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After six consecutive wins, Boruto frowns at his screen. The novelty of success has worn off. The game is easy, therefore boring, therefore not worth playing. He pops a fry into his mouth and slumps back into the slippery cushion of his seat, his console held slack in his hand.
“You guys suck today,” he complains. “Way worse than you normally do.”
“I’m averaging my usual,” Inojin says.
“You always place last, anyway.”
“It’s Tetris Online, who cares?”
Boruto squawks. He loves Tetris Online. “I thought you loved this game!”
“Tetris Online isn’t really the sort of game you ‘love’.”
“You prefer normal Tetris?”
“I prefer not playing Tetris at all.”
“Then why are we still playing?! It’s no fun if you’re not trying.” Boruto glances over at Shikadai, who has been uncharacteristically quiet given his firm position on the matter. “Right, Shikadai?”
The familiar game over tune plays as the back-to-back mistakes from Shikadai and Inojin are no longer forgiven by the speed of the new level. Boruto wins again, though it’s not particularly worth celebrating, at this point.
Inojin and Shikadai send each other sidelong looks that Boruto isn’t let in on.
Normally, it doesn’t offend Boruto—those two are teammates, they’re bound to pick up on each other's silent communications like this—but it doesn’t make it any less annoying. The awkward atmosphere they’ve been building up for the past hour only exacerbates how frustrating it is.
Inojin stands abruptly. “I should get going,” he says, packing up. “My mom made a huge fuss last time I came home late and blamed you for it.”
Boruto doesn't even remember the last time he hung out with Inojin after the sundown. "The hell did I do?"
“Nothing, but I had to point a finger,” Inojin says without apology, and bids them a brisk farewell.
An uncomfortable silence lingers after that. Boruto flicks the joystick aimlessly, hoping he appears busy and pensive about starting a new round. Surprisingly, Shikadai breaks first, clearing his throat and tilting his console.
“One more?”
Boruto grins. “What are you, a masochist?”
“You talk too much." Shikadai shakes his head, but he's smiling too. A good sign, maybe. A normal sign.
They restart the game, the blocks back to dropping slow and steady.
“By the way, Boruto,” Shikadai casually throws out. “I’m planning on asking Sarada out.”
“On a mission?”
“On a date.”
Oh. That possibility hadn’t really occurred to Boruto at all.
Sarada? As in Sarada Uchiha? As in Shikadai Nara and Sarada Uchiha? Boruto is stunned into misplacing a T block.
Since when was that a thing? Perhaps it shouldn’t come as a surprise. Rather, it wouldn’t. Not to anyone who’s around the village long enough to see it. Boruto’s been in and out for arbitrary months at a time, per Sasuke’s absurd schedule. He hasn’t yet had the chance to see Sarada and Shikadai blushing around each other.
Which, yuck. He’ll take it for the blessing it is.
The small window displaying Shikadai’s progress shows him dropping an S block in an inconvenient spot. Boruto has the advantage. Shikadai irritably clicks his tongue.
“Sarada?” Boruto snorts. “When did that happen?”
“I mean, I guess it hasn’t yet,” Shikadai explains. “But we’ve been talking more lately. Like, talking, so I want to see it through before I miss that window. Inojin thinks I’ve got a shot, and Chouchou makes a face every time we’re around each other, which is as good of an indicator as any, really.”
“What face?”
“Kinda like…” Shikadai tries to imitate it, eyes hooded and lips tugged into a frivolous curve.
Boruto laughs at the poor impression but instantly recognises what he means. Not that it counts for proof of any sort; Chouchou makes that face any time any two classmates of the opposite gender talk to each other. She used to do it all the time when Class Rep would talk to Boruto. Hardly a selling point, but who is Boruto to quash Shikadai’s confidence?
“Sarada, huh…” Boruto says, then giggles. The idea of his Master finding out is borderline hysterical. They’re both so indifferent sometimes, it’s hard to imagine they would find anything worthwhile to discuss. And Shikadai’s brand of apathy would be totally unappealing to Sasuke. Boruto would kill to be a fly on the wall for one of their conversations. “Don’t know what to say. Your funeral, man.”
Shikadai doesn’t add to that. For a while, the only noise between them is the chiptune music of the game and the dull clicks from mashing the console buttons speeding up as they enter a new level. Recovering from his previous blunder, Shikadai’s score shoots above Boruto’s.
“You don’t mind?” He asks.
“Huh? Of course not. Why would I?”
