signature darting straight at them. It takes hardly three seconds for the shinobi to enter Mo’s peripheral and land directly behind them. 

“Shisui-kun,” the new signature says, the laidback tone betraying the breakneck speed it took to get here. Mo looks over his shoulder to be sure and- Hatake Kakashi is gazing at the two of them, blinking lazily. “You’re late.”

“I don’t think you’re allowed to complain about that.”

“Maa,” the older teen drawls and eyes where Shisui’s hand is still firmly wrapped around Mo’s wrist. “Why are my Kohai so mean to me?”

“It’s because he’s a terrible senpai,” Shisui whispers, leaning close to Mo’s ear. He smiles at him like they're sharing a secret, his dimples coming out as he gives Mo’s wrist a gentle squeeze. Isn’t Mo too young for heart palpitations? “He’ll steal your lunch if you’re not careful.”

“Don’t collude with Mo-chan,” Kakashi chides, stinking his hands into black pants. There are no clear signs that they’re ANBU because they’re ANBU, but the idea of the Copy Nin Kakashi and Shisui of the Shunshin on a routine mission together is so absurd that Mo can’t explain it any other way. “Mo-chan don’t collude with him. He’s a bad influence.”

“You go by Mo? That’s cute!”

Mo never told either of them to call him that. He might adopt a last name just to make them call him by it. They’re too informal.

“Thanks,” he mutters, “but shouldn’t you… go?”

“We’ve got time,” Shisui says, waving him off with Mo’s own hand. “It’s gonna be a long one, so no one’s excited about heading out.”

“Should you be telling me that?”

“Probably not.”

Mo gives in to temptation. He flicks the Uchiha’s nose the next time Shisui swing’s Mo’s hand too close to his face. Shisui finally lets go. 

“What was that for?” The ANBU whines, rubbing his nose. 

“Spilling village secrets,” Mo replies blandly. “Go save the world or whatever.”

“I doubt it’ll be that exciting. It’s just-”

“I don’t want to hear about it.”

“But-”

It’s Kakashi who cuts him off this time, shoving a hand into Shisui’s hair and ruffling the thick curls like he’s a little kid. The force of it causes his forehead protector to fall into his eyes. “Let’s leave Mo-chan alone, yeah? We’ve got things to do.”

Shisui pushes his headband back up and laughs boyishly, still smiling at Mo like he’s done something to deserve it. 

Mo hasn’t done shit for Shisui. He’s confident he never will.

“Bye, Mo,” he says, voice sly as he steps back.

Mo offers a half-hearted wave and something that might be a smile. He’s too young for heart palpitations and wonders vaguely why his chest feels like it might burst as the two jounin zips away. Shisui’s out of his range well before Kakashi is. Shisui of the shunshin lives up to his name. 

Across the yard, an old woman stands in the doorway. There’s a wistful expression on her usually stern face. Seeing her makes Mo’s heart race faster again, yet he can place the rush of terrified adrenaline much easier than whatever Shishui did to him. 

Mo steps back onto the path before him. 

He leaves no footprints as he goes, careful not to disturb the lilies that bracket his sides. Chakra collects in his palms and he bows. 

“Hello, Bashira-san. How are you today?”

Chapter Text

He blinks twice and remembers to breathe.

The tea leaves on the bottom of his cup form three lines stacked above each other. Kunoichi classes all those years ago taught him this symbol promises repeated mistakes. A bad omen, truly.

His eyes do a careful sweep of the windowless room. The cabinet in the corner is the only thing of note. The rug under his feet is old and ornate, but with two fresh looking stains Bashira must have only cleaned recently. He came by while she was cleaning, he thinks. Clearly that’s what happened. 

Just in case, he tries to dispel a genjutsu. Nothing. His chakra sways through the same gentle currents it always has. 

“Are you alright, Mamoru-san? You seem distracted.”

He is, oddly enough. He thought being an assassin would snap his mind into focus. Instead, he feels a little hazy as he blinks back at her. They were talking about her retirement. She congratulated him on his promotion. He’s already finished his tea.

“I’m fine.”

“Good,” Bashira nods and gets straight to business. He always appreciated that about her. Every word had a purpose and she never withheld from speaking her mind. “Now that the pleasantries are done with, I have a few questions for you.”

Mo nods. It was a reasonable request, hardly unexpected. “Sure.”

“Are you close with my nephew, Mamoru-san?”

“Oh. We’ve met in passing, is all. We’re not close.”

“I see,” Bashira takes a careful sip of her tea. “That’s good. Being close to him would surely sabotage your plan to defect.”

“Ah,” Mo drums his fingers against the empty cup in his hands. Bashira is much more perceptive than anticipated. “You knew about that?”

“I know the face of a shinobi who’s given up,” she says, troubling him even more. 

“I haven’t given up.”

“Then why are you so set on running?”

“I haven’t given up on myself, then,” he amends gruffly. “Running is the only way I’ll find what I want.”

Bashira hums and taps one long finger against her cup. She’s got a bandage on her left wrist, creeping up into the sleeve of her Kimono. “I understand your desire for love and compagainship, but you, Mamoru-san, are acting like you’ve been rejected.”

“I have, in a way.”

“Loss is not the same as rejection.”

“That’s-” Mo coughs instead of replying and glances back down at his cup. The three lines still stare back at him, undisturbed by the water he pushed over them. That’s not usually how tea leaves work. “I’d rather not talk about that.”

“Healing is a process, Mamoru-san,” Bashria says anyway, cold but with good intention. “It’s something you learn, just like any other skill or ability. There are stages and while different people may approach them in different ways, we all end up in the same place in the end.”

“And where’s that?”

“Acceptance. Your teammates Sato-san and Haruno-san died. This is a truth you cannot escape, and one that burdens you greatly. It’s time you stop running and look around, Mamoru-kun. You may be surprised by what you see.”

He doesn’t remember telling her about them.

“I don’t know if I can,” he says and the doubt rolls off his shoulders because he knows Bashira. She’s wise and kind and has always looked out for him. She’s gone this far without reporting him. He can trust her with this little thought. “I’ve been moving in one direction for so long, I don’t think I have it in me to change course.”

“I see,” she nods and places her cup down. “Then you have no love for this village? Nothing holding you here but the children?”

Yes is the simple answer, but saying so out loud makes him a traitor far earlier than planned.

“I thought as much,” she hums and Mo blinks in surprise. “May I ask you another question?”

“...sure.”

“How far will you go to protect what is dear to you?”

Pretty damn far, considering he’s sitting here.

“We’re the same in that sense,” she smiles and reaches across the table. Mo can’t help the way he flinches at the movement. He’s not sure why his body reacts so harshly. Bashria’s never hurt him before, but a cold sweat blooms on his neck as her hand approaches him. 

Bashira doesn’t comment. She takes her cup from him and looks at his tea leaves appreciatively, not missing a beat. “A difficult decision lies ahead of you. I hope you do well with it.”

Reading tea leaves is a subjective art. That Bashira sees something different isn’t surprising. Still, the convenience of it makes him want to laugh. He almost chokes on the desire to tell her, suddenly. Doing something so irrational never felt so natural as he blurts out his reply. 

“Do you want to know what it is?”

“Should you tell me?”

“Definitely not.”

“Very well,” Bashira smiles, leaning back into her seat. “Tell this old woman your woes. I will do my very best to aid you.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Mo says, “because I’ve been asked to assassinate you.”

Bashira outright laughs. 

“I thought that was the case,” she says brightly, standing up and walking over to the cabinet. “It’s so unlike you to visit a friend out of the blue.”

Mo frowns at the reaction. “You don’t seem worried.”

“Do you really think you could kill me?”

“Someone out there thinks I can,” he says instead of a proper answer. He thinks he can, or, he thought he could before coming here. Now he isn’t so sure.

The woman hums, going through the cabinet with her right hand. Her left arm is still carefully bandaged and held at her side. There’s fresh blood there, bizarrely enough. The wound must be recent. 

Things slip into focus then, suddenly, abruptly. 

The stains on the ornate rug are her blood and his vomit, he can feel the lingering chakra there and wonders how he didn’t notice earlier. She did something to him, last time he was here. But when was that? Just a moment ago he blinked and was seated in this room, but when did he get here? He tried to kill her already, unsuccessfully. He remembers the blood on his own hands and can see the traces of it under his nails. Why can’t he remember doing it?

The tea leaves in his cup don’t change their shape. His chakra’s etched into them. A signal from his former self that he’s bound to repeat the same mistakes over and over. 

She knew exactly what to say, he thinks and the walls close in on him. She knew exactly how to make him drop his guard and confess to wanting to leave and not trusting the village in the slightest. She knew what he wanted to hear and what would make him trust her.

He can’t breathe. Not in a panic attack kind of way, but more like drowning on dry land. He looks up, startled, and-

Bashira’s staring at him from across the room, an almost disappointed look on her face as her sharingan spins lazily in her eyes. The pattern is off. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen before. A tiger lily is in her iris, blossoming outward and watching him closely. 

“I suppose I should’ve switched rooms.”

He’s hit with vertigo so wicked he tumbles from the couch. It’s a genjutsu, but no matter how he twists his chakra he cannot escape. His lungs feel like they’re on fire and he coughs wetly, spitting blood up onto the rug.

Has he been poisoned?

“No,” she answers him and this time he knows for certain he did not say his thoughts aloud. Whatever genjutsu she’s placed him under is strong. Strong enough that his chakra itself is convinced he’s not under one. “That’s an understatement, Mamoru-san. As it stands, I have the strongest genjutsu in the world.”

She’s reading his mind, somehow. Delving in and pulling questions and answers from him before he can properly form them. Just how many times did they have this conversation? What has he told her? How long has he been here?

“Three hours,” she answers blandly. 

As he withers on the floor, willing his chakra to circulate as his organs slowly fail on him, he can’t help but feel patronized. Bashira plucks three vials from the cabinet like she has all the time in the world, like he isn’t about to be the first person to die via genjutsu. She places the vials on the table with a soft clink, the bottles unmarked and opaque. Mo hasn’t a clue what they’re for. She’s doing a swell job of killing him without poison. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” she says, frowning at him like the thought was stupid. “This is our seventh time conversing. I wouldn’t have put in so much time and effort if I was just going to kill you, Mamoru-san.”

The vials are poison, his mind tells him but he knows the thought is not his own. The instructions on what to do with the three vials sink into his subconscious until Mo thinks he could recite them by heart. He feels nauseous at the invasion. 

“I knew someone would come to kill me eventually, but I’ll admit, you coming here was a surprise,” she hums then, slow and thoughtful as her unusual sharingan spins faster. “I wonder what he used against you… I can’t imagine you’d do something so damning without proper motivation. Did he threaten those kids of yours? They’re the only thing you care about. You’ve told me that much.”

He wills himself not to think, but feelings of betrayal and horror are yanked to the front of his mind nonetheless. She reminds him of the desperation and raw anger he felt that day, standing over the corpse of a kid he killed as a man he didn’t know spoke of taking what little he had and ripping it away from him. Of taking the twins to turn them into shinobi like the boy at his feet. He remembers the regret suddenly, sickening what have I done as he looked at the kid, and the following rage. He remembers the desire to hunt the man down and kill him too. To find who he worked for and end all of this.

“I never suspected you to be so violent,” she says appreciatively. “The lengths we’ll go to protect our precious people can be so surprising, no? Our true natures come out as we’re forced to decide what’s truly important to us, and what we’re willing to give up for it.” 

He can understand why someone would want to kill her.

“I appreciate your hatred, but my personality is not the reason you’re here.”

“Then-” he chokes, because asking her outright is better than her rooting around his head. He doesn’t want her there. “Then what-”

“You’ve already noticed,” she says, sounding disappointed in him again. “My eyes are not the normal sharingan. You’ve been sent here to rid the world of the mangekyou sharingan once and for all.”

He’s never heard of such a thing before. 

“The mangekyou is a clan secret.” He can barely hear over the blood pounding in his ears but reads Bashria’s lips as she stares down at him. The flower in her eye still spins, lazy and taunting as her mouth sets into a pitiful frown. “It’s an elevated version of the sharingan and each one has a unique ability. As you theorized, my genjutsu deals with the mind and its thoughts. My left eye lets me read your intentions and my right lets me alter them. It’s not always permanent, but rather handy for interrogations, no? It certainly helps that you seem to believe your body is failing you. The mind holds so much power over the body, it’s almost unfair.”

He’ll just defect sooner than planned, he thinks and mentally runs through a plan to get the twins and him out of Konoha by nightfall. He’s getting the fuck out of here.

Mo flattens his palm against the rug and wills straight nature chakra to answer him. The lightning which scatters throughout the room is weak and undirected but should be enough to throw her off balance. 

He pushes up into a crouch and- Bashira’s fingers grip at his scalp, harsh and painful as his face slams into the rug, blood pouring from his nose. His dizziness gets so bad he couldn’t make a hand seal if he tried. The desire to leave slips from his grasp like water, leaking through the cracks in his fingers as he clutches at his aching skull. 

“Behave, will you?” she chides and carts her hand through his hair. It catches on a knot, but she uses her chakra to soothe the pain and the tangle unravels itself in her grasp. It’s a practiced motion, one she probably uses on her nephew. “After four failed attempts at killing me, I know you rather well, Mamoru-san. You’re never going to win this, but we can always start over. I’m patient enough to try an eighth time.”

No, he thinks with venom. He doesn’t want to forget. He doesn’t want this. He wants her out of his head and far far away from him. 

“I thought as much,” she sighs. “For someone so aimless you’re surprisingly stubborn.”

He thought she liked him. The betrayal stings, settling into his dying lungs and forcing him to choke on it.

Bashira smooths her hand over his hair again. It’s terrifying how he almost leans into it. That’s not what he wants. That’s not how he feels. 

“Maybe I did like you,” she confesses. “I considered reporting you. I saw your face and knew, but I never had substantial proof. You’re rather good at covering your tracks, Mamoru-san. Then you took in the kids and I decided to leave you be entirely. You seemed so… happy. You were slowly finding peace for yourself. I was glad.”

So she-

“But the pity I had for a wayward coworker will never outweigh my love for this clan.”

“You-” he gasps, forcing air into his lungs with chakra as they refuse to move on their own, convinced he’s already dead. “Wh- what do you-”

“Don’t worry so much,” she says. “In the end, we will both get what we want.”

Mo has no idea what either of them want. Bashira’s eyes pull this thought from his mind and replace it with simple faith. He rejects the faith with a vengeance and she clicks her tongue. 

“The man who sent you here did it with reason. He sees you as a threat to his power,” she explains and lets him crumple to the ground. Mo doesn’t feel like a threat to anything right now, withering on the ground like a drunkard with a busted nose. “He does not want to recruit you like he does your siblings. You, Mamoru, are too much of a wild card for that sort of thing. Instead, he wants to make use of you and ensure your spirit breaks in one swift move.”

Fat chance of that. 

“I agree,” Bashira nods, and Mo’s getting tired of her reading his mind. “Even if you did succeed in killing me, he miscalculated in thinking you’d hide away afterward. You’re a spiteful little brat. I know your next move is tracking him down. One way or another.”

