Chapter Text
The morning sun slipped through the worn curtains of the Uzumaki household, casting long, golden streaks across the room. The light caught on the messy strands of crimson hair spread over a pillow.. Boruto Uzumaki stirred, groaning softly as he blinked into the soft light. For a moment, he stayed still, caught in that quiet limbo between sleep and waking—listening. The village outside murmured with life: birdsong, rustling leaves, the occasional distant voice calling out through the early air. Konoha always moved forward. With or without him.
And then, like clockwork, it returned—the ache.
It wasn’t the kind of pain that came with bruises or torn ligaments. It was deeper, duller, something that had learned to live in him, tucked into the quiet corners of his chest like an unwelcome tenant. Disappointment. Loneliness. Shame. By now, he knew its shape too intimately—like the sound of his own voice, or the hollow scrape of the headband he still didn’t own.
Today, he would try again.
At fourteen, Boruto was older than most of the other candidates. He had watched classmates, former friends, and even strangers younger than him walk across the stage with their headbands tied proudly across their foreheads. He had failed twice. The first time, he’d panicked halfway through a clone technique and blanked completely. The second time, a chakra flare had spiraled out of control, disabling half the testing room and earning him both an automatic disqualification and a week of whispered gossip. He had walked home both times with his head down and hands clenched at his sides, shame clinging to him like smoke.
He hadn’t told anyone he was trying again. Not Shikadai, who always seemed to know anyway. Not Himawari, whose eyes would have gone too wide with hope. Not even his mother. This time, if he failed, the silence would be his alone. No one would have to know. Especially his father.
The kitchen was empty when he came downstairs. His mother and sister had left earlier, off to tend to clan business and morning training. Only the faint scent of miso and tea lingered in the air, fading. On the kitchen table sat a folded scrap of paper, its ink rushed and fading at the corners.
Important meeting. – Dad.
Boruto didn’t pick it up. He didn’t have to. The words were the same they had always been. His father’s script had changed over the years—more rushed, more tired—but the message never did. Pushing past it, he left without breakfast, without a word, without the weight of expectations. There was no one home to expect anything of him anyway.
—
The courtyard of the Academy was flooded with sun, the white tiles reflecting sharp brightness into everyone’s eyes. The place hummed with a kind of anxious energy—too many held breaths, too much nervous fidgeting. Around him, other hopefuls clutched their old training headbands like lifelines, fingers twitching, eyes darting. Some were younger than him. Some hadn’t failed once. A few whispered to each other, glancing his way and pretending they didn’t. Boruto’s fingers brushed over the edges of his own cloth—the same makeshift headband he’d trained with for years. Its fabric was frayed. The metal scratched and dulled. A symbol of too many almosts.
He kept his head down. He didn’t want to see anyone watching. This time, the shame would stay inside his skin, where it belonged.
The exam, as always, came in stages.
First was the written test. Normally his worst nightmare. Numbers, theory, strategic maps—none of it stuck easily in his mind. But this time, he had spent late nights hunched over old textbooks, diagrams, and scrolls, going over every question format he could find. He didn’t fly through it, but he didn’t choke either. When he handed in his sheet, his hands weren’t shaking.
The practical exam followed. Candidates were called forward one by one to perform the basic ninjutsu—Clone Technique, Substitution, Transformation. All simple on paper. All impossibly hard when your chakra system didn’t cooperate.
Uzumaki Boruto. The name landed like a stone in water. He stepped forward, back straight, eyes locked on the examiners seated before him. There were three—two men and one woman, all shinobi veterans. One of them raised a clipboard.
“You may begin. Clone Technique.”
Boruto formed the seal. Felt for the chakra within him. It surged, briefly, strong and steady—and then something snapped. A tenketsu in his left arm clamped shut like a trap, and pain shot up through his nerves like lightning licking bone. His vision blurred, and he had to grit his teeth to keep the sound of it from escaping. It had always been like this. Unstable. Unreliable. Some teachers had called it a mutation. Others whispered about a curse. Some tried to help. Most gave up. They called him a failed promise. A shadow of a great name.
“Bunshin no Jutsu!”
The smoke cleared, and beside him stood two clones. One solid. The other flickering, barely holding together.
