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“Hey, can my friends come over later tonight and hang out?” Boruto asks over breakfast, eyes flicking between his parents, hopeful.
His Dad is scrolling through something on his tablet while his Papa goes over a few documents on the table. Naruto pauses mid-swipe and looks to Sasuke.
Without lifting his gaze from the page, Sasuke answers calmly, “Sure. Who’s coming over?”
“Just Inari and Akio,” Boruto says.
Seated beside him, Menma chimes in, “The ones who live near the river market? The loud one with the scar on his eyebrow and the quiet one who never stops staring at his phone?”
Boruto groans. “Why do you always remember people like that? But yes.”
Menma just grins into his toast.
“Should I grab some food on my way home later?” Naruto asks, snagging a piece of toast from the table and holding it between his teeth as he carries his and Sasuke’s plates to the sink, and begins to wash them.
His Papa hums, not looking up. “Yeah. Better to buy something outside. Cooking enough to feed a house full of teenagers sounds like a bad idea.”
“Got it,” Naruto chuckles. “You eating at home, Menma?”
“Yeah,” Menma says, stretching back in his chair, arms lifting over his head. “Unless the guys decide they want to eat out instead.” His gaze flicks to Sasuke, who’s already watching him with a questioning look. “I’ll let you know, Pa.”
Sasuke nods and returns to the papers spread neatly in front of him.
A moment of comfortable silence passes before Sasuke speaks again, still not looking up. “You guys better get going. You’re going to be late.”
Naruto glances at the kitchen clock.
Menma checks his watch.
Boruto taps absently at the tablet Naruto left behind.
“Shit.”
“Dammit.”
“Oh god, I haven’t ironed my clothes!”
The kitchen erupts into motion, chairs scraping and footsteps thudding down the hall—and through it all, Sasuke allows himself a small, private smile at the familiar chaos of his household.
___
Boruto often forgets that inviting his friends over means most of them will inevitably panic at the idea of stepping into the Hokage’s house.
He’d grown up surrounded by kids closer to his brother’s age—Shikadai, Metal, Inojin—whose parents had known his Papa and Dad long before titles ever mattered, back when they were just Uncle Naruto and Sasuke, not the Hokage and his Shadow.
“Is he going to, like, test me on the history of Konoha?” Akio mutters, struggling to steady his breathing as they make their way toward Boruto’s house.
Boruto pulls a face. “No. And stop freaking out.”
“It’s not every day I get invited to the Hokage’s place, excuse me.”
“It’s just my house,” Boruto mutters. “Like I’ve told you a thousand times.”
When they finally reach the house, Boruto notices his dad’s shoes already lined up neatly beside his Papa’s—and Menma’s too. He calls out automatically, “I’m home! My friends are with me, too.”
Naruto pokes his head out from the kitchen, grinning. “Hey, guys! Come on in, we’re almost done plating the food. You can eat in the kitchen or take it upstairs, Boruto. Your call.”
Boruto feels the exact moment his friends freeze behind him and lets out a long sigh.
“Thank you for having us, Lord Seventh!” Inari and Akio blurt in unison. Boruto doesn’t even turn around; he doesn’t want to see them bowing.
Naruto laughs, a little flustered, and Boruto catches the sound of Menma snickering from the kitchen. “Oh, uh. It’s really no problem. Seriously, just call me Naruto. I’m off duty at home, my husband’s the boss around here.”
“I’m always the boss,” his Papa calls from the kitchen.
Boruto grins as Naruto splutters in immediate protest. “You wish, dobe!”
Before his friends can process any of it, Boruto turns and grabs them both by the wrist, dragging them along. “C’mon. Food’s ready!”
They stop short again the moment they step inside the kitchen.
Sasuke is setting the last plate on the table, movements precise and unhurried, expression calm as ever. He looks up at them when they enter, mix-matched eyes assessing, and gives a small nod.
“Good evening,” Sasuke adds, voice even.
“G-Good evening, Shadow Hokage-sama,” Akio blurts.
Inari bows so fast Boruto’s half-convinced he might topple over.
Sasuke blinks once. Then, mercifully, “Sasuke is fine.”
Menma snorts from his seat at the table and reaches for a piece of chicken with his bare hand. Sasuke reacts on instinct, lightly swatting his fingers in reprimand.