Shikadai casts Boruto a wry look from over the edge of his console.
“C’mon...”
Whatever the implication, it flies over Boruto’s head. He tries to keep his focus on the game but grows increasingly distracted by Shikadai’s eyes on him.
Is this because Sarada and Boruto were on the same team? Wants his blessing, vote of confidence, something like that? Seems pretty unlike Shikadai; he doesn’t show great respect for rank of any kind. Besides, wouldn’t Mitsuki be here too, if that were the case?
“I’m not Sarada’s keeper, what does it matter to me who she dates?” If she reciprocates Shikadai’s feelings at all, which is a separate issue. Boruto could do without the tension of that rejection in group settings. “Just don’t make it weird if you guys break up. I want both of you to have custody of me in the divorce, y’know?”
“Now you’re making it weird.”
“You have a crush on Sarada,” Boruto retorts.
“She’s cute,” Shikadai says. The smile that pulls on his lips is small and a little too private to reduce this to a crush that will easily fade away.
Boruto knows this look.
It’s bad news.
A year ago, Iwabe had gotten his first girlfriend and went AWOL for a good month. When he finally started showing up to their hangouts again, he could never stay for long, was always short on money, and still had the audacity to keep this annoying, haughty air about him. The first time he showed up with a hickey, he flaunted it as though it was a battle scar, and all the other boys had been so easily impressed with the display. Shikadai was the only person in Boruto’s corner at the time, rolling his eyes.
And as frustrating as taken-Iwabe was, freshly-single-Iwabe was unbearable. Simultaneously the most arrogant and the most insecure he's ever been. There was no winning with these sorts of relationships.
Shikadai is at serious risk.
Boruto tries to get ahead of it. “She’s also, like, super mean sometimes.”
“So are we,” Shikadai dismisses. “And she’s smart on top of that, so her insults are pretty funny.”
“And condescending.”
“Maybe towards idiots like you.”
“She’s bossy, too.”
“I’m used to it,” Shikadai says. “My mom was a military commander. I think I can handle Sarada.”
“She’s the drag of all drags.”
Shikadai shrugs a shoulder. “Then I’m down to drag.”
Is that supposed to be romantic? Boruto grumbles. Shikadai’s too far gone, there’s no saving him from the trenches of love. An ill-timed Z block stumps Boruto’s progress in the game and sours his mood further.
“So…” Shikadai says with a sudden wariness. “You really don’t care?”
“This again? ‘Course not. Why would I?” It won’t be the best feeling in the world when Shikadai becomes unavailable to hang out as frequently, but at least Sarada is Boruto’s friend, too. They can work something out when Boruto is around.
“I’m just making sure.”
“Then spit it out already,” Boruto huffs, impatient. “You’re clearly trying to ask something else.”
Shikadai’s grin is slightly crooked. He reclines into a lax position, haphazardly pressing the buttons until his blocks stack dangerously high towards the border.
“Dude, c’mon,” he says again, chuckling. “You go a little gaga whenever anything Uchiha related gets brought up. I don’t think it’s crazy to, like, double-check.”
Boruto drops his console, the plastic clacking loudly against the table. Shikadai readily sets his own one aside, as if he were waiting for this reaction.
No way.
There is no way.
“You think I like Sarada?!”
“Half the village thinks you like Sarada.”
“Why in the—what, because I think the Uchiha are cool? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard! Everyone thinks the Uchiha are cool!”
“Not the way you do.”
“You’re telling me you don’t find them cool?”
“I’m not saying—! Ugh.” Shikadai kneads the side of his thumb into his temple. “I think Sarada’s cool, but with you it’s like… that, plus everything else.”
“Like what?”
“Like that time we played truth or dare at Denki’s birthday, remember? You got that one question where you described Sarada as your type.”
He did no such thing! He did, however, indulge extensively when they all realised they could sneak into Denki’s dad’s wine cellar and swipe a bottle or two, so he can’t testify to the details of what it was exactly that he described that night. In the blurry montage of memories that trickle in, he manages to pull out a single trait.
“What, because I like dark hair?” Boruto sputters. “Sorry I don’t want to date my shadow clone!”
“Short dark hair,” Shikadai corrects. “Tall.”
“Sarada’s not taller than me.”
“Not anymore, but she used to be. And she’s tall for a girl.” How convenient, altering the parameters of the criterion. “Mature.”
“Sarada isn’t mature, she’s just uptight.”