Why not force him to--

“Because my jutsu is not always permanent. The influence I exude over you will fade over time. When it does, I want you on my side.”

“Hard pass,” Mo coughs, pulling himself up to his knees. “I don’t want me there.”

“I gathered,” she taps her temple thoughtfully and Mo’s filled with a sick satisfaction that she’s heard all of his insults. That’s what she gets, lurking in his brain like this. “But if you want to see the day where you siblings and you can live peacefully, you’ll have to cooperate.”

He’d rather she just killed him than lie so blatantly. 

“Fair enough,” she nods and continues. “But it’s no lie. If you do as I say, you will be safe with your siblings for the foreseeable future.” 

“You’re serious.”

“Of course. The man who sent you is no fool. If you do as I say he’ll keep his distance from you once and for all. It’d be too risky for him to do otherwise.”

Mo narrows his eyes. “Who is he?”

Bashira shakes her head mournfully. “I won’t say. I told you his name twice before and don’t try to remember- I made sure the memory was wiped from you for good. Both times I couldn’t stop you from trying to kill him. It was quite the hassle.”

What’s wrong with that? Mo thinks blearily, trying desperately to wrack his brain for the long gone conversation. Dealing with whoever is manipulating him would put them both at ease, wouldn’t it?

“Killing him may satisfy you but doesn’t get me what I want,” Bashira answers. “It would be a short-sighted solution. Learning of his efforts has convinced me of such.”

That doesn’t make any sense, he thinks as loud as he can. He wants Bashira to know how stupid he thinks she’s being. Killing the man responsible for both their troubles is the easiest solution. The man is no ally of the Uchiha and they’re certainly no ally of his.

“The mangekyou sharingan can only be awakened through great loss,” Bashira explains and tilts his chin up. “I’m old, Mamoru-san, but the tides of war are shifting as we speak. If my clan is to survive, a new wielder of the mangekyou must emerge.”

Mo coughs again, wet and bloody as her nail bites into the soft spot under his chin. The red drips down his chin and onto her hand. 

“I want you to kill me.”

Wha-

“You’re going to do your job and kill me,” she repeats, her nail biting further into his chin. Blood drips from her right eye and she wipes it away with her sleeve, staining the grey fabric. “You’ll make it so slow and excruciating my darling nephew will have no choice but to end my suffering. He’ll gain the mangekyou and search endlessly for his dear aunt’s murderer. He’s a smart boy, you see. I bet the two of you would get along in another life. He already finds you charming.”

“You- that’s-”

“Uchiha Shisui will be the one to save this clan,” she says and Mo’s not sure how such an optimistic phrase can sound so threatening. “He will burn this wretched village to the ground and you, Mamoru-san, will be the one who hands him the match.”

Her hand snaps away from his chin and Mo collapses to the ground, his limbs betraying him. The genjutsu is released finally, he coughs and chokes as his lungs start to work on their own again. His body finally feels like it’s his. The dizziness has yet to fade. 

“I hope you understand we have the same goal,” she says as she walks away. “You and I are similar. We want to see the day where our families are safe from the darkness that lies in this village, so try not to judge me so harshly.”

“You’re willingly manipulating your nephew,” Mo forces himself to his knees and grasps the table to help himself up. “We’re not the same.”

“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make if it means this legacy of mine lives on.”

“You’re insane,” he says out loud, wanting her to know his thoughts loud and clear this time. He needs her to know she can’t change his mind on that bit, even if he does follow her plan.

Bashira stops in the doorway. Her back is to him, which makes Mo consider throwing the table at her. 

“The man who sent you does not know the origins of the mangekyou, just that I have it,” she says, not turning around. “Once he learns Shisui has gained it he’ll be wise to stick to the shadows entirely. He’ll leave you and your little family be, thinking you’re too wicked to deal with directly. You’ll be able to spend the rest of your days wasting away as a nanny. Like you wanted.”

His grip on the table’s edge tightens, testing its weight. 

“One day,” she continues, “he’ll grow tired of lying in wait. He’ll make a foolish move, desperate in his old age, and Shisui will be there to put an end to him. The extent of his crimes will be brought to light and I trust in my nephew’s honor to do right by the clan. I lost my brother to that man already. Kagami was kind to him and now he’s dead.”

Bashira turns her head a fraction, blood seeping from her eyes like tears as she looks at him with unfocused brown eyes.

“I’ve grown tired of being kind, Mamoru-san. I hope you understand.”

Mo’s regained enough sense to control his sensory abilities again and feels as she walks down the hall and into what must be her bedroom. He takes a moment to steady his breathing, his lungs still getting used to pumping, before he stands up entirely. His cup tipped over during the commotion, shattered into three ceramic pieces before his feet. The tea leaves scatter across the carpet, forming a lopsided circle with a dot in the middle.

The symbol of the sun peers up at him like an eye. It promises new beginnings and hope for the future.

Mo laughs at the irony of it.

Chapter Text

Home is on the horizon. 

He can feel the familiar comfort of the Hashirama trees all around them. Chakra encircles the Konoha shinobi like a grandfatherly hug as they dart through the forest. To ANBU Fox, there’s no better feeling in the world than returning home from a mission. 

“Fox,” Wolf says, more exasperated than stern, “stay alert.”

“Yes captain,” he replies and goes back to daydreaming about his aunt’s cooking. 

He should really keep on guard. Logically, he’s ANBU, so protocol is to act like someone’s around every corner, but their mission was a simple one and he may be a career shinobi, but damn if he doesn’t miss his family. His aunt promised him a pot of mutton soup on his return, since he missed the last time she made it.

They make it to the wall two hours later and enter through one of the western tunnels. Tunnels are off limits and hidden from anyone who isn’t ANBU, so it’s not like they hit traffic on their way to the Hokage Tower. Fox and Rabbit are silent as Wolf gives the Sandaime their mission report. It was a textbook success, with no issues or pressing need for further investigation. There wasn’t even a breakout of violence: a simple diversion allowed Fox to slip in and memorize the desired files. 

The sharingan is a very handy tool.

“Fox,” the Hokage says. His office looks smaller and smaller by the day, the neatly ordered stacks of reports and files closing in on him like a net. Distantly, the part of Fox that is not Fox but a simple jounin wonders if the old man is alright. But Fox looks and sees the old man still sits straight in his chair. Old bones don’t make him any less intimidating as he stares the three of them down. “Have the copy in full on my desk by tomorrow. All of you are dismissed.”

If Fox and Rabbit race to the ANBU barracks, Wolf doesn’t mention it. They slip into the locker room and start their rehabilitation like clockwork. They take turns reporting to the medic on duty (Eagle-sensei, who’s annoyingly thorough and handsy), get scanned for genjutsu, and tested for poison before finally they’re allowed to take off their gear. 

The second his mask comes off is the first time in five days Shisui can breathe.

Anyone in ANBU will tell you wearing those damn masks turns you into a different person. It’s a coping mechanism, in Shisui’s opinion. Definitely not one he’s needed to use, so he can’t entirely empathize with his older colleagues, but Shisui’s never been fond of things being on his face. The fox mask in his hands feels stuffy and oppressive on a good day. He understands his place in this organization well. He asked for it, even. That doesn’t mean he particularly enjoys the work. 

Genma smacks his back once, both their masks safely tucked away while Kakashi wanders off to the showers. “You’re getting better,” he says, sliding his arm around the younger’s shoulders. “At this rate, you’ll be captain by fall.”

“You think so?” he blinks.

 Shisui’s rough estimate of his promotion is next winter, when he’s seventeen and Itachi is most definitely also in ANBU. He can’t imagine the Hokage putting Itachi under anyone but him. Kakashi may be their best but he’s been slandered by the Uchiha enough that putting their heir under him would leave a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. Politically, it’s a death sentence, even if Shisui knows Itachi wouldn’t mind. 

He’s an open minded kid. Word is he even befriended the civilian born son of a whore everyone seems to like these days. Mamoru-kun’s a character. 

“Sure,” Genma shrugs, retracting his arm to peel off his boots. Shisui ends up helping him, but the skin of his heel comes with it all the same. “Fuck,” he says, “I thought it’d gotten better.”

Shisui doesn’t tell him to go to the medic, because Eagle is a handful and he knows Genma won’t appreciate that psycho when running away is significantly harder. ANBU is hurting for competent (and sane) medics.

“Marigolds help with blisters,” he offers and immediately ducks under Genma’s fist. 

“This is more than a fucking blister,” the elder grumbles. He glares at his own foot, contemplative, before tossing his head back against the lockers. It connects with a hollow bang, the noise echoing through the empty building. “I knew I shouldn’t have taken this mission. That kid’s gonna kill me…”

“What kid?” Shisui asks as he hefts Genma’s foot onto his knee. The brunette grunts but doesn’t protest as Shisui begins to bandage the raw flesh. 

“He’s a newbie at the hospital. Mamoru.” 

Itachi told him about the weird chunin who forfeited their match. The streets have been buzzing with news of him ever since they both got promoted a few months back. Shisui’s crossed Mamoru’s path here and there, but their meetings mainly consist of Shisui pushing his luck and Mamoru pushing him away.

“Huh. I didn’t think he’d actually join the hospital,” Shisui hums, checking over his work. Itachi mentioned he’d make a decent medic.

Genma frowns at him, a single eyebrow raised. “You know him?”

“He was Itachi’s chunin partner.”

“No shit,” he whistles and looks over Shisui’s finished work. “I didn’t realize a legend wrapped my boo boo.”

“An actual legend just did.”

“Not the same thing, Shunshin Shisui,” Genma sighs, his body oozing fully onto the tile like jello. “You’re a legend because you’re scary. The kid’s one because he’s not.”

Shisui hums, checking over his work. “He’s popular these days, hm?”

“People think he’s a charmer.”

Shisui doesn’t. Both times they’ve met, the kid was floating with his head in the clouds before running straight into him. The first time they met he blushed like a schoolgirl then took off before Shisui could catch his name. He’s cute, sure, but charming is a bit too kind.

“You really think so?”

“That’s what the word is,” Genma shrugs, acting blasé. Or maybe actually being blasé. Shisui can’t read his senpai as well as they can read him. He decides to push his luck anyway. 

“But do you think so?” he urges. “You worked for two Hokages, afterall. I value your opinion, senpai.” 

The brunet scoffs and his locker closes with a bit more force than strictly necessary. “Kakashi thinks he’s the second coming of the Yondaime. I think he’s a shitty ninja and a shittier banker.”

“Banker?”

“His old job,” Genma shrugs, “he used to work in the tax department. He’d cut corners for people and go easy on ‘em. He’s got a good reputation because of it. Cost the village a shit ton of money though…”

“Most shinobi thought he was a burnout before the chunin exams,” Shisui hums, trying to think of the last time he had to do taxes. Most clans have their own members do things like that. For someone affiliated with a clan to go to the department they must’ve fucked something up real bad. Shisui’s never fucked anything up that badly before. It’s not his style. “His popularity spike must’ve been civilian pressure then.”

Bashira might have worked with Mamoru. That must’ve been why the kid was visiting her. 

Genma shrugs again, apparently not as entertained with musing over Mamoru as Shisui is. Sue him, the kid piqued Itachi’s interest and not much does that these days. Shisui’s curious. 

“Civilians always like when ‘one of their own’ make it big,” he says, sounding tired. “Don’t be fooled though- the kid’s just as much a ninja as you or me. People don’t just up and decide to move up the ranks on a whim.”

“He’s got a family, doesn’t he?”

“Sure. Taking care of the kids is a nice motive, but how the fuck was he strong enough to actually pass?”

Shisui blinks. 

Then blinks again. 

From a bystander’s point of view it’s not that odd. Mamoru took a hiatus after the death of his team, found a new calling, and his passion for the shinobi arts was relit. He became a chunin to support his family and refused the jounin track to stay close to them. He’s a model ninja and family man, someone who appeals to both the civilian emphasis on family values and the shinobi emphasis on duty. He’s popular and strong. He’s got enough potential that Shikaku himself has been sniffing around him. 

But why the hell is he bordering jounin level after a five year hiatus?

“Huh,” Shisui blinks for the third time. “He’s a weird guy, isn’t he?”

Genma grunts, noncommittal and apparently tired of speculating. He leaves Shisui to his thoughts as he hobbles off to the showers.

Staring up at the ceiling, moldy, cracked, and definitely not up to code, Shisui thinks he might look into his best friend’s renegade. 

A sudden pang in his stomach makes him amend the thought. Shisui thinks he’ll look into his best friend’s renegade after he visits Bashira. 

He really wants that soup. 

…

The soup is delicious. 

Bashira welcomes him home with the same easy smile she always has. He’d only been gone five days and somehow she managed to cut her arm bad enough for bandages. She bats him away each time he tries to help, though, and by the time she’s done in the kitchen there’s a whole pot’s worth of soup. There’s enough that he has to bring the leftovers to Itachi and his family. Harassing Sasuke is Shisui’s favorite hobby, so he doesn’t mind at all.

Itachi doesn’t call him out for bullying his brother, which is nice of him.

He does kick his ass in their spar later though, which is less nice of him.  

Shisui goes home and ices his butt. 

…

Shisui runs into Itachi’s side piece quicker than anticipated.

Well, he doesn’t run into him persay: three weeks of lukewarm tracking attempts proved fruitless, so they end up meeting again by chance. Shisui’s out buying actual fruit (peaches for a cobbler Bashira’s thinking of making) when a literal void of space passes right behind him. 

It’s years of training and instinct that makes him whip around. 

There’s a cold sweat on his neck, the thought of someone being able to sneak up on him making him feel an old terror that’s equally unfamiliar and angering. But instead of an assassin, he’s met with the back of a familiar blond head. The blond ducks away like this is just a trip to the market, nodding once to a housewife who waves at him and going on his way. 

Now, Shisui’s no sensor, but he’s pretty sure Mamoru didn’t feel like a literal gap in reality when they ran into each other last time. People don’t usually lose their entire existence in the span of a month. 

“400 ryo.”

The storekeeper behind him looks like he might snatch the peaches back if Shisui doesn’t act fast. He digs into his pocket absentmindedly, keeping the blond in his peripheral vision. He’s not sure he’d be able to track Mamoru if he tried.  

“Keep the change,” he mutters to the curt storeman and drops a few coins on the wood. The man whispers some curse about his clan under his breath but Shisui’s got other things on his mind right now. 

Mamoru’s just under fifteen, which explains why he shot up like a weed since the very first time they met, before the chunin exams. Shisui’s sixteen and still growing, but if Mamoru’s height and build now are any indication, he’s going to be the taller one once they reach adulthood. He’s lean and unproportionate in the way all teenagers are, with arms that look a little too long for his body. Still, he carries himself with grace and purpose. Itachi mentioned Mamoru has a jounin-sensei who still bothers him, but it takes more than a monthly training session to adapt to a body going through puberty so readily. 

Mamoru trains. A lot.