“Chopsticks,” he says.
Menma pauses, then smiles cheekily as he obediently reaches for them, listening without a word.
“Sit, sit,” Naruto says from the kitchen counter, holding a cup of tea that Boruto knows is for his Papa. “Please. Eat before the food gets cold.”
Figuring the only way to get his friends back to something resembling normal is to let them acclimate at their own pace, Boruto focuses on his plate instead, loading it up with the food Naruto picked up on the way home. He passes dishes along the table, nudging them closer to Inari and Akio, who accept them automatically, still half-dazed as they watch his parents move around each other with easy familiarity.
“Here you go, Sas,” Naruto says, setting the tea down in front of Sasuke before leaning in to press a quick kiss to the top of his head.
Sasuke hums in thanks and immediately takes a sip.
“How was your day?” Naruto asks, finally sitting down and starting to pile food onto his own plate.
Sasuke shrugs. “Went over some records with Kakashi. Stopped by to see Sakura. Nothing much. You?”
“The usual,” Naruto says, waving it off. “Missed you, though.”
“I came by during lunch.”
Naruto smiles anyway. “Still.”
Boruto flicks a glance across the table at his brother, who’s already looking back at him with the same knowing expression. Menma shifts his gaze to their parents—who are, as usual, completely absorbed in their own quiet orbit—then rolls his eyes fondly.
Every day, without fail, their Dad says the same thing: how he missed his Papa, even if they’d only been apart for a few hours. Ever so dramatic.
Around them, the table settles into motion. Chopsticks clink softly against plates, food is passed, Naruto chatters about nothing in particular while Sasuke listens, interjecting here and there. Inari and Akio eat carefully at first, eyes flicking up every so often, as if they can’t quite believe what they’re seeing—the Hokage laughing too loudly, the Shadow Hokage nudging his knee under the table, the easy warmth threaded through every glance and touch.
By the time the plates are half-empty, the initial stiffness has faded into something quieter: fascination, maybe. Wonder.
Boruto barely notices anymore. This is just how dinner looks in his house.
When the meal finally winds down, he pushes his chair back and clears his throat. “We’re gonna head upstairs.”
Naruto looks up, smiling. “Have fun.”
Sasuke nods. “Don’t stay up too late.”
Boruto herds his friends toward the stairs, their heads still turned back once or twice, and as the door to his room closes behind them, the world finally feels normal again.
“That was… something,” Inari says as Boruto flops onto his bed.
His friends drift into place around the room—Inari sitting on the chair by Boruto’s study table, Akio sinking into one of the beanbags on the floor, fidgeting with the zipper like he needs something to anchor himself. The quiet hum of the house settles around them.
“Lord Seventh’s just… normal,” Inari adds, still sounding a little stunned.
“Of course he is,” Boruto says, propping himself up on his elbows. “He’s just my dad here.”
“And are your parents… always like that?” Akio asks, carefully, like he’s stepping onto unstable ground.
Boruto sits up, frowning slightly. “Like what?”
Akio shrugs, eyes fixed on the floor. “I don’t know. Like they’re so—” He gestures vaguely, searching. “In love. Like they just got married or something.”
Boruto blinks, then snorts. “They’ve been married longer than I’ve been alive. They’ve always been like that, as far as I can remember. Like they can’t get enough of each other.” He pauses, then adds, a little too casually, “Aren’t all parents like that?”
Inari’s smile doesn’t fade, but it softens into something sympathetic as he shrugs.
The realization hits Boruto a beat too late. His stomach twists, and he groans quietly, scrubbing a hand over his face. Damn it. His mouth always moves faster than his brain. Papa says he gets that from Dad.
“Well,” Inari says after a moment, not unkind, “I know my parents love each other. I just don’t think they’re… in love like that.” He hesitates, then continues, choosing his words carefully. “They kind of just coexist, I guess. It works for them.”
Akio nods along. “Yeah. What your parents have—” He trails off, then tries again. “It feels different.”
Boruto leans back against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling. He thinks of the way his dad lights up the second his papa walks into a room, how his dad still complains about missing him even if they were apart for only a few hours.
“Lord Seventh looks like being away from your father actually hurts him,” Inari adds quietly.
Boruto lets out a small, helpless laugh. “Yeah. He’s like that.”