“What else would mature mean?”
“Older!” Oops, too much. Boruto switches tactics. “They call this confirmation bias, you know. By your logic, I would have a crush on you.”
Shikadai considers this, then laughs. “Nah, you don’t care for Nara’s.”
“Your dad’s alright when he’s not telling me off.”
“Oh yeah?” Shikadai kicks him under the table, amused. “Quit messing around. It’s not the same. You’re obsessed with those honest-to-god shinobi types, it’s pretty specific for all those physical attributes to also coincide with that. Not to mention, I have a dick.”
In front of Boruto are two perilous paths.
He could continue to express his disinterest in Sarada, which ultimately wouldn’t do a lot to change Shikadai’s stance (or anyone else’s, for that matter) but will force him to end this line of questioning soon enough. And with neither of them conceding to a believable outcome on the subject, if Shikadai and Sarada do start dating, he’ll probably want to hold Boruto at an arms length. Even further than the distance Iwabe had set, who didn't have to deal with the concern surrounding Boruto’s ostensible feelings for his girlfriend.
Or, Boruto could just confess here and now, the real reason why it’s not just that he doesn’t like Sarada, it’s that he wouldn’t. Psychologically, biologically, lack-of-dick-ologically.
He stares at Shikadai, who watches him expectantly.
“Listen, I didn’t really want to admit to this but…” Boruto crosses his arms. “I’m trying to get in Sasuke-san’s good graces.”
Boruto carves himself a sloppy third path.
Shikadai’s eyebrows furrow, baffled. Boruto barrels on.
“He’s my Master, y’know? I’m trying to be like him. I figured if Sarada assumed something, she’d confide in aunt Sakura, who’d eventually tell Sasuke-san, and if he thought I liked his daughter, he wouldn’t want me to be weak, so he’d train me more. So I could protect her.”
“Boruto…” Shikadai’s eyes widen. It worked! “What a load of crap. Just admit you like her.” Oh.
“Why would I lie about this?” He’ll bookend with a truth, scattered bits of sincerity are better than none at all. “Sarada’s great, but we’re just not compatible like that. She’s my buddy, same way Mitsuki is. My focus is on being a good shinobi the way Sasuke-san is, not... chasing skirts or whatever.”
Shikadai seems to think this over, his initial needling taken over by a subtle hesitance.
“What about that time we were trying to choose where to have our graduation dinner, and you begged to have it over at Sarada’s place?”
Boruto had assumed Sasuke would be there to celebrate his daughter. But Sarada had revealed later that he only showed up after everyone else had already left, so that was a total bust.
“I wanted to give my mom a break! We were all gonna meet up at mine, otherwise.” That part was also true.
“What about when Sarada grew her hair out a little, and you kept telling her to keep it that way?”
Back when Sarada couldn’t find a break between missions to cut her hair, and it had grown out to Sasuke’s usual length. Boruto remembers that fondly. Sarada had genuinely looked her best, then.
“I was just giving her some advice from a guy’s perspective." She didn't appreciate it. "You liked her hair like that, didn’t you?”
Shikadai flushes a little. “Her hair’s fine the way it is…” His expression pinches, like he’s practicing the shogi exercises his dad assigns him. “You kept asking to see her Sharingan when she first awakened it.”
Easy. “That was years ago! I was impressed by it, a bright red eye like that?” Who isn’t? It’s the most broken of all the Kekkei Genkai’s, the sheer sight of it gets people to surrender. Besides, Boruto stopped asking her soon after he became Sasuke’s student. Now, he could just ask his Master. Not that he has. Not that he will. “You’re clearly no more immune to their genjutsu than I am,” he teases.
One more accusation ought to do it. Shikadai looks worn down, shifting in his seat as considers the logic of each argument. He’s reasonable, so this won’t take long.
“That girl you rejected the other day…”
Boruto’s spine whips upright.
“You heard that?”
Shikadai dithers. “It’s not like I meant to… I was just passing by and when I realised what was happening, I was sort of hoping it would go in the direction of me being able to avoid this conversation. Anyway, that’s besides the point… I heard you tell her that you like someone else.” He stops, skeptical. “I’m supposed to believe it’s not Sarada? After all of this?”
“I was only telling her that to soften the blow, y’know? It’s not you it’s me sort of thing.” Boruto’s eyes flicker away. “Look, I don’t like Sarada, I swear it. You should ask her out.”
Shikadai doesn’t say anything for a moment.