He sticks out in a crowd because of it. He probably thinks he doesn’t, with his head facing the ground and his body taking up as little space as possible, but the way he carries himself is attractive enough to catch the eyes of a few girls. His face is fine, Shisui supposes. He’s too young to be considered handsome, but his hair is nice. Blonds are sparse in Konoha and usually speak of Iwa, Yamanaka, or Senju heritage. The green eyes and general appearance of his siblings makes him lean towards Senju. 

Shisui blinks as the blond ducks around a shinobi, narrowly avoiding a collision. The kid casts a frown over his shoulder, but the Kunoichi doesn’t seem to notice him at all. 

It’s only the civilians who notice him. 

Mamoru breezes past shinobi, active and retired, like it’s nothing, but every grandmother on the block seems capable of picking him out from the crowd.

An effect of his weird chakra, Shisui deducts. Shinobi won’t notice what their senses tell them isn’t there, even if their eyes tell them something else. The only reason Shisui did is because he’s an Uchiha. There’s a good chance that even then he wouldn’t have felt Mamoru’s presence (or lack thereof) if he hadn’t been so close.

Mamoru is more troubling than Shisui initially thought. To think someone so threatening was working alongside Itachi not that long ago. To think he payed Shisui’s aunt a visit. 

To think he’s working in their healthcare system. 

Shisui’s a hair’s breadth away from taking care of things himself when the kid turns around glares at him. 

“What,” the blond snaps, more a threat than a question. 

Shisui’s been tailing people professionally for six years. This is the first time in four that he’s been caught. 

“Ah,” he hums, his chest and face feeling hot. He can’t tell if he’s pissed or impressed. Maybe both. “We meet again.”

“...Uchiha Shisui,” he says, and redistributes his balance to his heels. So Mamoru doesn’t plan on running. Maybe he doesn’t see Shisui as a threat. Bold, considering Shisui was thinking about maiming him a moment ago. 

“The one and only,” Shisui smiles. He watches the chunin’s nose twitch and his eyes widen before Mamoru ducks away, wiping at his nose with his sleeve.

Shisui is a little flattered by the peachy color that fills the kid’s cheeks. In the academy he was popular (genius-types always are when they come from clans) but lately the Uchiha clan has been… not the most attractive to others. He hasn’t had an admirer since… well, since the last time he saw Mamoru. Maybe he was getting ahead of himself. 

Mamoru’s got two bags of groceries in his hand, both looking like they're about to burst from strain. There’s three sets of training kunai under his arm. 

“Need a hand?”

“No,” Mamoru mutters and suddenly Shisui can properly sense him. Mamoru meets his eyes this time, which is nice. People don’t usually do that these days. 

Shisui’s not much of a sensor, but even he can tell that Mamoru’s chakra is… unremarkable. It’s almost disappointing that someone he considered outright eliminated would end up being of average skill. His element isn’t developed enough to give Shisui a definitive feel--somewhere between earth and water--and there isn’t enough yin for him to be any good at genjutsu. His levels are also pitiful, depleted in a way that speaks more of sleep deprivation than any time of training.

Right now, Mamoru appears painstakingly average. 

But, as Genma and Itachi have taught him, Mamoru is also a bit of a pushover. 

“I insist,” Shisui smiles and reaches for one of the bags. Mamoru looks like he might just play tug-a-war with him for it, but lets go as soon as Shisui grabs it. He looks frazzled. 

“I, uh, you really don’t have to--” 

“I insist,” he repeats, walking a few steps ahead of the kid. He looks over his shoulder and waves Mamoru on. “Come on, then-- lead the way, Mamoru-kun. I don’t know where you live.”

Mamoru hesitates before pointing a bit to Shisui’s left. 

“Over there,” he says, curt, “I live off main.” 

“Ooo, fancy.” 

“Uh, not… it’s not anything like that. It’s just… yeah.” 

Shisui’s a little lost. Mamoru’s too plain to be charming for his face. And he’s too awkward to be charming for his words. Why’s everyone so fond of this kid?

After extremely boring silence lasting all of twenty seconds, they’re away from the hustle and bustle of the main market. Shisui spent the time watching Mamoru’s face. He looks tired, tense, and generally unwell. Mamoru makes no move to talk to him, or even look at him, and Shisui’s patience for this self-appointed mission is growing thin. This is much less exciting than earlier. Ah, right: earlier.

“So what’s that thing you do?”

“What?”

“You chakra,” he shrugs, making a vague motion with his hands that hopefully gets his point across. “It’s, ah, a little… weird.” 

Mamoru surprises him once again when he openly glares at Shisui, offended. 

“Not everyone can have a fire nature that rivals the sun,” he snaps, “now you’re just being mean.”

“What? No, I’m talking about your-”

“It’s water and earth, alright? So what if it feels like mud, not everyone can win the genetic lottery.”

“Dude,” Shisui says, “I’m not insulting you. I’m trying to figure out how you fucking vanish.”

Mamoru stares at him. “...I can vanish?” 

“At the market,” Shisui lifts the hand holding Mamoru’s groceries, vaguely gesturing between them and Mamoru’s person, “I couldn’t sense you at all. I can now, and I could the other times we’ve met, but how’d you disappear like that earlier?” 

“Oh,” Mo’s face does a complicated kind of wobble. He shifts the bags in his arms nervously. “I, uh, I guess I learned it from the Tsuchikage?” 

What the fuck, Shisui thinks. 

“What the fuck,” Shisui says. 

“Well it’s not like he taught it to me. I just… copied what I felt him doing. I mean- nobody ever sneaks up on me unless I’m compromised but he did and I wanted to know how,” he clarifies. It doesn’t seem like Mamuro thinks he’s done anything wrong, copying the evasion techniques of a foreign kage. What a guy. “He, um, he made himself feel like an animal. Without a genjutsu. I figured it out. Took a while, but I got it. That’s not what I do anymore. I, uh, changed it a bit. It’s useful. Ninja don’t really pay attention to me anymore. Civilians still do, which is kinda weird, but-- why are you laughing?”

“Because if I don’t laugh I might kill you,” he chuckles, completely serious. “Mamoru-kun, you are a handful, you know that?” 

Mamoru’s face is red yet again. Shisui could get used to that expression of bewilderment. It’s rather nice. He should get some sleep though. 

“You-- that’s-- that doesn’t mean you’ll- um… Don’t, please?”

“Don’t blow a fuse,” Shisui chuckles, nudging him with his shoulder. Mamoru stumbles like he might fall over and Shisui catches his shoulder before he does. “It was a compliment.” 

“It was?”

“Sort of.” 

“Um,” he swallows, eyeing Shisui’s grip on his shoulder like it might catch fire. “I’d rather you didn’t do that.” 

“Compliment you?” 

“Yes,” he nods, curt. After a beat, he looks up at Shisui earnestly, adding a soft: “please.”

“Well, since you said please--” 

“This is my building.” Mamoru snatches the bag back from Shisui lightning quick. “Thanks for, uh, helping. Bye.”

Shisui almost laughs. Maybe this kid is charming. In a weird hermit kind of way. 

“Call me anytime you need some muscle,” he smiles and it really is nice how that makes the kid’s heart rate pick up. Crushes are so cute. “Bye, Mo-chan.”

Shisui leaps away feeling lighter than air and a little foolish. 

It’s not everyday he meets an admirer.

Itachi’s going to be so jealous. 

…

Itachi isn’t jealous. 

“Mamoru-san is very kind,” he says quietly and goes back to his reading. 

Shisui frowns at the back of his head. His friend’s been a little different since the chunin exam, sure, but he didn’t think Mamoru would have such an impact on him. Mamoru didn’t seem all that special.

Sure, he’s a little… uncouth, but really, what ninja isn’t? 

…

Bashira tells him he’s obsessive. 

They discuss Shisui’s woes over a slice of peach cobbler, the conversations mainly consisting of his dramatic retelling of events and Bashira’s staunch insistence that Mamoru’s unremarkable in the grand scheme of things. 

It’s an absolutely delicious dessert, but the sugar feels like tar in his throat as his aunt’s chakra slowly stills to a dreadful calm. 

Across the table she’s tense. Clutching her teacup jump a bit too hard. Her gaze is just a bit too forced. Her breathing is just a bit too even. 

Shisui doesn’t mention Mamoru to his aunt again after that. 

He doesn’t get the chance to. 

Chapter Text

Kokoro tugs hard on his shirt and Mo takes a moment to gather himself.

He blinks down at the girl and wonders how she managed to sneak up on him. She’s never done that before. 

“Momo-nii,” she says in a whisper. Her hand is clenched tight in his shirt, stretching out the fabric. Normally Mo would be annoyed by the motion, but his chest feels too heavy to care about such little things right now. He elects to ignore it, focusing instead on the strange intensity in his little sister’s eyes. 

“I won’t tell anyone if you go back to bed,” she promises. 

His chest feels a little lighter suddenly.

“I’ve got clinic duty, Koko,” he says, ruffling a hand through her hair and messing up her ponytail. “Can’t miss it.”

“But you hate clinic duty.”

“That doesn’t mean I can skip it.”

“Working sounds like it sucks,” she pouts, leaning her weight onto his leg. 

It does suck, but Mo doesn’t want to tell her that just yet. He shrugs and hands her four plates. The girl trots off to the table without complaint, leaving Mo to watch the toast.

There’s a sudden tapping on the window and Mo’s heart kicks into overdrive. 

Naruto flips in a moment later with a hoot. Mo’s gripping the counter so hard it creaks. Kokoro is one thing, but the jinchuriki, of all people, should never be able to sneak up on him. Seeing Shisui last week must have messed with him worse than he thought. 

“What did I tell you about using the window?” He chokes, hoping the kids didn’t notice him almost launch the toaster at their classmate. His hands are sweaty. They’re not usually sweaty. 

“Not to,” Naruto quips, jumping off the window sill. 

He lands directly on the spot the ANBU boy laid, dead and drooling on Mo’s carpet. Mo comes back to himself by the time all three kids are at the table. The boys are chattering about something someone said in class. Kokoro is carefully folding a piece of paper into a crane.

The toast is burnt somehow. It wasn’t burnt the last time he looked at it. 

Mo puts it onto a plate anyway, not bothering to scrape off the black bits. The kids can do it themselves if they feel the need.

“Hey Momo-nii,” the other blond is squinting at him, looking like he might pull a flashlight out to check Mo’s pupils. “Are you- ow! ”

“Don’t bother Momo-nii,” Kokoro mutters and Naruto ducks under the table to nurse his shin. 

“Don’t kick people,” Mo says automatically, scraping his eggs onto Hiro and Kokoro’s plates before standing up. He’s not hungry. “I’ve got a long day today, so I won’t be able to pick you up. Be safe, don’t talk to strangers. Go to Genko-san if you need anything.”

“Genko’s weird,” Hiro says, already shoveling the extra food into his mouth. “He keeps trying to get us into investing.”

“Just tell him to bug off or something,” Mo says, dismissive as he riffles through a laundry basket for his uniform. He senses as Hiro saluted him, pleased with permission to be the rude little shit he is. Naruto is tumbling the word ‘investing’ around his mouth inaudibly, too nervous to outright ask what it means. Kokoro watches him impassively, not quite fond enough of the older boy to help out. 

Mo manually forces his shoulders to relax. 

They’ll be alright, he tells himself, ignoring the stinging behind his eyes as he buttons his shirt. He repeats the montra a few times, but it doesn’t really help. 

His hands are shaking. He feels nauseous. 

Maybe he should just--

The concern slips from his mind like sand, leaking out of the cracks until only a trace amount is left. 

They’ll be fine, he thinks again, firmer this time. He’s got no reason to worry. He trusts Bashira implicitly. Even if he does die, he’s established himself enough that they’ll be fine. 

The euphoric confidence is strong enough to walk him to the door. He waves goodbye to the three kids as they bumble down the street and off to the academy.

Mo slips back into the Uchiha compound almost five weeks later. 

He comes armed with three different poisons in colorful opaque vials. When mixed they provide all the pain of dying and none of the benefits. The concoction Bashira lodged into his brain isn’t meant to kill, just give her the worst month of her life. Shisui will think he’s doing her a mercy and the following autopsy will reveal she wasn’t even dying at all. 

If killing her doesn’t awaken Shisui’s mangekyou, finding out he killed his only living relative for no reason surely will. Bashira is insane and cruel in ways Mo never imagined, but at least she’s thorough. He can respect the game they're playing, even if he never wanted to play to begin with. 

Mo’s chakra mimics that of a cat’s and no one so much as blinks as he slips through their compound. The Tsuchikage taught him this trick, albeit not on purpose. Mo thinks he’d approve if he knew Mo was using it to instill political instability within Konoha. 

It’s dark and quiet tonight. The stars are shrouded by clouds and it’s far too cold for any farm animals to be alert. 

Perfect night for a murder. 

…

He can sense them well before he slips through their living room window.

For the millionth time, he finds himself grateful for Yona-sensei and her insistence on honing his sensing. Right now, he can’t hear over the loud pounding of his heart. His vision is blurring and the feeling in his hands feels numb. It’s his chakra sense alone that tells him the kids are fine. He’s fine. 

He knows they’re asleep in their room and that Hiro is having a good dream while Kokoro’s sleep is uninterrupted. He knows Hiro is probably going to kick his sister in the back and Kokoro is going to wake up with a new bruise and a bad mood. He knows they’re safe and sound, the way they should be. 

He opens the door anyway, chakra spilling around his eyes to clear the fog and aid his night vision.

The twins are curled against each other. Moonlight spills through the break in the curtain and splats onto Hiro’s forehead. Their hair is silver in the dark, illuminated by the little light that catches on it. They look like dolls there, small and delicate as their chests move up and down with deep puffs of breath.

Mo breathes in, taking in the sight, and takes a careful step backward. 

The board he should’ve repaired a month ago squeaks under his foot. The next thing Mo knows he’s on the ceiling, heart pounding louder than ever before.

“Momo-nii?” Kokoro croaks, blinking blearily through the dark.

Mo drops back down from the ceiling, feeling a little foolish. He takes a breath and swallows his nerves.

“Sorry, Kokoro,” he smiles, the weight of it pulling at his cheeks. He’s glad it’s so dark. He can’t imagine he looks like the ideal big brother right about now. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’okay,” she murmurs and reaches out to him. Mo takes three careful steps into the room and kneels at the edge of the futon. Kokoro tugs on his arm until he gives her his hand. She uses it as a pillow as she squints up at him in the dark. Hiro snores lightly on her other side. “Did you have a nightmare?” 

“Yeah,” he hums and offers nothing else. 

Kokoro yawns, loud and wide before scooting over on their already too-small futon. 

“Wanna sleep with us?” she asks and Mo’s heart breaks in two.

He feels huge and clumsy as he climbs in, curling around the two of them protectively. His little sister snuggles into his chest and he pulls Hiro to his other side. The boy grumbles in a groggy protest before collapsing into him, grateful for the new warmth on a night so cold.

It’s dark and quiet tonight. The stars are shrouded by clouds and it’s far too cold for any farm animals to be alert. 

Mo pulls his siblings--so young and small and full of life--into his chest and hopes, desperate and exhausted in the aftermath of everything, that it was all worth it. 