“Passable,” one examiner said.
The next techniques came faster—Substitution, Transformation. He completed them with bruised focus, conserving chakra, making every movement precise. The final task—shuriken accuracy—went better than he expected. One bullseye. One near-miss. One clean miss. He could feel sweat trailing down his spine.
The proctors murmured among themselves. Boruto stood rigid, waiting for the verdict like it was a sentence.
“You pass .”
His legs wobbled, and he nearly staggered. He bowed instead, trying to hold onto the moment with all his strength. When the real headband was placed in his hands, he just stared at it. Only when he tied it to his forehead—knotting it tight enough to hurt—did it start to feel real. A breeze moved through the courtyard, lifting the ends of his hair.
For the first time, Boruto didn’t mind that it was red.
—
He arrived at Yakiniku Q half an hour later. The smell of grilled meat and soy sauce hit him like a hug. It was mostly empty, the hour still early, but near the back, Shikadai lounged in a booth like he’d been waiting for hours. Boruto dropped into the seat across from him and yanked the headband off, letting it clatter on the table.
“Well?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “You gonna say something?”
Shikadai picked up the headband, examined it with mock reverence, then tossed it back. “Took you long enough, idiot.”
Boruto laughed—sharp and sudden and honest in a way he hadn’t felt in months. The kind of laugh that cracked something open. His throat burned and then, to his horror, he started crying.
Boruto rubbed at his face furiously, cursing under his breath, trying to shove the sobs back down his throat like they were something he could muscle through. But it wasn’t working. The shame, the isolation, the quiet dinners, the polite nods from strangers who used to cheer for his father but didn’t know what to do with him . And now this—this sudden, brutal, overwhelming relief —it cracked through his chest like lightning. “I'm so sorry.”
“Dude,” Shikadai said quietly, sliding a cup of cold barley tea across the table. “You don’t have to explain. Cry if you need to.”
Boruto stared at the cup, jaw tight, fingers clenched into his lap. The knot in his throat refused to loosen. He had thought this moment—the moment he finally passed, the moment he finally earned his headband—would feel like triumph. But instead, it just felt like dragging himself across a finish line after bleeding on every step of the track. The pride would come later, maybe. For now, there was only the shaking in his limbs. “You don’t get it. You’re smart. You’re good at this stuff. You passed on your first try. I saw you up there. Everyone did.”
“So what?” Shikadai shrugged. “You think the test is what makes you a shinobi? Passing doesn’t make you strong. Failing doesn’t make you weak.” He paused, then added with a small smirk, “Besides, the chunin exam wouldn't be interesting if my best friend wasn't there.”
Boruto exhaled slowly. He picked up the headband again, turning it over in his hands. The metal plate gleamed under the restaurant lights, catching reflections of flame and steel from the grill behind the counter. For so long, this had been the symbol of everything he wasn’t . And now, somehow, it was his. “Thanks,” Boruto said, finally taking a sip of the tea. “For waiting.”
Shikadai waved him off. “Eh. I figured you'd either show up wearing that thing, or come in pissed off enough to eat half the menu.”
Boruto chuckled, wiping his face one last time. “I still might eat half the menu.”
The server came by then, and they ordered far too much food. Grilled beef, pork belly, vegetables wrapped in foil, hot bowls of rice and dipping sauces. The table filled quickly, steam rising from sizzling plates, the smell of garlic and soy and charcoal wrapping around them like warmth.
Shikadai told stories—how Metal broke another dummy in half, how Inojin accidentally insulted a jonin’s art collection. Boruto only half-listened. Mostly, he watched. How easily Shikadai belonged in the world. How easily he still looked at Boruto like he mattered.
Shikadai paused as he reached for the tongs. “My mom’s gonna make you a gift,” he said. “Probably some ugly ceramic thing. Don’t tell her I said that.”
—
That night, the village shimmered beneath a canopy of lanterns, their golden glow casting warm halos over the cobbled streets and worn rooftops. Laughter rang out like wind chimes, scattered by the breeze and carried between food stalls. Boruto walked beside Shikadai, the ache of a full stomach dragging slightly at his steps, each one heavier than the last—not just from food, but from everything that had led up to this moment. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his gaze drifting absently over the quiet roads.