“I don’t believe you.”
“What?”
“You’re not a good liar, Boruto,” Shikadai says. “The stuff you were telling her about this girl you like… I don’t know. It’s a gut feeling. There’s no way you were going that hard to fake a crush.”
“I wasn’t—”
“If you want to ask Sarada out—”
“I don’t!” Boruto feels his anger bubbling. How many times does he have to say it? How can he prove it without proving it?
“Who is it, then?”
Boruto hesitates. He can’t come up with a name fast enough.
His features contort in discomfort as he wracks his brain for anyone who even moderately fits the description from earlier, but there’s only one face that keeps coming up. The only face that has ever come up.
Boruto can’t admit to that. Not even if it threatens Shikadai’s faith in asking Sarada out. Some things are bigger than puppy love—no hard feelings, Shikadai. Boruto’s in a forbidden, one-sided love affair of his own. This is the extent of their romantic relationships. Shikadai could probably move on; Boruto has accepted his eternity of celibacy, if that’s what it takes to stand beside his Master.
The pause stretched out long enough that Shikadai’s thoughts grew busy, too. Braving a glance, Boruto notices Shikadai has gone pale, and a stunned, distant look of repulsion has etched onto his expression.
Shikadai comes from a long line of bright, clever minds.
All Boruto can do is deny.
“Don’t tell me…” Shikadai pulls back.
“It’s not.” Deny, deny.
“Boruto, that’s gross.”
“It’s not.” Deny until he’s blue, if he has to. Boruto has done it with himself for longer.
“Seriously, it’s like having a crush on a family member.”
“It’s not!” But this is the first time he’s had to do it against someone else's accusation instead of his own. His hands tremble under the table. “It’s nothing like that at all!”
“You’re the one who calls her big sister!” Shikadai scoffs. “Dude, you’re weird.”
“I’m—Huh?” Big sister? “Mirai?”
Shikadai’s face crumples again, as if hearing the name makes it too real for him to contain his feelings. “Eurgh, so you really don’t like Sarada, then?”
“What do you think I’ve been telling you this entire time!” With his shame stowed away, his defensiveness attacks with full force. “I don’t like Mirai either!”
Although…
It is a ridiculously credible cover.
Boruto turns his head away for dramatic effect. He can continue to claim he denied it, Shikadai can continue to redirect whatever insecurity he has about Sarada to Mirai instead. This could actually work. Bad acting is a salvation here, Boruto just needs to falter once or twice to make his rebuttal seem shaky. Shikadai wouldn’t be able to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt, but he’s opinionated enough to decide he’s got it all figured out on the first slip up.
“I don’t like her...” Boruto glances at Shikadai’s face, then down to the table. He rests his elbows on the surface and hides his mouth behind his hand before muttering, “So just drop it, okay? And don’t go spreading rumors like that, or I’ll seriously kick your ass.”
“Ugh, I won’t.” He’s appalled enough that he probably means it.
“For Mirai’s sake, y’know? Or it’ll be awkward between us.”
Shikadai smirks. “And you wouldn’t want that.”
“This isn’t about what I want, though, is it? It’s about what you want,” Boruto pivots expertly. “Ask Sarada out, see if I do anything besides gag at the googly eyes you’ll be giving each other.”
Like the simple-minded fool that love turns you into, Shikadai’s attention slips back to his own interests. He snickers, his grin big enough to make his eyes squint.
“Googly eyes? Give us some credit,” he says coolly, but his relief is transparent. “It’s not like I’m against buying flowers and chocolates every now and then, but Sarada doesn’t really seem like the type to enjoy the usual lovey-dovey stuff.”
Boruto shakes his head. If nothing else, it’s for the better that Shikadai brought this matter to Boruto, regardless of his reasoning.
“Bro,” he says despondently. “You have so much to learn…”
Boruto is never late when he can help it. As far as being punctual goes, he’s made it a habit to arrive a few minutes earlier than Sasuke’s appointed time, even if Sasuke seldom shares that tendency. The problem with this consistent degree of prudence is that it has turned into a fundamental truth in Sasuke’s eyes that Boruto can always help arriving on the dot, and when he doesn’t, it’s a choice not to, so any excuse turns ineffective.
Heart hammering against his ribs, Boruto leaps off the final tree and lands in front of an idle Sasuke in a breathless daze.