… 

He spends the next month in anxious limbo. 

He doesn’t hear news of Bashira’s illness or of her death. There’s a chance he fucked up somewhere down the line and she didn’t actually die. At this point, he’s not sure which is worse: adhering to Bashira’s plan, or to the mysterious man who started this mess. 

The man had a seal in his throat, two more in his head, and one on his tongue. 

Seals are not uncommon. Shinobi get injured all the time and there’s plenty of seals used in medicine. Mo doesn’t know how to craft any, since he hasn’t even mastered the mystic palm technique yet, but he’s been around enough to know what they feel like. 

That man’s seals were more complicated than anything Mo’s ever felt. He can feel in his bones that he’ll never comprehend them, no matter how much he studies. He doesn’t know if the man was speaking for himself or if he was a simple mouthpiece. Normally, such a concept would be unheard of outside the Yamanaka clan. Mo’s starting to understand “normal” doesn’t apply to his life anymore. Normal people don’t get ambushed in their own homes and blackmailed. 

The easiest thing to do in a fight is to run away. And if running away is not the easiest thing to do, there’s a good chance you’ll die.

Mo’s coming to terms with the fact he might die-- 

The village jinchuuriki pulls him from his thoughts with a tug on his hair. 

Mo blinks blandly, taking in the child who’s climbed beside him on the couch. The kid’s been spending more and more time here, to the point that when Mo went out to buy a new chair, he got two. It still grates on his survival instincts, having him so close. It’s not like he doubts the sealing prowess of the Yondaime (he could never) or the judgment of the Sandaime (that’s a bold face lie, he definitely does) but the kid is hanging out with the twins. His twins. The ones he’s committing treason for. He’s not going to willingly put them in any sort of danger. 

But that’s also the whole reason why Mo’s invited him over. For the twins and their future. Whoever’s blackmailing him can’t take the twins so long as they’re friends with the jinchuuriki. If it means the twins are safe, he’ll bear it.

The jinchuuriki smiles impishly and tugs Mo’s hair again. Hard. 

“You’re blond,” he says. “I’m blond too, you know.”

Mo sighs and spares himself some self-pity. He’s earned it. “I noticed.”

“Do you think we’re brothers?”

“Not a chance.”

“Eh?” His dejected look lasts barely a second before a crumpled piece of paper hits his temple. Mo mentally applauds Hiro’s aim. 

The white-haired boy pushes Naruto off the couch and onto the floor. Hiro slips into Naruto’s old spot on the couch seamlessly. The blond grumbles his way back to the coffee table.

Mo blinks down at his real brother as he thrusts a ring of roughly folded paper at him.

“For you!” Hiro says and sounds so proud of himself that Mo just takes it. 

He looks at the lump of paper in his hands, trying to decipher meaning from it. He’s learned already that little kids don’t always act with purpose, just intent. He’s not positive he knows what Hiro intended this to do. 

“Neat,” he settles on and moves to put it aside. 

“You gotta wear it, Momo-nii.” Hiro rips it from Mo’s hands with a disappointed huff. The force of the action causes a rip to form, but the boy doesn’t notice. 

Mo narrows his eyes. “Wear it?”

“Yeah-” Hiro climbs up onto the couch and bats Mo’s hands away as he tries to help. Instead, he makes a big show of placing the ring of paper onto Mo’s head. “Ta-da! The king!”

Kokoro starts to clap. Naruto pouts.

“I thought I was the king,” the blond grumbles.

“You can be the next king,” Hiro waves him off, jumping from the couch to the coffee table. Kokoro slides her papers closer to herself to keep them from getting stomped on. Naruto’s get stomped on. “This round Momo-nii is king and we, his loyal guards, have to save him!”

Fat chance, Mo thinks as he rises from the couch. The kids watch him curiously as he steps over the coffee table and to the front door. The door opens with a creak, nearly hitting the chunin on the other side in the face. 

The chunin chokes on his spit, his fist raised to knock. He’s not in uniform, but that’s to be expected. The snow has been especially harsh this last month-- a thick layer coating the entire village already and more coming down even now. 

Mo gives the boy’s bright red winter coat a disapproving once over anyway. On principle. 

“Um,” the chunin stammers. He rushes through some formal jargon that sounds awkward on his tongue, openly wincing at whatever Mo looks like. Not good, he guesses, but Mo takes the scroll the boy presents and shuts the door in his face without a word.

The Uchiha mon stares at him mockingly, the red of it making him sick to his stomach.

It’s the color Bashira’s face turned as her body began to betray her. The navy of the scroll probably matches her complexion when Shisui finally granted her mercy, five days later. Sage, how awful those five days must have been. 

Distantly, he hopes his plan worked. The twins must be close enough to the jinchuriki to protect them. He’s welcomed the wayward kid into his home and he can only hope the payoff will be worth it because surely this scroll is an arrest warrant. He’s been found out and now Fugaku-sama himself is going to decapitate him. He murdered one of the Uchiha clan’s greatest elders in cold blood. He’s made her death so excruciating that her own nephew had to take up the knife himself. It was inhuman and cruel and now they’ve found out.

He glances at the twins, barely reaching his waist as they blink up at him with wide brown eyes. The jinchuriki idles behind them, unsure of where to put himself. 

He’ll miss them. It’s a shame he has to rush his escape like this. He would’ve liked to see them grow up a bit more before he left.

Mo rips the wax of the seal like a bandaid. He keeps his expression carefully blank as he looks over its contents. The twins hover by his waist. Naruto idles a bit further off.

He reads over them again. 

And again. 

Shisui has personally invited him to the funeral.

Huh.

…

Mo's been to the Uchiha compound twice before. 

Once to kill Shisui's aunt without consent. 

And again to kill her with consent. 

The third (and hopefully final) time is to attend her funeral. 

The hands that killed her feel incredibly clammy as he stands in the back of the crowd. Without chakra he can barely hear the shaman as she reads Bashira's rites. His old coworker was a decorated, dedicated, and well loved soldier. The Hokage and his aides are in attendance. 

Mo keeps his eyes on the ground. Plenty of Uchiha know him as the kid who worked with their clan heir. Not many know him well enough to speak to him. 

The Hokage, thankfully, spares him nothing more than a glance. Mo doesn't think he could handle talking to him right now. Even guilt doesn't outway his anger at the moment. 

“Mo.”

The sound of his own name catches him off guard. 

He sensed Shisui meandering about. He knew his method of greeting those in attendance was a bit random. But he was certain Shisui was heading towards Itachi, his friend and confidant. For Shisui to pause behind Mo instead… 

Mo blinks at the grayish face before him and hopes his complexion isn’t as telling as Shisui's. A familiar pain stabs through his chest, opening the still fresh wound as Shisui looks at him with Bashira’s eyes. Literally.

“Shisui-san,” he bows. He’s not sure how deep he’s supposed to go, but Shisui looks neither bothered or moved by the action. 

“Could you spare a moment?”

Itachi’s doing a great job at pretending he isn’t listening in on them. Apparently, Shisui’s actions aren’t shocking to Mo alone. This, at the very least, is his only comfort. 

“Of course,” he says and follows as Shisui leads him a couple paces away. 

He follows behind the jounin with light steps. Shisui’s chakra, to its core, is guarded. The lightning-hot aura the teenager usually puts off is carefully placed behind walls of neutral territory so deep Mo would have to sit for an hour to unravel it all. Shisui leads him just into the garden, across from the ceremony, where the snow cover is thick. This area is less maintained-- branches creak under the weight of the snow. 

It’s poetic in a way. 

The white of the snow contrasted against the trees. Konoha is, after all, hidden in the leaves. But what does that leave them-- the ninja-- when the leaves themselves are hidden? Does that make them stronger or weaker? Konoha ninja famously falter in the cold. Perhaps--

“You killed her, didn’t you?”

The tone of it is so chipper Mo almost doesn’t catch what is said. “What?”

“My aunt,” Shisui clarifies. One second he’s facing the barren gardens and the next he’s right in front of Mo. There’s a flash of sunlight that crosses Mo’s eyes and he doesn’t have to look down to know there’s a blade angled at his kidney. “You killed her.”

Mo meets his eyes. 

The unfamiliar sharingan spins in his eyes too, unique from Bashira’s but just as unsettling. 

Mo swallows down the bile and the memory of having his mind opened like a mandarin. Of Bashira picking him apart and piecing him back together wrong, of the memories he has but knows are false. Of a devotion he has to her but doesn’t know why. He feels sicker the longer he stares into that unfamiliar sharingan.

“Bashira-san was a friend of mine,” he says, not answering him at all. If Shisui had the same power as his aunt, he would’ve killed him by now, knowing for certain Mo's motive and guilt. His power is different. Mo has no idea what it may be. 

“Itachi’s your friend too, isn’t he?”

Mo narrows his eyes right back. “Why-”

“I like to know who’s trying to kill me,” Shisui says, angling his body so a passerby can’t see the blade in his hand. The woman walks on without notice. “Me and everyone I care about. You can understand that sentiment, can’t you?”

“...I can.”

“I’m glad,” the words are enunciated by a stab of pain, the tip of Shisui’s tanto pressing into his skin. It digs just under his ribcage and Mo bites back a grimace as fresh blood drips onto the waistline of his pants. “Are you my enemy, Mamoru?”

“No.”

Shisui frowns. “That was quick.” 

“Someone who values their life would never make an enemy of you,” Mo says. “I’m smart enough to know that much.”

“People do call you a genius,” he replies evenly, not saying much at all.

“I don’t feel like one.”

Shisui searches Mo’s face with that damned sharingan. Mo almost wishes he knew what he was looking for. He’d put it there if he could. 

Finally, the jounin scoffs, looking much like the mourning teenager he is. A boy who was forced to kill his own flesh and blood stands before Mo, looking exhausted and pissed as the world weighs down on his shoulders. Shoulders that aren’t even fully grown yet. He's only sixteen. “Neither do I.”

The sympathy ends there. 

“You said you aren’t my enemy,” he starts, the power returning to his shoulders as he glares at Mo, red geometrics spinning in his eyes, “did you mean that?” 

“I suppose.” 

“Then you ought to be my ally.”

That’s a jump. 

It’s also not really his responsibility, given that he’s a clanless chunin with two dependents and Shisui can’t prove any wrongdoing. He holds no loyalty to the Uchiha-- few do these days. This should be the last time they ever speak to each other. Their relationship should have died with Bashira in the same way Itachi and his died with the chunin exams. Job done. 

Something compels Mo to nod anyway, firm and final as the promise writes itself onto his bones.

“Okay,” he vows, “okay.” 

The blade drops from his kidney and back to Shisui’s side without any fanfare. The Uchiha lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezing like they’re old friends and smiles emptily in Mo’s face. He’s so close that Mo could bite his nose off, if he felt so inclined. He doesn’t feel inclined to do much of anything right now-- his mind humming and his hands heavy. Distantly, something tells him to fight. To knock off that hand and punch this jounin in the face for making him go through this bullshit all over again. 

The distant feeling is just out of reach-- slipping further and further away till Mo can hardly imagine lifting a finger. 

“Good,” Shisui chirps, hollow and pained as he pats Mo’s shoulder. The warmth of his chakra used to be endearing. Now, Mo feels like his skin might bubble off if Shisui stays so close. “Best of luck in all your future endeavors, Mamoru-san.”

He walks away without another word, back to the funeral behind them. Someone greets him as he rounds the corner and Shisui’s face goes from carefully blank to openly sollum as he accepts their condolences. Mo watches him flit between clansmen, giving the appropriate response to each one. It’s impersonal and proper. It doesn’t suit him at all. 

Blood drips from his side, splattering into the snow beneath him. It stains the pure white sheet red and Mo watches the color fester. The snow melts around it in a wispy pattern, forming a tiger lily to glare up at him. Mo folds his shirt over once and presses the fabric against the wound.

He kicks a small mound of snow over the blemish before he leaves.

That’s all he can do.

Chapter Text

Two years later Mo wakes up to a pounding at his door. 

It’s Naruto, so he takes his time easing up and shoos the twins back to their futon as he goes. He opens the door with a frown, still blinking the sleep out of his eyes. 

“You gotta help!” the kid shouts before Mo can open his mouth. “There’s a monster in my bathroom!”

“A monster?”

“Yeah! I was peeing and I felt something on my shoulder and it was right there! I thought I was gonna die Momo-nii! You’re the strongest guy I know! You gotta kill it!”

Mo hums and leans himself against the door. He’s tired and it’s 3:30 in the morning. He has work in two hours. Clinic duty. The worst. 

“I don’t know if I’m much of a monster slayer.”

Naruto grabs his arm, pulling hard enough to make Mo stumble. “Please!”

Mo mumbles something that might be an affirmative, pushing himself off with an embarrassing amount of effort. He really is exhausted. Maybe he should ask for a day or two off. 

“Keep your voice low, it’s too early to be shouting.”

Naruto punches the air in victory, bouncing around soundlessly as he leads Mo up the stairs and to the fourth floor. His apartment is just as messy as the last time Mo was here- two weeks ago to pull him out of bed and to the academy. The twins said he missed the day before and Mo wasn’t going to let the village jinchuriki slack off so long as he’s a loyal citizen. After Mo leaves the village can get destroyed. While Mo’s there, he’d rather it didn’t. The jinchuriki needs to be alive, well, and a major threat to their political enemies for Konoha to survive. 

“It’s in the bathroom,” Naruto whispers, tip-toeing through his home like the beast might hear them.

Mo cushions his steps with chakra to appease the boy.

He makes Mo go in first, which is not mission protocol. Naruto should’ve explained the full situation before throwing his teammate at the enemy. What if there’s a sentient poison cloud in there? Mo could die.

His eyes do a quick sweep of the dark. Besides the empty bottle of body wash and rubber duck on the floor, there’s nothing noteworthy in Naruto’s filthy bathroom.

“What’s the monster look like?” He asks quietly, looking over his shoulder. 

Naruto peeks his head out from the doorway to squint at him. “Green,” he hisses back, “and big and evil.”

“Sounds scary.”

“It is!” 

Mo takes a breath and focuses his senses. It’s hard to find things so small, especially with the chakra monstrosity that is Uzumaki Naruto right behind him, but Naruto’s had a seat at their table for over a year and a half now. The twins are seven and Naruto will soon be joining them. Mo’s gotten pretty good at ignoring the loud noise of Naruto’s chakra as it grew beside his siblings’.

He senses the disturbance behind the toilet and opens his eyes. 

Naruto’s bright blue eyes squint as Mo turns on the light. He skips after the teenager as he walks back to the kitchen. Mo picks up an old jar and a stained take-out menu. As he rinses the jar he scans the menu: it’s a soba place Mo hasn’t heard of. Genko would probably like it, though it’s been a while since they last talked.

“Alright,” Mo says waving the jar in the air as they head back to the bathroom, “here’s how you slay monsters.”

Mo creeps up on the toilet just for the drama of things, shushing the boy as he steps on the rubber duck. Naruto jumps at the noise and clutches Mo’s shirt so tight he thinks the boy might actually be trying to choke him. Mo soldiers on with Naruto on his heels.