“By the way,” Shikadai said, nodding as they reached the dimly lit crossroads outside his house, “Sarada passed too.”
Boruto didn’t even blink. “Of course she did,” he replied. “She’s a freakin’ genius.”
Shikadai hesitated. “Yeah... but she was crying.”
Boruto stopped walking. He turned slightly, his brow furrowed.
“Said the proctor looked scared of her,” Shikadai added, voice lower now.
A thick pause settled between them. Boruto glanced down at his feet. “People are always weird about her,” he muttered, bitterness just barely creeping into his tone. He didn’t say what they were all thinking—Uchiha. Sharingan. The legacy of another cursed bloodline. It was always there, lurking just under the surface.
They stopped in front of his door, the windows still black behind the curtains, as if the house itself were asleep.
“Your dad’s not home?”
Boruto shook his head slowly. “He’s never home.” The words didn’t sting the way they used to. Not because they didn’t hurt, but because he had stopped expecting anything different.
For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The quiet between them wasn’t awkward, though. It was the kind that didn’t need filling. The kind that only came with old friendship—the kind built over years of lazy afternoons, sparring sessions, and silent understandings.
Shikadai’s gaze dropped to the cloth tied loosely around Boruto’s neck. “You did it without him,” he said softly.
Boruto looked away, fingers brushing the edge of the headband absently. “He’s the Hokage. I’m his son. Isn’t that what people expect?”
Shikadai gave a short snort. “I don’t care what people expect.”
And for once, Boruto believed him. Something in Shikadai’s voice—the steadiness, the quiet conviction—cut through the static in his head. For just a second, something real rose in his throat, raw and heavy. But before it could reach his lips, he shoved it down and gave Shikadai a crooked grin. “Thanks for the food, rich kid.”
Shikadai rolled his eyes with exaggerated patience. “You still owe me from last time.”
Boruto laughed. And for a little while, that was enough.
—
The smell hit him first—warm rice, sweet tamagoyaki, and a faint trace of miso drifting through the air like an old song. It snuck under his door and wrapped around his senses like a blanket from childhood. He groaned as the light hit his face, dragging the covers over his eyes, only for the entire bed to shake beneath him.
Something—no, someone—crashed onto his chest with the force of a falling tree.
“He lives!” came the unmistakable voice of Himawari, loud and unrelenting. She wrapped her arms around his neck in a grip deceptively strong for her size. Boruto let out a strangled noise. “Why didn’t you say anything, stupid?!” she demanded, bouncing on the mattress. “You passed and just came home and fell asleep?! You didn’t even tell us!”
“I was tired!” Boruto groaned, squinting at her and pushing her back with one hand. “Jeez, you’re like an entire squadron...”
She crossed her arms, glaring at him with the kind of righteous fury only a younger sibling could conjure. “We made tamagoyaki and everything! ”
At the doorway, Hinata watched with a smile—gentle, worn, and knowing. She wore her apron still, a faint smudge of flour on her cheek, and her eyes, though soft, carried the kind of clarity that made Boruto squirm. “You know how proud we are of you,” she said simply.
Boruto’s shoulders twitched. He looked away, trying not to show anything. “Guess I just... didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”
Hinata didn’t press. She never did. She only nodded, the corners of her mouth lifting with understanding deeper than he could admit.
“Come eat,” she said. “Before it gets cold.”
As they sat around the table, sunlight pouring through the kitchen windows, Boruto felt something unfamiliar pressing in at the edges of his thoughts. Contentment. Maybe even peace. He didn’t talk much. Himawari made up for it, filling the room with her usual energy, recounting stories from school and training and how Aunt Hanabi was definitely going to cry when she heard. Hinata poured his tea and gently slid an extra portion onto his plate.
When Boruto reached for his cup, he caught a glimpse of himself in the cabinet glass across the room. The three cheek markings—dark, clean lines on each side—stared back at him. Most people assumed they were his birthright, a mirrored echo of the Seventh.
But they weren’t.
He’d carved them into his skin himself.
He’d been a kid—too young, too desperate, too angry. He remembered the sting of the kunai, the heat of his own blood, the way the pain had meant something. A ritual. A hope. That maybe, if he could just look like Naruto—even just a little—then maybe he would see him. Really see him.