Boruto goes quiet, a small smile still tugging at his lips. Maybe his parents are different—maybe most people aren’t this embarrassingly, ridiculously obsessed with each other. He’s just never known anything else.
Menma knows his dad is in a bad mood the moment he steps into the house.
Things don’t usually affect his dad much, his default state has always been loud, cheerful, endlessly optimistic, the kind of man who can laugh his way through almost anything. So when Menma catches the faint crease between his eyebrows, the rare frown that doesn’t quite fade, he knows immediately something is wrong.
He doesn’t have to guess long what it’s about.
Halfway through dinner, Sasuke clears his throat.
“Kids,” his Papa says.
Menma and Boruto straighten without thinking.
“I’ll be going on a mission tomorrow,” Sasuke says. Menma catches the way his dad’s frown deepens instantly, eyes fixed on his plate. Sasuke continues evenly, “It’s far. I’ll probably be gone for two… maybe three months.”
“Oh,” Boruto says, surprise and something softer threading through his voice. “That soon? And that long?”
The utensils clink a little too sharply against Naruto’s plate as he cuts into the fish, movements rougher than necessary.
“I can’t say much,” Sasuke adds. “The mission’s time-sensitive. That’s why I need to leave soon.”
“Will you be going alone?” Menma asks.
“Yes,” Sasuke replies. “Only someone of my speciality can take this on.” Oh, something to do with his Sharingan or Rinnegan, Menma thinks.
Menma nods. He understands. It’s been a long time since his Papa’s took a mission like this—the last one that stretched on for months was when Menma was still very young, back when Boruto hadn’t even been born yet.
“I’m going with you,” Naruto says suddenly.
“No, you’re not,” Sasuke answers, calm as ever, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth.
“Watch me.”
“No,” Sasuke repeats. “You’re staying here.”
“You can’t stop me. I’m the Hokage,” Naruto says, stubborn and petulant in a way that would almost be funny if Menma didn’t recognize the fear underneath it.
“You’re pulling rank on me now?” Sasuke asks mildly, a challenge threading his tone.
Naruto pouts, looking away.
Sasuke sighs. He sets his chopsticks down carefully and reaches across the table, taking Naruto’s hands in his own. Menma watches the exact second his dad’s shoulders ease, tension melting away at the simple contact.
“I’m not asking you to stay as Hokage,” Sasuke says quietly. His thumb traces slow circles against the back of Naruto’s hand. “I’m asking you to stay as my husband. As the father of our kids.”
“Someone has to take care of these two menaces,” Sasuke adds dryly, glancing at Menma and Boruto. “And the only person I trust with my heart is you.”
Menma swallows. He knows what Papa means.
Naruto does too.
“You promised to protect my heart,” Sasuke finishes, voice steady. “The boys are extensions of it.”
Naruto exhales shakily, forehead dipping until it rests against their joined hands. “You always fight dirty,” he mutters.
Sasuke huffs, almost smiling.
After a long moment, Naruto nods. “Fine. I’ll stay.” He looks up, eyes bright but resolute. “But you better come back in one piece.”
Sasuke’s mouth softens. “I always do.”
Naruto huffs, then adds, trying—and failing—to sound casual, “And write to me, Sasuke. Write to us. Not just those tiny updates you send when you remember.”
Sasuke raises a brow. “Those are efficient.”
“They’re depressing,” Naruto counters immediately. “One line is not a letter.”
Menma watches as Sasuke’s expression gives just a fraction, amusement flickering through. “I’ll write,” he says at last. “Properly.”
Naruto squeezes his hands, then leans in, pressing a brief, reverent kiss to Sasuke’s knuckles—right there at the table, in front of their kids, like he doesn’t care who sees.
Menma looks away, suddenly very interested in his food.
Boruto groans. “You guys are gross.”
Naruto laughs, lighter now, and Sasuke’s eyes linger on him just a second longer.
___
It’s strange—seeing his dad without Papa.
Not just alone, but off-balance, like something essential has been shifted just a few inches out of place. Naruto is still loud, still smiling, still trying his best to keep the house warm and full, but Menma notices the gaps immediately.
In Papa’s absence, Menma starts to see just how much of their lives orbit around him.
It shows up in small, almost invisible ways.