Naruto’s nerves aside, the fanfare ends without much of a battle. Mo taps one side of the toilet tank, sending just a bit of chakra into the motion. The vibrations startle the beast and cause it to flit right into the jar. Mo seals the jar with the toilet lid and quickly slides the take-out menu underneath. 

He turns around, presenting his bounty to the boy behind him.

“Your monster, my lord,” he says, not even trying to sound enthused. 

“He was tormenting me!” Naruto yells, tugging on Mo’s sleepshirt excitedly. “He’s been trying to eat me for weeks Momo-nii! I swear!”

“Yeah, well, now he’s in a jam jar.”

“He deserves it,” the boy grumbles, squishing himself into Mo’s side. He wraps his arms (still too skinny for his age. The twins are bigger and they’re three months younger- all three of the brats are small for seven, but there’s only so much he can do having met them all too late) around the chunin’s waist and digs his chin right under Mo’s ribcage to peer up at him. Mo taps his nose.

“When I was growing up, kids used to say bothersome bugs were the reincarnations of our past enemies,” he grins at the kid, feeling impish. “Maybe he is out to get you.”

Naruto frowns at the praying mantis thoughtfully. 

“No,” he says. He always sounds confident when he talks, but he sounds especially certain about this. “I don’t think someone would come back as a bug to torment me.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Yeah. Everyone who hates me is still alive.”

Mo feels a little sweaty. “Oh.”

“They won’t hate me forever though,” Naruto smiles at him, earnest as he searches Mo’s face for some sense of encouragement. The arms around Mo’s waist tighten slightly, just a soft little squeeze. “One day, everybody in the village will love me. I’m gonna be Hokage, you know? Then no one will hate me or ignore me ever again.”

“Oh,” Mo says again. 

“And when I’m Hokage you’re gonna help me!”

“Am I?”

“Yeah!” He shouts. Naruto releases his waist with a grand swing of his arms. He makes grabby hands up at Mo, taking the bug from him and smiling at it. “I’m gonna be super strong when I’m a shinobi, but even super strong people can’t do everything, you know? You’re gonna do all the stuff I don’t want to do. Like my homework and catching all the big bugs and stuff.”

Mo grabs the bug back before he starts to shake it.

“I’m not cut out to be a Hokage’s aid,” he sighs. “How about you just slide me some cash on the downlow.”

Naruto scrunches up his nose. “Isn’t that illegal?”

“I think the bigger crime is you hiding your bathtub,” Mo nods to the tub with a frown. “You said it was broken. Why do you use ours?” 

“You guys have hot water all the time. I only get it on Monday and Thursday.”

Ah yes, Mo does not miss being a governmentally dependent orphan. They like to cut corners.

“Are you still getting rations?” he asks, thinking of the state of the kitchen. At first glance, it looked like Naruto’s just eating ramen and ready-made meals again. He thought he beat that out of the kid already. 

“No,” the kid shrugs, looking unbothered, “they said I don’t need ‘em because I dunno how to cook.”

That’s not a policy. Not that that’s stopped anyone before, but Mo liked to think government programs would be applied equally, jinchuriki or not.

Best to just go along with it, making waves never helps anyone around here. He would know. 

“Kick ‘em in the shins if they keep them from you again. I’ll write you down some recipes.” He’s not buying the kid a cook-book though. Mo’s not spending more money than he already has on this gnat of a child. “Ask Teuchi-san for some more if you want. He’d probably be a better source.”

“You’re gonna teach me to cook?”

“I’m going to write down instructions,” Mo corrects. “You can read, right?”

Naruto shrugs. “Kinda. I don’t know a lot of kanji.”

“You should learn,” he says, walking out of the bathroom. Naruto’s footsteps patter after him. “I won’t use them, but ask Iruka-sensei for some help- what’s with that face?”

Naruto’s pout turns into a grimace and a shiver. “Iruka-sensei’s scary.”

Mo can’t really comprehend the idiot who’s face he’s been shoving into the dirt for the past five years as scary. He shrugs. “He’s smart.”

“Smarter than you?”

“Everyone’s smart in some things and less smart in others,” he says, leaning over Naruto’s bed. Mo slides the window open and opens the jar. The praying mantis stays on the windowsill to watch the two blonds talk, just like the ANBU in the tree fifteen feet over. Nosy jerks, the whole lot of them. He slides the window shut and closes the curtains. “Iruka’s smarter than me in some aspects and I’m smarter than him in others. That’s just life.”

“Am I smarter than you in anything?” Naruto asks, blinking up at him.

Mo snorts and lifts him up. He plops Naruto down from a bit too high and the kid giggles as he bounces. 

“In the future you’ll be smarter than me in lots of things,” he says and readjusts the blankets around Naruto. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll become a master chef.”

“I want to be a shinobi, Momo-nii,” Naruto laughs, squirming as Mo jabs the blankets under him. “Not a chef.”

“Uh-huh. The future holds many mysteries. Get some rest. Kokoro will come up to grab you when it’s time for school.”

“You’re not gonna walk us?” 

“I’ve got work,” he says and looks at the clock. 4:12. He’s not going to be able to fall asleep again. Maybe he’ll just go in early and help in the ED. An ANBU squad was supposed to come in last night but they’re running late. ANBU is, by their own admissions, dangerously low on medic nin and they’ve been showing up at the facility for freebees lately. It’s annoying, but if they do show up, he might even be able to skirt clinic duty. He’d have to deal with ANBU members though, which might be worse.

Naruto sticks his tongue out. “Work sucks.”

“Yeah, but having money’s pretty cool,” he says, walking away. “Try to get some sleep.”

“Bye Momo-nii,” Naruto whisper-yells as he opens the door. “Come pick us up today! Kiba keeps bragging about his dorky vet sister so I wanna show him how much cooler you are!”

Mo huffs, but keeps himself from laughing. Selfishly, it’s a little nice to hear he’s better than the clan kids, even if he’s hearing it from a six-year old. Rationally, Hana is much more talented than he’ll ever be, considering how much chakra and experience she has in comparison to him. That’s not to say she’s a better medic, but Hana’s closing the gap between their ages quickly. 

“Hana-san is a very talented medic-nin, Naruto. Be nice to her if you meet.”

“Whatever,” he grumbles, “you’re cooler.”

“Good night, Naruto.” 

“‘night Momo.”

…

The ANBU team beats him there. 

He bypasses the registration desk entirely and doesn’t bother to explain himself to the receptionist stationed there. There’s not a lot of medics with the training to handle an ANBU team. Of those few, there’s even fewer who want to. 

Mo doesn’t particularly want to, but he’s also trying to impress his current teacher, Yamanaka Akina, who seems to think he isn’t taking his medical training seriously. It’s not really a misjudgement on his sensei’s part, but the part of Mo that is still young and prideful hates how the woman looks at him and expects more. Mo refuses missions, and he’s very strict about his hours, so really, he could stand to be nicer for his current greatest ally. Yamanaka-sensei, after all, is probably the only reason he gets away with his high-horse attitude. He’s earned it by now, but in the beginning of his chunin days Mo really wasn’t anything to write home about healing-jutsu-wise.

So here he is, giving more. 

He can sense his teacher in the west wing--the most private area they can offer, reserved for ANBU and Jounin and anyone else who might very well kill them. ANBU don’t typically run in squads greater than four, leaning heavily on three-man teams, but there are five operatives present. Chances are, it's one full team of three and one missing a member or two. The full team must have crossed paths with the other and brought them back. 

By his senses the ANBU squad arrived hardly twenty minutes ago, but his teacher’s chakra is already diminished as it curls at her hands and naval to relieve old aches. Yamanaka-sensei has probably been here all night or longer, so it’s no wonder she’s drained.

Then again, ANBU are difficult to sense even on his most paranoid day so his estimate of their arrival could be off by a little. He wasn’t actively trying to sense them, after all. He was distracted by the whole monster slaying business. 

Two years of… well, of just being a big brother, have clearly dimmed his instincts a bit. He’s a better medic for it, but he’s probably not a better ninja. Not that he regrets it. The twins and Naruto have friends. Isn’t that crazy? The Nara and Akikimichi boys came over and stayed for dinner once. Dinner was chicken nuggets which the both of them looked less than impressed by (he’s pretty sure Choji’s mother is chef) but they Stayed For Dinner and they Talked To His Kids. Mo certainly never had friends over at their age. He’s so freaking proud of them, even if they grate at his survival instincts. 

He unravels his chakra at the door, giving the ANBU team about 60 seconds warning of his presence as he scrubs his hands. He’s realized his whole not-existing-until-he’s-right-in-front-you shtick is a bit unsettling. He, of course, learned this the hard way, when he just waltzed in the door and ANBU Wolf nearly took his head off with a rather terrifying lightning jutsu. The man probably feels bad about it. Probably. 

The door swings open as he shoulders through and sweeps the room with his eyes. He carefully does not pry on their signatures, because that would be rude, but it’s also two teams he’s been exposed to plenty of times before, so it’s hard to stop his mind from putting the few legal names he knows to animal masks. Wolf, Fox, and Cat work together almost exclusively. Frog is the only other operative in the room. Which leaves Rabbit and Boar as the two unaccounted for. 

It’s not the worst post-mission assortment of injuries he’s seen, but he also knows that one of the squad members is in the operating room with Iō, who really isn’t fond of operating on ninja. Iō is better at the mystic palm than Mo will ever be, (better than all of them save Tsunade herself really) but he’s always had a bit of a weak stomach when it comes to surgeries and active chakra networks. Probably an old trauma. Probably some half-baked attempt at healing gone terribly wrong. Mo’s never asked.

The operative with Iō is relatively stable, however, so he doesn’t see the need to rush.

His teacher’s head snaps up at the creak of the door. 

“Mamoru-san, you’re not scheduled till six.” Somehow, his sensei’s token refusal sounds more like she’s disappointed Mo didn’t come earlier. Asshole. 

He shrugs, noncommittal, and nods to the captain of the team respectfully. Wolf nods back. 

He turns back to his sensei. “Where do you want me?”

“Fox-san,” his teacher says, wiping the sweat off her brow. “Then take over for Iō-san in O3.”

He nods, mentally chiding the drop of pride that settles in his stomach at the admission.

“Mamoru-san,” She says, a sternness in her voice that wasn’t there before, “now.”

Yamanaka Akina was a woman approaching seventy. She trained under Tsunade, was absolutely the head medic for ANBU for a really long time, and she has, on multiple occasions, shook Mamoru by his collar for not pursuing the jounin track. She was also, most unfortunately, the second of the two teachers Mo’s had who seem able to read his mind.

“Yes, yes,” Mo mumbles, unbecoming of the situation, but walks over to the ninja giving off truly terrible vibes in the corner regardless. 

It’s easy after that to slip into something more professional. When he gestures for him to lay down, Fox stays sitting upright, his posture carefully neutral. Mo’s used to ninja not trusting him and takes it in stride. Ninja don’t usually like strange teenagers touching them and bossing them around. He can emphasize. 

“I’m going to touch your feet. It’s a simple diagnosis jutsu and should only feel like you’re dipping your toes in water.” 

Again, he doesn’t get a verbal or physical response, but Fox’s chakra twists slightly, almost resigned to the physical contact. 

Mo kneels and slots his fingertips between the shinobi’s metatarsals. He carefully ignores the blood covering both of Fox’s feet, sandals, and shins, almost like he had kicked right through some unlucky bastard. Fox’s chakra spikes at the touch, angry, but dims when nothing seems to happen after that. 

“Alright,” he says, more to himself, and the old blood on his fingertips evaporates with a flick of his wrist.

It’s always a special treat when he gets to do that to ANBU. ANBU are the only ninja he knows who have non-medical seals literally tattooed to their skin. An absolutely insane concept. The seal drums even and steady on their right deltoids, always present and never fluctuating. Mo has yet to figure out what it does. It is, again, nothing like the Senju medical seals Tsunade-sama and Jiraiya put together-- the ones that can pause bleeding, facilitate cellular regeneration, block nerve pain, and more. It’s probably in the Uzushio style, judging by the movement of the chakra, but Mo can’t be sure. Again, he’s no seal master. He doesn’t have that kind of dedication. 

Mo looks over his shoulder, still crouched before Fox. 

Fox’s injuries are minor compared to his teammate in O3 (Rabbit, his mind unhelpfully supplies, which leaves veteran Boar as the one who is either missing or in a sealing scroll) and Frog who is getting patched up by his teacher. Even the captain, who is no doubt trying to be the tough guy and waiting until his team is seen first, is worse for wear. Wolf is definitely cradling a shattered wrist, even if he looks like he’s just crossing his arms intimidatingly. The young ANBU beside Wolf is suspiciously unharmed in comparison to the rest of the team and feels more like a tree than a person. Mo was momentarily torn between scientific marvel and absolute terror the first time he was exposed to ANBU Cat. He does not deal with ANBU Cat. He has never been asked, and he is certainly not going to volunteer. 

He should really just go help Iō.

Yamanaka-sensei would throttle him if he offered to help her. Teaching him to know his limits is one thing, respecting her own is clearly another. As a career medic, the Tenketsu on her wrists and her brachial arteries are calcified-- letting out a mere trickle of the chakra she used to command. Overuse of the Tenketsu does that, and with Konoha’s chronic lack of medics, it’s the reality of every specialist who heals with their own chakra. 

Handicapped as she is (not that he’d ever say that out loud), Yamanaka-sensei is just about done with ANBU Frog and Mo doesn’t see the point in wasting chakra on someone who’s injuries are more wear and tear than anything else. 

He opens his mouth, intent on beckoning the captain and leaving Fox to his own devices, but something causes pause. The urge to help is there, raw and aching in a way Mo is wholly unfamiliar with. The only time he ever feels proud of what he does is when Kokoro scrapes her knee. Even then, it’s more of a first pump to the air at being useful for his baby sister than a divine calling to heal. 

ANBU Fox, however, always seems to bring out a religious side to him. 

Annoying. 

“Left leg, then right. After that we’ll deal with your back and right shoulder in one swoop. The concussion is going to be fixed the natural way. Do you want me to fix the, um-” He gestures to his own face mildly. 

Fox’s blatant disgust at the offer is predictable. 

He nods and projects his movements as he grabs Fox’s left shin first. 

The ANBU’s legs are terribly damaged. It’s the kind of muscular damage that would put a regular ninja out for a month, then a year, then their career. But this is not the first time he’s met Fox, and it’s certainly not the first time he’s put Fox’s legs back together for him. He falls into the mundane trance of healing pretty smoothly.

He knits the frayed muscle into place first because it’s the easy part. It’s also the part that hurts the most at rest. The bone is harder to fix, obviously, but he eats away at the sclerosis as he comes across it and takes his time as he mends the fracture at his distal femur. It’s made difficult through the layer of chakra-resistant cloth, but he also is most definitely not asking Fox to take his pants off. He’ll deal. 