He didn’t regret it. Not exactly. But the scars still itched more often than they should.
—
Graduation season turned the Academy into a hive of noise and nerves. Genin-in-training swarmed in and out of the courtyard, eyes wide with hope and anxiety. Parents buzzed around like bees, calling names, snapping photos, adjusting forehead protectors and collars. The air smelled like wood polish, cherry blossoms, and nerves.
Boruto leaned against a tall support pillar tucked away in the shade, the stone cool against his back. Sarada stood beside him, arms folded, her face unreadable, while Mitsuki slouched nearby, his ever-present smile both reassuring and mildly unsettling.
They were waiting. Team announcements were happening in waves, and Boruto could feel the weight of attention from every direction. Whispered voices slithered through the crowd like smoke.
“That’s him, right? The Hokage’s son?”
“I heard he barely passed. Probably cheated.”
“Uchiha and Uzumaki? What kind of cursed pairing is that?”
Boruto said nothing. He’d learned to let the words bounce off. Sarada didn’t react either, though the sharp set of her jaw betrayed her restraint. Mitsuki, meanwhile, just looked vaguely entertained, as if none of it applied to him.
Then the voice echoed through the square.
“Boruto Uzumaki. Sarada Uchiha. Mitsuki. You are assigned to Team 7. Under the command of Konohamaru Sarutobi.”
A hush followed. For a heartbeat, even the crowd seemed to pause. Then came the whispers, louder now.
“Team 7 again?”
“Didn’t that team used to be cursed?”
“That trio’s gonna be a disaster.”
Boruto caught Sarada’s eye. She looked exhausted. Or maybe just sick of being stared at.
—
The sun hung low when Boruto found his way to the old bridge near the training grounds—one of the few places in the village that felt untouched by time. The wood beneath his feet was weathered, familiar. He sat on the railing with his legs dangling over the edge, head down, forehead protector hanging from his fingers.
He didn’t expect anyone to find him here.
So when the soft crunch of footsteps reached his ears, he turned, half-expecting a stranger. Instead, it was Shikadai. Hands shoved in his pockets, his usual lazy gait unbothered by the wind, his jacket swaying like a flag.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Boruto said.
“Didn’t expect to come,” Shikadai replied. “Metal and Inojin are at the office. I ditched.”
Boruto snorted. “Lucky.”
Shikadai didn’t respond right away. He walked past him, sat down on the edge of a nearby stump, and looked out over the water. “So, were the teams finally formed today or not?”
"You don't know? I thought you knew everything, smart boy," he mocked, shaking his head.
Shikadai shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might smile but couldn’t quite be bothered. “Figured I’d let you have the dramatic reveal. You love that stuff.”
Boruto rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small grin pulling at his lips. “Team Seven. Me, Sarada, Mitsuki.”
Shikadai leaned back, arms stretched behind him on the stump. “Konohamaru-sensei?”
Boruto nodded. “Yeah.”
“Hmm.” A beat. “He’s good. You’ll be fine.”
“I didn’t say I was worried.”
“You didn’t have to.” A beat passed. Then Shikadai said, “You know your dad knows, right? About you passing. There’s no way he doesn’t.”
Boruto didn’t move. His voice, when it came, was low. “Then why hasn’t he said anything?”
“Maybe he’s waiting for you to come to him.”
Boruto laughed bitterly. “He always waits. Waits until it’s too late. Then he says something dumb like, ‘I always believed in you,’ or ‘Just like me, huh?’ And I’ll want to scream at him that I’m nothing like him.”
Shikadai didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned forward and flicked Boruto squarely on the forehead.
“OW! What the hell?!”
“Just checking,” Shikadai said, grinning. “Wanted to make sure you’re still real. You’ve been floating off into your own head lately.”
Boruto blinked. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed—a short, sharp sound that cracked through the dusk like lightning.
“Idiot,” he muttered.
“Loser,” Shikadai replied.
And they sat there, together, as the sun slipped beneath the trees and the sky burned orange and gold. Tomorrow, everything would be different.
But tonight, here—Boruto wasn’t alone.