Naruto still announces dinner like Sasuke is going to answer from the hallway. He still cooks too much rice, still seasons things the way Papa likes, still reaches automatically for the tea leaves instead of the coffee he actually prefers. When Menma points it out once, Naruto just laughs and says, “Habit,” like that explains everything.
Family day quietly shifts to Saturday. Naruto doesn’t make a big deal out of it—just moves it on the calendar without comment. Sundays become quieter instead. No outings, no loud plans. Menma notices the lights, too. They’re dimmer in the evenings, curtains left half-open to let the last of the sunset in, the house settling into a hush earlier than usual. His dad says it helps him think, but Menma knows it’s because papa hates harsh lighting.
At night, Naruto still sets out two cups on the counter before stopping short, staring at them like he’s surprised by his own hands. He never puts the extra one away right away.
Papa writes to all of them.
Not one letter passed around the table, but three—carefully separated, addressed in Sasuke’s precise hand. Menma smiles as he reads his. Sasuke’s words to him are quiet and thoughtful—asking about training, reminding him not to shoulder everything alone, telling him he’s proud in a way that feels steady and unshakeable.
Boruto gasps beside him, already reading his letter out loud, animated as he rattles off the action-filled details Sasuke clearly knows he’ll love—dangerous terrain, close calls, enemies outsmarted.
Menma looks up just in time to see his dad trace the ink on his own letter with careful fingers, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of Sasuke’s words, like if he presses hard enough he might feel him through the paper.
When he does finally comes home, it happens without warning.
The front door bursts open one evening, and Naruto stumbles in like he’s been struck by lightning—hair wild, Hokage robes half on, eyes alight with a brightness Menma hasn’t seen in months. Joy radiates off him so intensely it's almost blinding.
Boruto blinks at him, bewildered. “Dad?”
“He’s back,” Naruto breathes, already grinning so wide it hurts to look at. “I felt his chakra a couple miles past the village border.” He laughs, breathless, vibrating with it. “I’ll race you guys to the gates.”
And then he’s gone, a blur of orange chakra tearing down the street before either of them can protest.
Menma and Boruto stare at the empty doorway for half a second.
Then Boruto laughs, sharp and bright. Menma feels it bubble up in his chest too, light and uncontainable.
They don’t say anything—don’t need to. They bolt after him, feet pounding against the pavement, lungs burning as they sprint toward the gates. They know they won’t catch up. Not yet. But they sprint anyway to greet their Papa home.
Boruto can count on his fingers the number of times he’s truly seen his papa angry.
He knows that his papa wasn’t always the man he is now. His parents have told him—carefully, honestly—about the past, and Boruto’s overheard the whispers too, the gossip that trails behind a name like Uchiha Sasuke. He knows there was once sharpness there, something volatile and dangerous.
But that version of Sasuke has never belonged to them.
To Boruto and Menma, Papa has always been a steady presence. Quiet. Grounded. He doesn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve the way Dad does, but that’s never mattered. They’ve learned to read him in the smallest ways: the subtle tightening of his jaw, the slight crease between his brows, the way his gaze lingers just a second too long.
He rarely gets angry. Most of the time it’s just irritation, a faint edge of annoyance or distaste that passes as quickly as it comes, and on the rare occasions that his anger is directed at them, it never lasts. It always melts into something else—into worry, into fear, into a kind of aching protectiveness that makes Boruto’s chest tighten.
There was one time, however, when Boruto had seen his papa so angry it had frightened him—and that anger had been directed at his dad.
Early on when Naruto took on the Hokage robe, there was a period of time before his dad got the handle of jugling everything; being a father, a husband, and a leader to all of the people in the village.
Back then, they hardly saw him.
Naruto was always in the office, buried under stacks of paperwork and responsibility, coming home long after the lights in the house had dimmed. Dinner became a quiet affair shared by just the three of them, the table feeling too large, too empty without Dad’s loud laughter filling the space. More often than not, Papa slept alone, the other side of the bed pristine and untouched.
Boruto remembers noticing these things in small ways at first. The way Papa lingered by the window some nights, gaze fixed on the Hokage Tower, the way Dad stopped ruffling his hair before bed because he wasn’t there to do it anymore. And then there was the night it finally broke.
The argument wasn’t loud at first.