As he switches to the right leg, Mo wonders how Fox could even walk with legs this bad. This damage is obviously not from the mission but instead years and years of an extremely lower extremity centered fighting style. One that, clearly, he did not always have the strength to support. He must’ve found this fighting style young and stuck with it.

Unfortunately for him, the damage has been done. All Mo can do is fix what’s broken as it’s presented to him. Fox probably has some kind of chakra-induced paraesthesia. It’s probably chronic, (maybe numbing, maybe prickling) and Fox definitely uses the fact that he can’t feel the pain of his bones splintering over the pain of his nerve damage to his own advantage.

Mo’s seen something similar in Might Guy, who comes in from time to time to whine about Mo cheating on him while also being unabashedly proud of the teen for some reason. Guy’s body, however, is big and dense and reinforced with all kinds of careful training and dedication. He’s trying to work around the damage he’s done to his nerves, like someone smart who listens to Mo’s careful medical advice.

Fox seems to think his body is more an obstacle to overcome than any part of himself. 

Mo clicks his tongue as he rolls back onto his heels. He considers the older man’s legs for a moment, considering the pros and cons of undoing some of what he fixed. He may have gone a bit overboard with the healing, but, well, maybe Fox won’t notice. It’s not like he touched the nerves.

Okay, so he’s absolutely going to notice but hopefully not until he stands up, which saves Mo at least until he’s done with his shoulder. 

“Armor,” he says and Fox doesn’t hesitate to take the chest plate off. 

It’s always like this. Fox grows progressively more docile the longer Mo deals with him. The wall leading to his chakra doesn’t let up and it’s not like they chit-chat, but Fox makes it almost too easy to get lost in it. He’s broken enough for Mo to just… stay busy. 

There’s a metaphor somewhere in there. Probably. 

Of course, Fox is also never not on guard. Even Wolf has passed out on Mo before, letting the natural state of his chakra leak out around him at the aching relief of being home and safe (Which probably speaks more to the man’s injuries than any soothing qualities Mo has, but still). Mo’s patched this particular team up at least a dozen times since Yamanaka-sensei deemed him capable. A penny’s worth of trust would be nice, but Mo’s not going to beg for something he’ll never even ask for.

-there’s an idea there, of who Fox is but Mo thinks Shisui would rather chew his own arm off before ever being touched by Mo of all people and Mo certainly doesn’t blame him for that particular sentiment but that thought, too, slips away before it can even form, just as it always does-

Mo hums at the tanktop clad back he’s faced him. 

It’s really just some bad bruising and superficial cuts. He can’t see the bruising--because Fox is still clothed, the ass--but he can tell how his chakra curls around to lick at the most painful wounds. He has the sneaking suspicion Fox was literally dragged across the ground for an extended period of time. Probably by his neck, which is also bruised but thankfully undamaged, and probably over sand and rock.

Maybe there’s some muscle strain, but in a job like Fox’s isn’t there always muscle strain? Mo can deal with the swelling, at least, but most of this is going to heal the old fashion way. He’ll just kick start the process. The shoulder pain is just a minor fracture to his clavicle, which is, like, one of the most common things Mo sees so it’s nothing much to fix. Fox had the sense to augment his shoulder blades, at least, so those are relatively fine. 

His back is also relatively fine. Mo sensed such in the beginning, but with Fox’s track record he kind of expected a spontaneous herniation or something. His eyes tell him what he already knew, but, selfishly, Mo smooths a hand over the knobs of Fox’s spine, taking some of the ache away as he goes. Wear and tear types are tough. He’s not usually so dedicated, given that they tend to just run right off and ruin all of Mo’s hard work, but it’s Fox, so he tries.

He only wishes Fox would let him do something about those eyes.

“Mamoru-san,” his sensei says and Mo’s concentration snaps at the sound of his own name. “Go with Iō-san.”

There’s hesitation Mo doesn’t recognize in his hands. Like he wants to waste more chakra here, with Fox, rather than save his co-worker from unloading his lunch on the unconscious Rabbit. Fox is fine. He’s been fine. Mo knows this. Mo knew this from the start. 

“Alright,” he says, but finishes flushing out the excess fluid anyway. He steps away, takes a moment to appreciate his work, then finally leaves the room. A full forty seconds after Yamanaka-sensei asked of him. 

Iō looks like he’s torn between kissing Mo on the face and throwing up on him. Mo ignores his gushing with a practiced grace. Iō is, as expected, much better than Mo at biological aspects of things and therefore much better at healing grave injuries like Rabbit’s perforated bowel. Mo can snap a femur back in place and heal the vessels just as well as anyone else. Iō, however, had literally rebuilt someone’s lung right before Mo’s eyes. Mo helped, sure, but still. Iō was the more talented of the two of them. He was Yamanaka-sensei’s student in name only. Iō was a master of the highest degree. He was so good it pissed Mo off sometimes, envy dripping down his throat as he looked at the older man with his wife and career and friends and talent that seemed to fall from the sky and into his lap. And Iō, for all that he is better than Mo, is just so nice about it. He never acts like Mo is stupid, lacking that he is, he just teaches the blond what he needs to know and moves on. 

But Mo has other things to worry about, so he grits his teeth and lets his eyes take in the gruesome scene of Rabbit’s open abdomen and the plethora of blood in the surrounding area. His senses say there’s… something in Rabbit. Some kind of particles that circulate in his blood and bowel and kidneys that just shouldn’t be there. Some of the particles are tainted with a kind of chakra Mo can’t quite recognize, but others just feel as blank as a rock.

“It’s sand,” Iō explains, giving merit to the rock theory. He gestures to the metal pan beside him. Two tablespoons worth of clumpy bloody sand are collected there. “It’s like he was sandblasted from the outside in then out again. None of the damage is particularly grave, but the foreign bodies are concerning. There’s so much of it that I worry we’ll be here all day.” 

“Even I can’t catch all of it,” Mo says, troubled. “At least, not in one go. There’s a good amount augmented with some kind of chakra. Those I can remove, but the rest is going to be trickier.”

Iō looks disappointed but not surprised. He continues his report. “The damage to the bowel was extensive. I closed up the major wounds--” he points to two newly healed areas, the new muscle there about a centermeter’s diameter but more than enough to kill any lesser man. “--but the weapon used was sand. Some of the damage is so fine that I can’t even map it with chakra. Do you--”

“I can manage that.”

“Good, because otherwise we’d have to go through the whole thing inch by inch.”

Not how Mo wants to spend his Tuesday. 

With Rabbit unconscious, Mo doesn’t have to worry about him rejecting his chakra. So Mo places his hand on his chest and wills a lot more chakra than he usually does for the diagnosis jutsu. It’s really more of an assessment, but Yamanaka-sensei taught him that with shinobi, the less specifics they know about their healing the better. Otherwise, they’ll just start trying to fix it themselves. 

The technique sends Mo’s chakra out into his patient’s system. It acts as a scout, telling him where the patient’s cells have taken up arms, where the system is imbalanced, and where their chakra is pooling in the body’s subconscious inflammatory response. Mo hasn’t changed it much from its initial design, but he has streamlined it a bit. His flexibility with his chakra signature comes in handy. Unless they're particularly sensitive, like a Hyuuga for example, not many ninja can tell his chakra is saturating their system at all.

As Iō explains what he did, Mo feels it out for himself. His coworker dealt with the most grave injuries, (the penny sized holes in his intestine and the ruptured gallbladder and the damage that being so close to volatile chakra signature does to the heart and lungs). Mo would, in turn, be dealing with everything Iō skipped over in the hasty attempt to save Rabbit’s life (the infection and excess fluid and the smaller holes that may heal or may rupture and those pesky little particles of sand floating around in Rabbit’s systems).

“So, Mamoru-kun,” Iō says, “do you need anything?”  

Another medic would be ideal, but Yamanaka-sensei and Iō are both at the tail end of their night shift. In the other room Yamanaka-sensei’s chakra is so depleted he’s surprised she’s even standing. She’s probably been here longer than a single shift. Iō still looks like he might throw up at any moment. 

He hums. 

“You can go,” he says, already rechecking Iō’s work. It’s perfect, frustratingly enough. Iō really was one of the best. 

Iō claps a hand on his shoulder, leaving Rabbit’s blood there, and Mo gets to work. 

He starts by clearing out the infection and any parts of Rabbit that are not where they ought to be. It only takes a moment to track the fine holes in the muscle walls, and only another moment to seal them over with a sheen of chakra. Rabbit’s chakra system is already shot, so Mo has to offer some of his own to help new tissue truly fix the damage. 

The sand in his system is… troubling. He could, theoretically, cut into each area he senses a particle and just take it right out. But that would mean more blood loss and more chakra depletion and Rabbit already looks pale and clammy even with three extra units of blood in his system. There’s barely a glass of water under Mo’s hands. Rabbit usually feels like a river.

It’s the longest and most painstaking process, one that only starts when Mo knows there’s nothing else left but closing. He spares his own chakra reserves a moment’s pity before getting to work. Rabbit’s body is rejecting the foreign chakra imbued in the sand, so it’s easy to pinpoint. After that it’s just a matter of… pushing it out the door. The door being Rabbit’s kidneys, which filter out the toxins much better than any ninjutsu could ever manage. Medical ninjutsu, at its core, is just a crutch for the body to lean on. They can’t fix the unfixable. They can just speed up what would happen eventually. The removal itself only takes another minute and he will not be discussing that particular process with anyone but Yamanaka-sensei herself.

He’ll leave the chakra-less sand for the follow up. Unless Rabbit decides to run off for a rematch with whatever ninja did this, Mo’s certain it’ll be fine. He might get a gnarly kidney stone, but whatever. 

There’s no aid in the room, because Rabbit is ANBU and these things have a certain level of secrecy, so Mo gathers his own supplies for closing. Yamanaka-sensei left around the same time Iō did. He can sense her in the basement, autopsying Boar as protocol requires them to do. It’s just Rabbit, Mo, and the four other squad members in the west wing.

Wolf body flickers to his side for that final part: where Mo stretches the skin and muscle and fat back to where it once was and neatly ties Rabbit up. He uses real stitches, which isn’t ANBU protocol because technically the work could be traced back to him, but he’s trying to make it very clear that Rabbit is benched for the foreseeable future. Rabbit will have a long and gruesome scar down his middle for the rest of his life, but Mo’s got a full shift ahead of him, so Rabbit’s going to have to heal this particular wound on his own. Despite what people may think, Mo does have a limit to his chakra.

“I couldn’t get it all out,” he breaks the careful silence as he ties the last loop off, trimming the excess. He kicks a foot behind him, half blind, but after two failed attempts he manages to drag a stool over with his foot. He sits down and peels off his gloves. His hands had gotten sweaty, so it’s actually a bit of a challenge. “Ideally, I’d have kept the wound open to go back in, but I don’t trust him enough for that. Closing doesn’t mean it’s over.”

He looks up at Wolf to make sure he’s paying attention. Wolf gives no indication that he is, but he also doesn’t seem like he isn’t, so Mo soldiers on.

“Don’t have him go to the ANBU medics. Yamanaka-sensei is due back Thursday night. Iō and I will be here tomorrow and the next day. Follow up will just be an assessment, so he can choose when and with who so long as it's within the next two days and one of us three. Afterward, we’ll schedule a date with me to get it out.”

Wolf considers him for a moment.

Mo puts his hands up in surrender. Out of all the ANBU Mo has met, Wolf is by far the most touchy. Fox is close behind him, but the man usually just lingers and glares instead of Wolf’s insistent hovering. “Of the three of us, I have the finest control. I’m the only one who can get it out without cutting him open again. Not that my way is going to be any more fun.”

Wolf continues to study him.

Mo hums. Somehow, he doesn’t think he got through to him.

Instead of trying to crack that nut, he slumps a little on the stool and examines the mess of the room. He could, theoretically, leave it for someone else to clean up. He should stay until Rabbit wakes up, which leaves plenty of time to tidy up, but he could say that he was too busy monitoring the patient. There’s not much to monitor though, even if Wolf’s chakra twists and turns in worry. 

Mo hooks his foot around the other stool behind him and slides it toward Wolf. Wolf studies it for a moment, but remains standing. 

“Sit down,” Mo says, his elbows leaning on his knees. “Otherwise I’ll have to stand and that is not happening.” 

Wolf hesitates just long enough for Mo to understand that he’s not doing it because Mo told him to. 

Mo, used to dealing with bratty seven year olds, takes it in stride. 

He holds out a hand and Wolf obediently drops his damaged wrist on it, not even bothering to hide it anymore. The masked face turns away, staring instead at the gentle rise and fall of Rabbit’s still bare chest. 

“He’ll wake up in, ah, twenty minutes or so,” Mo says. He doesn’t bother to numb the area as he shifts the shattered bones into place like a particularly tricky puzzle. Wolf doesn’t like it when Mo numbs him (which is stupid because that has to hurt , but Wolf is the patient so Mo defers to his will). “I’m sure you figured it out already, but he’ll be fine.” 

“...Fine?” 

“Right as rain,” Mo shrugs, not looking up from Wolf’s wrist, “yellow as a daffodil, sweet as pie-- whatever you want to call it.”

Wolf remains carefully still before him. The anxious twist in the man’s chakra should make Mo nervous in return, but he really can’t be bothered. Mo maneuvers his wrist this way and that, checking the conductivity of the bone and assesses for any damage to the vessels. He’s not sure why Wolf is being so depressing. He should be glad, frankly, because by all accounts Rabbit should be far worse off than he is. Instead, Rabbit will be on the bench for maybe a month or so, then he’ll be right back to it. Usually, an injury like this would be a career ender, if not a life ender, but Rabbit was lucky to have Iō, Mo, and Yamanaka-sensei handling his care. Honestly, it was kind of overkill. Typically, only one of the three would handle an entire team. 

Wolf’s team just happened to get lucky, he supposes. Well, as lucky as someone who had a run in with a sand demon can be--

--Oh shit, he never actually told Wolf any of that, did he? 

Mo lets the wrist go and sits a little straighter. 

“I’ll write up some more detailed instructions for care,” he says and looks at the medical miracle that is Rabbit and finally sees the person laying there. The one who is no doubt Wolf’s friend. The one who Wolf dragged back from Wind Country himself. The one who just survived a grave injury and who’s teammate did not, getting cut open and pierced back together again underneath their feet. 

He stands up and grabs a thin blanket, the kind they give to weary old grandmas when they feel a chill, before laying the cloth up to Rabbit’s chest. The wound finally out of view. “Four days strict bedrest with the exception of reporting here in two. After that standard protocol for this kind of injury will suffice. If he adheres to his physical therapy he should be back to it in two months. Full function should be preserved, so long as there are no reactions to the toxic chakra he was exposed to. I don’t think that’s likely.”

Wolf nods.

“You, um, you’re welcome to stick around,” he offers, already starting to clean up the instruments and clothes soaked in blood. “If you want, I mean. Technically, I have the clearance to watch over him by myself, so no pressure, but, uh, if you--” 

The teenager who feels like a tree knocks on the door.