Boruto had woken up to it by accident, the sound of voices carrying down the hallway long after he was supposed to be asleep. He remembers sitting up in bed, rubbing at his eyes, trying to place the tone—because it wasn’t Dad’s usual booming laugh, and it wasn’t Papa’s low, even voice either.
It was tight. Strained.
“I understand responsibility,” Sasuke was saying, his voice clipped, controlled in a way Boruto had only ever heard during missions. “I am not asking you to abandon the village. I am asking for one weekend. One. With my husband present.”
Naruto scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaustion etched deep into the lines around his eyes. “I promise—after this weekend, I’ll take some time off,” he said, voice rough. “It’s just… there’s a lot of urgent things I need to handle right now, Sas.”
Sasuke let out a short, humorless scoff. “You said that last time. And the time before that.” His eyes finally lifted, dark and sharp. “How long has it been since then? Months?”
Naruto didn’t answer fast enough.
“If everything is urgent,” Sasuke continued, tone cooling into something dangerously calm, “then nothing is. And I shouldn’t have to teach the Hokage the most basic skill of all—how to decide what actually matters.”
“I know what matters,” he shot back, sharper than Boruto had ever heard him speak to Papa. “I don’t get to choose what’s urgent, Sasuke. The village doesn’t stop just because I want a weekend off.”
Sasuke’s jaw tightened. “And we do?” he asked quietly. “Our family does?”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Naruto snapped, fists clenching at his sides.
“Then what?” Sasuke challenges, his voice rising now, the control in it finally starting to crack. “When was the last time you sat down and had a proper meal with us? When was the last time you slept next to me?” His eyes flick, briefly, toward the hallway. “When was the last time you talked to the boys for more than ten minutes without one eye on the clock?”
Naruto’s jaw tightens, teeth grinding. “Look, I know this isn’t—” He exhales sharply. “I know this isn’t ideal, Sas, but you have to give me time. Be a little more understanding—”
“Understanding?” Sasuke snaps, the word sharp enough to cut. He takes a step closer, the air between them electric. “I have been understanding. For months. For every late night, every missed dinner, every time I told the boys you’ll be here more often.”
Naruto flinches despite himself.
“Do you realize,” Sasuke continues, voice trembling now, not with weakness but with restraint pushed too far, “that the only thing tying me to this village is you?” His hand curls into a fist at his side. “That the only reason I came back—and stayed—was because of you?”
Naruto opens his mouth, but Sasuke doesn’t let him speak.
“You know how this village treated my family. Treated us,” Sasuke says, bitterness seeping through every word. “You know what it took from me. And you promised—” His voice breaks, just barely. “You promised you’d build a home with me. A life. Something that was ours.”
He laughs once, hollow and sharp. “And now I get to watch you live out your dream while I sit here, explaining your absence to our children like it’s normal.”
The room falls into a heavy, suffocating silence.
No one moves. Even the air feels frozen, like it’s waiting to see who will shatter first.
Sasuke exhales slowly, shoulders settling into something painfully calm. Then, without looking at Naruto, he says, flat and final, “I’m leaving.”
The words hit like a blow.
“What—what do you mean, leave?” Naruto blurts out, panic ripping through his voice. He moves instantly, steps rushing to close the distance as Sasuke turns toward the hallway. “Sasuke, wait—”
Boruto’s breath catches. His feet move before he even thinks about it, creeping after them, quiet as a shadow. His heart is pounding so hard it hurts. He’s never seen his papa like this. Never heard that tone in his voice.
“The village,” Sasuke says as he reaches the bedroom door, hand already on the frame. “It won’t make a difference whether I’m here or not.”
“That’s not true,” Naruto says desperately, reaching out like he can physically keep Sasuke from slipping away. “You can’t just leave. The kids—”
“They have people around them who care deeply for them,” Sasuke cuts in, not turning back. “Iruka. Kakashi. Sakura. They’ll be fine.”
Naruto shakes his head, voice breaking. “That’s not the same. You know that’s not the same.”
Sasuke finally looks at him then, eyes dark and unreadable. “I’ve left once,” he says quietly. “And I can do it all over again.” His gaze flicks away. “You won’t miss a thing. You’re hardly even home.”
The words land harder than any jutsu ever could.
Boruto stares, frozen, chest tight with a fear he doesn’t know how to name. This isn’t an argument anymore. This is something breaking.
And then Naruto crumbles.
He drops to his knees in front of Sasuke so suddenly Boruto almost gasps, hands clutching desperately at Sasuke’s pant legs like they’re the only thing keeping him upright.
“Please,” Naruto begs, voice raw and shaking. His hands tighten in Sasuke’s clothes like he’s afraid even loosening his grip will make him disappear. “I—I can’t do this without you. I can’t do this a second time, Sas. It’ll hurt too much.” His breath stutters. “Not after you gave me this. This life. You and the kids.”
Boruto feels his own breath catch.
Naruto looks up at Sasuke, eyes glassy, desperate. “I’ll fix it. I swear I will. I’ll change everything. Hell—” His voice breaks into a shaky laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob. “I’ll even drop the title. Just say the word, Sas. I will. You know I will.”
The room goes utterly still. Boruto’s heart slams against his ribs. He’s never heard his dad talk like this—never seen him so willing to let go of something so big, something the entire village reveres him for, like it’s nothing more than an inconvenience.
Sasuke’s breath hitches. For the first time since this started, his composure cracks. “You don’t mean that,” he says quietly.
“I do,” Naruto insists immediately. “I’ll drop the title. I swear it. Please. Just don’t leave. Say the word, Sas, and it’s done.”
“That’s your dream,” Sasuke whispers, voice unsteady.
Naruto shakes his head fiercely. “No.” He presses his forehead into Sasuke’s thigh, shoulders trembling. “My dream is this. Is coming home to you. To the kids. To a life where I don’t have to wonder if I’m losing you because I wasn’t there enough.”
Boruto watches, stunned, as the strongest man he knows lays himself bare on the floor—realizing, with a tight, aching chest, that being Hokage was never what mattered most to his dad at all.
After what feels like an eternity, a hesitant hand finally threads into Naruto’s hair. His dad lets out a shaky exhale, tension bleeding out of him all at once, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
“You’re such a fucking piece of work,” his papa murmurs. There’s no malice in it—only bone-deep exhaustion, wrapped tightly around something gentler. Something like love.
“Yeah,” Naruto huffs weakly, forehead still pressed to Sasuke’s stomach. “You’ve told me a thousand times.” His voice cracks. “I’m sorry, Sas. Please… don’t leave.”
Sasuke’s fingers tighten just slightly in his hair. “I won’t,” he whispers, the words steady and sure. “I’m sorry too. I went too far.”
Naruto shakes his head against him. “No. You were right.” He swallows thickly. “I haven’t been fair to you. Or to the kids. I thought I could carry everything myself and not lose anything in the process.”
Sasuke exhales, resting his palm against the back of Naruto’s head, grounding him. “You don’t have to do it alone,” he says quietly. “You never did.”
+1
Menma’s favorite day, if anyone asks, will always be Sunday.
Since becoming a chūnin, his missions have grown more sporadic, long stretches of waiting broken up by sudden departures. It’s just the nature of being a shinobi. But on the rare weekends when there are no missions pulling him away and Dad doesn’t have Hokage duties demanding his attention, Sundays are usually reserved for training together as a family.
It’s a ritual they’ve kept since Menma and Boruto were young—what began as simple hand-to-hand drills slowly expanding into full sparring and ninjutsu training. Menma still remembers the first time he saw his parents fight in earnest: Dad wreathed in Kurama’s blazing chakra, Papa calm and unyielding as his Susanoo unfurled behind him like a living guardian.
Power like that should’ve been terrifying, but instead it was awe-inspiring—and seeing their strength unleashed always reminded him of the weight of the name he and Boruto both carried.
Now, Menma’s training has grown more focused.
Most of his sessions are dedicated to honing his Sharingan. He awakened it a year ago, the day he heard Boruto had been sent on a mission that went wrong, sabotaged by rogue shinobi. The fear had hit him all at once, sharp and overwhelming, and something inside him had snapped into clarity.
Papa had been there immediately, steady and precise, guiding him through it with quiet instructions and a hand on his shoulder. Dad had hovered close, barely containing his worry, like he was afraid to blink in case Menma disappeared too.
Thinking back on it now, Menma realizes Sundays aren’t just his favorite because of the training.