Still seated, Wolf’s chakra beacons in what must be an ANBU ‘clear to enter’ code. ANBU Cat slides open the door and steps in. Behind him, the door remains cracked, rendering the silencing seals on it useless. It’s just the ANBU squad and Mo in this wing, so he lets it slide. He broke protocol by healing Fox. Fox broke protocol by letting him. Wolf broke protocol by not disclosing his injury, then again when he came into the operating room without permission. He’s pretty sure the entire team is breaking protocol right now, given that not a single one of them has moved to notify the Hokage of literally any of the stuff they were required to-- like their arrival and the enemy they obviously faced, and the fact that they skipped right over rehabilitation to bleed out on Yamanaka-sensei’s stoop. In the face of all that, what’s one more protocol broken?

“Taichou, sensei,” Cat greets, his voice without inflection. He bows slightly to Mo before he turns to Wolf. “Frog and Fox are worried.” 

A hand jets through the crack, karate chopping the top of Cat’s skull. 

“You numbskull,” Frog hisses, bullying his way into the room, “That’s not-- don’t just say that--” 

“He’ll be fine,” Wolf says to the collective relief of his team and Frog. 

Fox slinks in after Frog, sliding angled at the door like he’s contemplating running away. Frog steps into place beside Wolf, still seated on the stool, and the two flash through a thousand hand signs Mo doesn’t recognize.

Mo is recounting his instruments when Wolf looks back at him. He raises a less than impressed eyebrow, already well aware of how close knit this particular group of assassins is. Wolf’s probably going to dip and leave one of the others to babysit Mo and Rabbit.

“Frog will stay,” he says predictably, leaving no room for argument.

“Cat will stay,” Mo counters anyway, “Frog needs to go sleep off his chakra exhaustion.” 

Wolf stares at him for a long moment. Frog’s chakra flares angry and offended even under the careful wraps all ANBU operatives operate under. Mo makes it clear that he is far too busy cleaning his equipment to notice such feelings. Frog is injured, running on fumes, and has lost a member of his squad with another still unconscious. If anyone is going to report to the Hokage about their happenings, it really should be Frog. Mo suspects there are ‘feelings’ at play here, just judging from the easy comradery Frog and Rabbit have shown in the past. Even still, Frog is a patient and needs sleep, not anxiety. Most of all, Mo doesn’t want to wait indefinitely with an ANBU operative who will hover and soak sadness into the room as they wait for Rabbit to wake. Frog would probably ask him questions, too, which Mo is still not awake enough to deal with. 

From the other side of the room, Fox shifts slightly and Frog looks over. By the manner in which they both go carefully still and quiet, Mo suspects there’s some sharingan fuckery going on there. Probably some kind of genjutsu communication which would no doubt be more helpful if their correspondence was sped up a little. 

As it stands, Mo finishes awkwardly cleaning off his equipment while Fox and Frog have a three minute silent argument in the middle of the room, still as manikins.

At the end of those three minutes, Frog jerks away from Fox’s line of sight. Fox then nods to Wolf.

“Cat will stay,” Wolf concedes.

Mo gives a half-assed salute. Cat’s nod feels much more patriotic.

After that, the three scariest dudes Mo knows vanish in thin air, all leaving Mo’s dampened range within the next ten seconds. The fourth scariest stands stock still in the corner, watching. The fifth remains unconscious on the table, breathing soft and slow as his body adjusts to the changes. Their rankings are not stagnant. Mo adjusts them as needed for a given situation. Fox, however, always tops the chart as the scariest.

Cat continues to stand in the corner.

It comes to him then, waiting impatiently for Rabbit to wake up so he could shoo them both out of the facility, that Fox had damaged the shoulder with the seal on it. The seal that was literally his only clue as to who ordered him to kill Bashira and who was trying to steal away his siblings and who was also maybe trying to kill him. 

He was right there. It was right there. 

Why didn’t he look at it? 

… 

Iō and Yamanaka-sensei go home. 

Mo is not so lucky. 

Apparently tending to an unexpected ANBU team does not excuse him from clinic duty. Yamanaka-sensei says this is teaching him to better understand biological processes. Mo thinks it’s wearing down his patience. 

It takes a while for Rabbit to reacclimate. It takes longer for Mo to explain what he and Iō did and what Rabbit needs to do now to stay alive. Because of that, he’s two hours late to his shift, so the appointments all start with the same formula of Mo introducing himself, apologizing for the wait, and insisting that yes, he is young, but he is the senior most medic on duty and I promise you are in good hands--. It’s numbing, almost, and after the fifthteenth patient asks him if he’s certain there isn’t someone older who can look at them he’s tempted to just take an early lunch. 

He’s been working here with Yamanaka-sensei for the past year and a half. Six months into his apprenticeship with the main village hospital, which serves shinobi and civilians alike, she petitioned to join her at this more… secluded facility. It was founded by the Second Hokage as a sort of intensive care slash research-centered alternative to the central hospital. Tsunade, when she was still in the village, expanded upon the absolutely terrible idea that is a combination unconscious shinobi ward and research facility because why would any ninja trust that and why would civilians let their tax dollars fund that? So, she split the facility into two: North and South. This location, the North one, doubles as a free clinic for civilians and as an advanced trauma ward for ninja who’s injuries are grave, sensitive in nature, or require a certain level of discretion. That and it treats ninja who are just too dangerous to be trusted half-awake in a busier part of the village. It is also where shinobi autopsies are performed when one's clan doesn’t have the capabilities, when an ANBU dies in duty, or when the shinobi lacks a clan and an autopsy is required. Yamanaka-sensei took over as head after retiring from ANBU some twenty years ago, four years before Tsunade’s early retirement. The South facility, the research half of the original idea, has since been disbanded, but Orichimaru was its head from its conception to its end. When the man’s gross misconduct was revealed, most of those who worked under him either escaped alongside him or were executed. That side of the facility hasn’t had the time to recover, the major clans still wary of its revival and stomping out any attempt for a formal reinstatement, necessary as that evil may be.

Not that Mo minds. The disbandment of the South Facility meant that any leftover research and texts had been moved to Yamanaka-sensei’s private collection. The one Iō has full access to. Mo doesn’t, because he hasn’t proven himself “trustworthy,” but Iō is determined to help Mo get better at this healing thing, so he takes what he thinks Mo will find interesting and leaves it open on his desk. The desk that sits directly behind Mo’s. 

It’s not the sneakiest of betrayals, but Mo finds himself moved regardless. 

All that is to say that Mo really hates clinic duty. It is, however, the only reason the Hokage did not disband the Northern location when he burned the Southern one. Yamanaka-sensei insists that most of their workload is civilian based and she isn’t wrong about that. In this time of relative peace, it isn’t often that shinobi are injured gravely enough to warrant a visit to the North Facility. Their clientele is mainly the sickest of the civilian population, those who cannot afford their treatments or were turned away from other locations. Their funding, however, comes from the ANBU budget, which is never lacking.

The North Facility trains ANBU medics and picks up the slack when said ANBU medics become overwhelmed. Yamanaka-sensei is constantly trying to convince him to join ANBU, and Mo is constantly trying to explain why that is a Terrible Idea. But Konoha is chronically lacking medics. Civilians aren’t encouraged to pursue the education required of a chakra-less medic (much harder to do, given that they cannot use seals or chakra to stop bleeding and complete assessments. It therefore requires a much larger reserve of anatomical knowledge and skills), and those in the shinobi profession don’t tend to pick up arms and go through all that training just to heal. Medics, therefore, are either extremely passionate about their profession, like Iō, or who just kind of fell into it, like Mo and Yamanaka-sensei. When Tsunade was still loyal there was an uptick in interest, so there’s a fair amount of shinobi and civilians alike aged 30 to 50 who have basic training and skills. 

One such 30 year old is the reason Mo can finally sit down. 

Haruno Mebuki is here today, coming in late after dropping her daughter off at school. She takes one look at Mo and his pitiful reserves and sends him off to the back to cool off. She takes over his next three appointments, those which are just follow-ups and don’t require her to diagnose a new illness or prescribe any further implementations. If she does see the need, she’ll do so and write a report to him. This isn’t the first time Mebuki-san has picked up his slack. 

He spends this rare pause staring at the ceiling, not thinking about much of anything, with his hands behind his head and the front two legs of his chair off the ground. 

There’s someone at the window, but he’s ignoring that for now. It’s probably some fucking ninja who wants a free heal to fix some stupid mistake they made in training or on a mission or something. It’s not the first time an unknown ninja has up and dropped in on him. It won’t be the last. Some of them genuinely need assistance, but the help needed ranges from hi-i’m-actively-bleeding-out-and-heard-you-wouldn’t-rat-on-me (lies-- he always rats on them… if he can remember their name, that is) to oh-no-I-hurt-my-finger-please-look-at-it-and-by-the-way-do-you-want-to-get-a-drink-with-me (more social interaction? No thanks). Both of which are supremely annoying. Given that this particular ninja has made no move to just force his way in, Mo suspects he is not, in fact, dying and therefore not Mo’s problem.

He does not recognize the signature at the window with its hearthfire glow and earthy foundation, so he sits and lets them stew while he stares at the ceiling. He already checked their chakra over and they’re perfectly healthy. All he wants is a goddamn minute to himself. Is that too much to ask? 

His window creeper’s chakra grows pinched with anxiety. He sighs, deep and resigned to his fate of being too mean and too nice at the same damn time. Taking pity on what really just feels like some wayward teenage Uchiha who very well might just need condoms or something, he turns his head to face the new presence squatting on his windowsill. 

The front two legs slam to the floor as he flies to the window in an embarrassing display of eagerness. 

“Ita- uh, Itachi, um, Itachi-san?” he manages to stammer out, ushering the younger teen into what really isn’t even an office. It may have been an office once, but it had been turned into a supply closet and now it’s slowly being turned back into his and Iō’s shared office space. And by office space he means a place to hide from their responsibilities and Yamanaka-sensei. Sometimes they think tank seals here, but it's mainly just a place to hide. 

“Itachi,” the Uchiha insists, soft and amused but also so tired that Mo feels the distinct urge to check his temperature.

Itachi eases into the room and closes the window behind him. He’s dressed in standard blue pants and a generic Uchiha shirt: high-collar and clan mon included. He’s shot up in recent years. He’s not nearly as tall as Mo, barely hitting the older teen’s shoulder, but tall enough to not look so small anymore. His eye bags have only gotten worse, but Itachi never struck him as the take-it-easy type. 

He taps the sill twice and a genjutsu Mo doesn’t recognize swims its way up the panel of glass. Probably a privacy one. 

“Itachi,” he concedes, still a little star-struck. He’s not sure what to do with his hands. He puts one on his hip and the other on the desk. “I, um, haven’t seen you in a while.” 

Itachi just hums, his eyes inspecting the room.

Mo beats down the flush on his cheeks. He’s seventeen. He’s responsible for literally so many lives on a day to day basis. He just fixed up three different ANBU without breaking a sweat or being intimidated. He shouldn’t be embarrassed of a messy room like this. 

But the room is, in fact, an absolute disaster. Paperwork and textbooks and spare supplies and the Senju-style seals Yamanaka-sensei made them mass produce are scattered around the room in no discernable order. His lunchbox from four days ago is still sitting on Iō’s desk. One of Orochimaru’s forbidden scrolls is on his desk, where it sits alongside the latest pile of chicken scratch notes Mo has made on it. Iō offered to steal it for him two months ago. Yamanaka-sensei hasn’t noticed (allegedly). 

“I don’t live like this,” he blurts. 

Itachi levels him with A Look and he falls apart a little too easily. 

“Okay, I do, but that’s mainly the kids’ fault.” 

The look continues. 

“...but it may also be my fault,” he offers, feeling scorned. 

“You don’t need to explain yourself,” he says graciously. 

Mo feels like he might faint. This is an insanely stressful situation. What the hell happened to “I never want to see you again” (AN: that is not, in fact, what Itachi said to him). He’s not sure he can handle this. He really, really did not expect to see Itachi until he was forced to go to his coronation as clan head or Hokage or supreme world overlord or something. He made jounin over a year ago, barely twelve in peacetime.

“You seem busy,” Itachi offers to the silence, meeting Mo’s eyes. 

“Ah, yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his head with one hand and flicking some patient records over Orochimaru’s scroll with the other. Itachi definitely saw them, but he has to at least pretend to be sorry. “You know how it is.”

“I suppose.” 

He’s not injured, which is probably worse than if he was. If he was injured Mo could just fix him up and send him off and forget about this. But Itachi is very much not injured and Mo has suddenly forgotten how to interact with uninjured individuals above the age of seven. 

“Would you like to spar?” 

A startled and extremely unflattering half-laugh escapes him. 

“Right now?” he asks, not even bothering to hide his smile. 

“If you have the time.” 

“Oh, why the hell not,” Mo says breathily. He opens the door behind him, calling to the receptionist who’s name he still does not know that he’ll be taking his lunch early. She can hear the disapproval in her voice as she yells back her confirmation, but Mo is too busy crawling out the window after Itachi and feeling lighter than air itself to really give a shit. 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who’s going to win this spar. 

Itachi is a jounin, but he’s probably not ANBU. If he is, he’s in training, because over the last year, Mo has been in the unfortunate position of one of three pseudo-ANBU healers. That’s not to say he knows everyone, but… Mo has definitely not felt Itachi’s chakra signature since they were in Iwa together. Three years ago. 

Itachi’s signature has changed a lot in those three years. 

Mo takes the time to study it as they race towards the woods. There’s a heaviness around his eyes and that certain twang of cool energy at his heart and the back of his neck that speaks of a yin imbalance. Strange, because Mo recalls Itachi’s chakra being carefully balanced before, but not unheard of. People learn to specialize and they change. People, after all, do change. 

The exception to that being Uchiha Shisui, who still burns bright and loud on the edge of Mo’s range. 

He hasn’t seen Shisui in the last two years. He’s felt his presence, loud and suffocating and intense, on the edges of his sensory range, but Mo’s apartment is far from the Uchiha settlement, and Shisui doesn’t stray from there often. Sometimes he stretches his senses, just to test them, and the older teen is there, brighter and louder than anyone and Mo doesn’t know if it’s because Shisui was the first person Mo sensed in close range or if he’s just naturally that magnetic, but he makes it hard to look away. The older teen still feels like the kind of dry heat that would eat Mo alive and dammit even after everything why was that still so-

-and Mo very carefully folds that thought and tucks it away.

Fucking hormones.

“Ready?” Itachi says. They’re in a field now, bracketed by large trees and distinctly not a training ground Mo recognizes. It’s not even a formal one, really. Given how far they’ve gone from civilization, Mo suspects Itachi has led him into some hidden gem deep in the woods.

Mo blinks. “For what?”

The fire in Itachi’s chakra glows a little, amused. “The spar.”

“Oh yeah,” He had, actually, forgotten all about that. “The spar.”

The quiet expanse of tall grass rustles in a small breeze and Mo shields his eyes as he looks up at the late morning sun. August in Konoha is wet and humid and frankly disgusting and today is no exception. The weather benefits the rice paddy farmers in the east and no-one else. The kids will have a break from school in the second half of the month, when the weather is just too dangerous to be training in without the ability to cool oneself with chakra. 

But the weather is little worry for any shinobi worth their salt. Terrain, on the other hand, is a bit more concerning. 

Mo sweeps his eyes across the field. The grass tickles his knees and expands in an almost circular twelve meter radius. This was most likely the site of some years-old wayward jutsu. Meadows like this aren’t common in this part of Fire County. Surrounding the grass and tufts of wildflowers is the usual site of Hashirama’s trees and evergreen underbrush. It’s a typical enough area. Had he been on a mission, he’d be concerned about traps in the tall grass, but he suspects this is one of Itachi’s usual haunts and not exactly public knowledge. 

“Right, yeah, uh- taijutsu first?” 

“Yes.” 

“Weapons allowed?” 

“Do you have any?”

Mo pats his outer thigh, where his holster should be but isn’t. He pats the other just in case (also empty) before offering a shug to Itachi. 

“No weapons then,” Itachi concedes, looking a bit disappointed in him. Mo is also disappointed in himself. It’s not like him to go anywhere unarmed. Has he truly gotten so complacent in these past two years? He hopes not.

“No weapons,” he nods and settles onto his heels. 

The spar starts slowly, a testing of old waters. Itachi’s eyes don’t bleed red, because this is a taijutsu match, and Mo doesn’t stretch his senses to predict his friend’s intentions. They take their time assessing the other. 

Itachi is the one who moves first, as it always seems to be, and he launches forward in a blur of pure speed. Mo catches the swift kick which is aimed at his midsection, but Itachi uses the halted momentum to his own advantage, kicking into Mo’s chest with his other foot while the blond’s hands are busy. 

A gasp of breath leaves him as he recoils, letting go of Itachi and flipping back to give himself some room. Itachi, however, is not as kind as he once was, and follows after the older teen. 

Mo loses the tempo of the fight almost immediately, always feeling a hair’s breadth from a mortal blow as he ducks and dodges his way through Itachi’s flawless katas. When he was younger, Mo’s style of fighting relied on his small stature and ability to run away. Such things were helpful for a boy on the cusp of war. Even during the chunin exams, when Mo was much bigger than Itachi but not nearly as big as a typical adult, he fought by being crafty and lithe, keeping away from mortal blows by not being where his enemy expects him. Now though, nearly eight years after the end of the Third War and three years after the chunin exams, Mo is not so small. That’s not to say he’s uncoordinated, but seventeen year old Mo is a far larger target than he is used to being. His fighting style, therefore, has transformed into a mix of dodges and heavy hits. His blows now have a force behind them not many can match. Even if they can, his neutral chakra eats through their augmentations. He can bruise and break a ninja just as easily as he could any civilian on the street. Mo uses his larger size to cast a single finishing blow, one that exploits a flaw in his opponent’s technique. 

Itachi, however, has no such flaw.  

It quickly becomes a humbling matter of blocking, rather than dodging, as Mo refuses to be backed into the tree cover. Itachi takes the change in stride, attacking the older shinobi with the same aggravating string of flawless maneuvers. 

Mo shifts his stance, pulling his left foot back and angling his body to parry Itachi’s kick to his right shoulder. Itachi’s next move is a bit more obvious now that Mo’s used to his rhythm. He sacrifices his ribs, letting the younger’s punch hit clean, and shoots his foot out in a sort of half kick. It doesn’t have as much force as he’d like, but it connects with the side of Itachi’s shin and calf all the same. 

A slight narrowing of the younger teen’s ink colored eyes is the only indication the blow hurt at all. Mo, on the other hand, grits his teeth and chokes as Itachi most definitely snaps two of his ribs. 

Itachi’s guard is up now, more hesitant than before now that he remembers Mo’s strength comes from his superior control and not his mass.

Mo launches into a series of rapid strikes, testing Itachi’s defenses from every angle. Itachi parries each with calm efficiently, not wasting a single movement and not letting any land. He seizes a moment there, when Mo grows sloppy and his fist rotates a bit too far, to feint low before arching a foot up and into Mo’s guard. Mo stumbles back, narrowly avoiding a devastating blow to his already injured side. 

But the stumble leaves him open, and Itachi has never been one to waste an opportunity. Itachi weaves through Mo’s attempt at blocking like a needle and thread. His fist connects with Mo’s sternum in a mock mortal blow.

Mo winces, acknowledges the impact with a nod, and takes a step back in defeat. He smooths a hand over his ribs, half-healing the damage Itachi had issued him. His sternum isn’t broken, as Itachi pulled that punch significantly, but it is bruised and already aching. Itachi watches him work with the same calm expression he wore during the spar. 

He’s not frustrated with such a blatant loss. He’s fighting Itachi, after all, but the old competitive streak he thought he beat dead gains new life. Itachi was stronger than him when they made chunin, but not this much stronger. Mo can string at least ten moments together now of how Itachi could have taken him down earlier, had he been armed. Two years is a long time to learn and grow. Itachi made Jounin and he clearly deserves the rank. Mo, meanwhile, suddenly feels like he’s been sitting on his thumbs in the face of such talent. 

He does not like losing. He never has. 

“Ninjutsu,” Itachi says when Mo peels his eyes away from the treeline. The younger’s eyes are already red. 

“Ninjutsu,” Mo agrees. 

His reserves are still shot from this morning, so Mo has to play it safe. 

Mo meets Itachi’s basic, but mid-sized fire technique with a water technique of his own. The steam cover doesn’t give either of them the advantage, given that Mo can sense and Itachi’s eyes can see right through it. Mo dodges through a series of small blazes of fire shaped like crows and flashes through a series of hand signs. 

His hands clap together, then he faces his palms away from himself. The steam and humidity around them drops from the air, drenching the field in puddles of water and raising the pressure of the air just enough to cause Itachi to stumble with the sudden headache that’s attacked him.

Mo seizes his chance and uses the new water to send another basic suiton at Itachi, nothing creative but hopefully it will get Mo a hit on the jounin. Itachi recovers quickly, however, and flips away from the impact. Mo feels more like a garden hose than a threat now. 

As Itachi flips back he flies through a series of signs so quickly Mo has to guess whether it’ll be an earth or wind jutsu. Itachi’s feet land lightly and he sinks into a crouch, his palms slamming heavy into the muddy ground.

He guesses wrong, thinking Itachi was going to send a blast of wind or tornado at him, and earth roars upwards and around him. The earth rises so quickly around him that Mo’s forced to sink into the very ninjutsu threatening to swallow him to get away. Mo quickly finds himself improvising as he fights to take control over another shinobi’s technique. He’s done something similar before, directing a fire ninjutsu in a different direction than its intended mark, but he’s never tried to stop a technique from doing the thing it was made to do. He feels like he’s un-making it, somehow reverting a baked good back into its original ingredients, and has to fight against his chakra’s own instincts which are telling him to help Itachi crush him like a bug. 

He’s only half-successful. The earth that threatens to crush him yields just long enough to Mo to tunnel up and away. 

He knows Itachi is waiting for him as he emerges, but he can’t breath surrounded so completely in someone else’s chakra, so he shoots up and out of the earth anyway. In what feels like a teasing maneuver, Itachi aims a kick at Mo’s midsection, which Mo catches. 

Just like in their taijutsu match, Itachi uses the halted momentum to add force to his other leg, landing a solid and clean hit to Mo’s upper chest. 

This time, however, Mo is injured and tired and his skin itches from being inside Itachi’s technique. So as he focuses on keeping the air in his lungs Mo is launched back, body arching in the air and set to land on his own head. 

Mo twists and lands heavy on his shoulder instead, rolling with the impact but feeling the muscle of his rotator cuff stretch and pull and the ball is suddenly out of its socket.

A few curses that would make Iruka blush leave him as he pops it right back into place. He remains crouched for a moment, spar forgotten, as he rolls the extremity forward then back, lifting his arm up then down. Satisfied with his hasty fix, he flops into the grass and mud in defeat. The green is a nice cushion on his aching ribs and shoulder. The mud is a little annoying as it seeps into his clothes and hair, but whatever.

Itachi’s silhouette blocks the sun as he peers down at him. The tall grass around them shifts with the wind, uncaring of their nonsense battle. 

He knew Itachi was going to wipe the floor with him. Getting his ass beat has never felt so exhilarating, but, honestly, that was pretty bad. Itachi has steadily gotten better at the same insane rate he was pursuing before. Judging by the younger’s yin-imbalance, Mo thinks Itachi’s primary arsenal is genjutsu. If he can beat Mo so soundly with the technique he doesn’t specialize in… well, Mo is growing worried that his own rate of improvement has slowed down. Has he gotten worse? 

“Have you gotten worse?” Itachi asks, confirming what Mo absolutely did not want confirmed. 

“That’s pretty rude, you know,” he grunts, averting his gaze from Itachi to the fist full of grass in his hand. It’s feather soft. Not at all like the sharp and short blades that tend to grow around the Naka river.

“Sorry.” Itachi doesn’t look sorry at all. In fact, his chakra twists again, amused, as he stands over the older chunin. “Is your shoulder alright?” 

The one thing Mo never got the hang of was healing himself. So, no, his shoulder was not alright. His ribs, too, would need to be looked at by Yamanaka-sensei when she comes in tonight. The old woman is going to kill him. 

“Yeah. It’ll be fine.”

Itachi dries the area beside Mo with some bastardized fire/wind technique and settles cross legged beside him. He’s situated close enough that there aren't any stalks of grass between them. Instead, the green surrounds them, hiding their view of the treeline and the carnage from their spar. Only the sun stares down at them.

“We can skip Genjutsu,” Itachi offers evenly. 

Mo grunts appreciatively. His chakra is low and genjutsu has never been his calling. “I haven’t much to offer in that area.” 

“I figured,” Itachi hums, watching Mo’s hands as they cart through the grass. “I don’t train here often. I usually just sit.”

“It’s a nice place.”

“It is,” Itachi says and begins to braid a few stalks of grass together. 

Mo turns his head to watch him weave. He waits until Itachi is carting his fingers through the grass, undoing his work, before he speaks up again. “Why did you come by?” 

Itachi finishes smoothing out the blades of grass. His fingers press on one particular kink that refuses to take its original shape. Eventually, Itachi just lets that stalk droop slightly, leaving it to heal or die on its own time. 

“Something reminded me of you.”

Mo squints at him. “Like… a dog or something?”

“No,” Itachi says, then amends: “though Sasuke has recently taken to feeding a stray cat with your likeness.”

“What?” 

“He found him under the engawa. He’s very sneaky,” he says, like that explains anything. 

“Okay?” Mo frowns. He’s not sure how to feel about that. 

“He’s a cream tabby with green eyes. He also has scabs around his nose.”

“What- my freckles aren’t scabs.”

“It makes him look like you,” Itachi shrugs. “But we had to treat him for mites, so the scar will probably fade in time.”

“I don’t have scabies, Itachi. They’re freckles.” 

“Would you like a cat?” Itachi asks anyway, “my father is against taking him in.” 

“No, Itachi,” Mo replies, “I don’t want your mangy cat.” 

“Would you like a different cat? There are plenty in the Uchiha com-”

“I don’t want a cat,” Mo says through a laugh, the sheer silliness of Itachi’s earnestness finally making him crack. What a weird day. What a weird kid. “Thank you, though.”

Itachi nods, satisfied. “You’re welcome.” 

Itachi is the kind of brilliant that comes once in a generation. The kind that people look at and think ‘he’s going to be something amazing.’ But he is also twelve years old and though that should be closer to Mo’s seventeen than the twin’s seven, suddenly all Mo wants to do is ruffle the kid’s hair. For some damn reason, despite how he really shouldn’t be able to, Itachi can worm his way into Mo’s heart a little too easily. 

Maybe he sees himself in the kid. In Itachi’s hunger to be better, in his desperation to protect, and in the way the village seems set on drowning him when they should be teaching him to swim. Maybe Mo wants Itachi to keep that light that shines so brightly in him. Mo doesn’t know what pushes Itachi into action, because even when they talked during the chunin exams, they never broke into the topic of dreams for the future. 

Maybe Mo looks at Itachi and thinks of Fox’s legs, broken and bent out of shape and only getting worse regardless of how prestigious the Uchiha clan’s healers are. Maybe Mo looks at Itachi, surrounded by expectations and people who love him, and instead sees every patient who quietly admits they don’t have anyone to care for them, that Mo’s the only person who ever asked, who ever bothered trying to fix them. 

They’re the ones who grate on him. The ones whose faces he can’t forget and the ones who when they stop coming back to the clinic, Mo runs through every interaction he had with them, looking desperately for some kind of proof that they knew Mo wouldn’t abandon them. That even if he is short with his words and lacking in skill, he was trying. He can only hope they saw that. They saw that and walked on their own two feet, off to greater things. He hopes desperately that they walked away knowing they could always walk back, should they need him.

But Mo isn’t going to ask about the heaviness that weighs on Itachi. He isn’t going to insert himself into an equation he has no place in being. He isn’t going to try and fix what is not explicitly presented to him. 

That doesn’t mean he isn’t going to see it.

Mo looks at the kid. He’s not sizing up a new sparring partner, not glancing over his shoulder, not running through the checklist assessment every healer uses. Mo just looks at him. At the twelve year old who took him to Iwa when he was only ten and has a little brother and likes sweets and for some damn reason is a Jounin at peacetime and forced to dig his clan out of the grave the village seems set on dumping them in. 

“Dude,” is the only thing this so-called brilliant brain of his can come up with, “are you alright?” 

And Itachi looks back. 

He hasn’t a clue what the kid sees when he looks at him.

“I think you-” Itachi starts and it sounds like he wants to finish that sentence, but the words just don’t come out. Mo waits for it, patient, but eventually Itachi closes his mouth and looks away entirely. He spends a solid minute looking at the grass. He doesn’t try to braid it again. He doesn’t do much of anything. He just sits, his face turned away from Mo entirely. 

“Sorry,” he says and stands up.

“Huh?” Mo says, easing onto his elbows with a wince. “Wha- for what?”

Itachi stares at him for a long moment.

“You should go back,” he says, “your lunch is over.” 

Mo already knows that. It’s been over for the last sixteen minutes.

“Right,” he says and mouth feels a little dry. He’s an idiot. Nothing has changed and Mo is still the biggest idiot in this shitty village. It’s a wonder Yamanaka-sensei let him heal when Mo’s no good at helping people. They all just end up leaving. Iō doesn’t lose patients, not like Mo does. Iō wasn’t abandoned by his mother and his father and the first friend he ever made just for the fun of it. Iō doesn’t have the constant worry that his siblings will leave him too. Iō is the healer between the two of them. Why does everyone seem to insist Mo is good at this? He’s not. He could never be. All the best healers are good people and Mo is not that.  

“I’ll see you around?” He tries anyway.

“I hope not,” Itachi says cryptically. 

“Oh,” Mo says, hurt all over again. 

Itachi looks away again, his mind moving faster than Mo could probably ever comprehend. 

“Bye,” Itachi says to him and vanishes into the forest.

“Bye,” Mo says to the empty meadow and lays back down in the grass.