They’re his favorite because it’s the one day the whole world seems to slow down enough for their family to just simply be.
Today, Boruto wants to practice his Rasengan more, while Menma is set on refining his Chidori. They take their places across from each other, the familiar tension of sibling rivalry crackling softly in the air.
Boruto goes first, chakra spiraling into his palm. He narrows his eyes, concentrating harder than usual, compressing and rotating it with sharper control. The Rasengan forms faster this time—denser, tighter, humming with a steadier pitch than before. Menma feels it even from where he’s standing, a prickle of impressed surprise running up his spine.
“Whoa—did you change the rotation speed?” Naruto blurts out from the sidelines, already leaning forward like he can’t help himself.
Boruto grins, sweat beading at his temples. “I tried stabilizing the outer layer first instead of forcing it.”
Menma doesn’t give him long to bask. Lightning flares to life around his hand, the Chidori shrieking as it forms—but this time, he reins it in, chakra pulling inward instead of exploding outward. The sound lowers, sharper and more focused, like a blade instead of a storm.
Papa’s eyes narrow, intent. “Good,” Sasuke says. “You’re not fighting the chakra anymore. You’re guiding it.”
Naruto looks between them, practically vibrating. “You guys—do that again. Both of you. At the same time.”
Chakra roars and lightning screams, blue and white colliding in the space between them—not clashing, but holding, balanced for just a heartbeat before both brothers break apart, laughing and breathing hard.
They don’t even realize how wide Naruto is smiling until he whoops, throwing an arm around Sasuke’s shoulders. “Did you see that? They’re getting it! I mean—really getting it!”
Lunch is called soon after, the four of them settling onto a blanket beneath the shade of a tree. Containers are opened, drinks passed around, but the food barely gets touched at first.
“What if you add a slight curve to the Rasengan’s rotation?” Naruto says around a mouthful, already gesturing wildly.
“And if I ground the Chidori earlier, I could keep it stable longer,” Menma adds, eyes bright.
Boruto nods enthusiastically. “We could try syncing them next time—”
A sudden laugh cuts through their chatter.
All three of them whip around so fast it’s almost comical—because it’s Papa laughing.
Not a soft huff of amusement, not the quiet breathy chuckles he usually lets out. This is real laughter, full and unguarded, the kind that starts deep in the chest and spills out until it shakes him. For a moment, none of them can do anything but stare, mouths fallen open in identical shock.
Papa doesn’t laugh like this. He’s warm with them, fond and gentle, always smiling—but laughter like this is rare, precious.
The sound fades slowly, leaving behind something soft and glowing in its wake. Sasuke lifts a hand, brushing at the corner of his eye as he exhales, still smiling. When he looks at them, it’s with an expression so open it almost hurts—like they’ve handed him the moon without realizing it.
“You all are really my boys,” he says quietly.
Menma feels heat rush to his cheeks, sudden and overwhelming, and across from him Boruto blurts out without thinking, “Woah. Papa’s really pretty.”
“He is, isn’t he?” Naruto says, voice warm and unabashed, eyes never leaving Sasuke for even a moment. His cheeks are tinged pink too, matching Menma’s. “The prettiest.”
Sasuke scoffs, but there’s no bite to it—only fond exasperation as he looks away, the tips of his ears betraying him by flushing red.
Menma watches the exchange, something quiet clicking into place inside his chest. He thinks he finally understands why their dad is so hopelessly, relentlessly besotted with their papa. Where Dad’s love burns loud and bright—unapologetic, all-consuming—Papa’s is something else entirely. It’s a warmth that settles over you without fanfare, like a blanket drawn carefully around your shoulders on a cold night.
Papa doesn’t wear his affection openly. He doesn’t need to. When he offers it—soft words, a rare laugh, a hand resting at Dad’s back—it lands deeper for its restraint. It makes you feel light, like your existence alone is enough to bring him peace.
And when he pushes them, sets the bar high and refuses to lower it, Menma knows now it isn’t cruelty or distance. It’s faith. Papa expects more because he sees more—because he believes, without question, that they can rise to it.
Menma exhales, the understanding settling warm and sure in his chest. A small smile tugs at his lips as he reaches for his drink, listening to Boruto chatter on beside him, already plotting their next training session.