“Oh my god.” Boruto hunches over and grips his knees, gasping for air. “You have to believe me, my dad—”
Sasuke reaches forward with long, pale fingers. Boruto’s jaw snaps shut. The closer the hand approaches, the faster Boruto’s nerves begin to buzz. Inside his tummy, a fluttering feeling. Where is Sasuke trying to reach? Boruto’s chest? His waist? Sasuke is scarier when he acts slowly.
There’s a crinkling sound from just above Boruto’s hip before Sasuke draws his hand back. A tiny glint of silver glints in Boruto's periphery. His heart stops.
Sasuke holds up the torn wrapper to a Shinobi Picture Scrolls booster pack, shooting Boruto an unimpressed glare.
“Ah. See. My dad…” Boruto trails off with an awkward laugh. The new set wasn’t even worth his tardiness! All he got was another damn SSR Naruto Uzumaki card—it is his dad’s fault! “Master, I know you’re actually a very kind, forgiving man…”
Sasuke’s eyes narrow tighter. Boruto sighs in defeat.
“Sorry. Won’t happen again.”
Sasuke releases the foil, letting the gentle breeze whisk it away. His forgiveness comes in the form of silently jutting his chin towards the various bags by his feet, commanding Boruto to carry them. Business as usual. Boruto heaves the straps over his shoulders one by one, straining to bite down a groan. His working theory is that Sasuke occasionally fills these things with rocks to torture him. For fun.
“Oi, Boruto! Hang on a second!”
They look over towards the shouting at the same time. Mirai reaches them in a half-jog, waving a modest bouquet of flowers.
“Mirai?” A warning bell tolls in Boruto’s head. “We were just about to head out.”
“Won’t take long. I’m here to return this.” She holds the flowers out.
Boruto blinks. It’s a nice bouquet, probably straight out of Aunt Ino’s shop, but he doesn’t understand what he’s supposed to do with it. Instinctively, he glances over at Sasuke, who has taken to staring intently at an arbitrary spot away from the scene.
“Uh, my hands are a little busy.” Boruto’s face burns. His voice wavers, “W-wait, return?”
“Listen, I appreciate the theatrics of your romance and all, but I just don’t really see you that way. You’re a little young for me. And even if you weren’t…” She winces, allowing the implication to fill in the rest of the sentence. It’s quickly replaced by a wide, derisive grin as she pinches his cheek between two knuckles and tugs hard. “But don’t be discouraged! I hear you’re in veeery high demand these days, hey, Boruto-kun?”
“Hah?!” Boruto yanks away from her grip and looks at the flowers, then at Mirai. Flowers, Mirai. Sasuke, who has now completely turned away in his quest to look at an ordinary tree branch. Mirai. “What makes you think I sent you that!”
She sends him a flat expression, lifting the bouquet and flicking open a folded note looped through the string around the stems. Boruto leans forward to read the text.
While I want to keep myself a secret, I can’t let my admiration of you stay as one, too! Dattebasa.
— Your secret admirer’ttebasa.
“You tell me,” she snorts. “Really, Boruto, I’d strive for a little more subtlety next time if you’re trying to keep it a secret.”
“What the hell? I didn’t write this!” Boruto drops the bags and tears the card off of the yarn. “What sort of idiot—”
Long, fast, bleeding strokes. Inojin’s handwriting. Boruto knows because of that stupid blotchy brush he always uses. Shikadai told him. For fuck’s sake.
Kicking their ass isn’t enough. He’s going to kill those two.
Boruto doesn’t bother clarifying further, realising that any sort of explanation of what has led them here would—one way or another—reveal distinct hints for various secrets. And while Boruto certainly has no reservations left about throwing Shikadai under the bus, he still respects Sarada enough not to parade her personal life in front of the man she’d like to keep it from the most. Boruto would say she owes him, but given the skeletons in his closet, he supposes it cancels the debt.
“Still wanna tell me you’re not the idiot who wrote it?” Mirai wiggles the flowers in his face.
He snatches the bouquet from her hands and sulks, accepting his fate as he stands frozen under the entirely platonic, little-bro hair ruffle he receives before she takes off. Throwing the bouquet away seems unnecessarily degrading, but keeping them feels like it may behave as an admission.
Then again, who cares if it does? Sasuke would be the only one to see it. So what if he draws his own conclusions? So what if he thinks Boruto likes Mirai, which would imply Boruto likes girls, which would imply Boruto probably doesn’t like guys, which would imply Boruto has no interest in seeing Sasuke as anything more than a mentor and, perhaps, at most, one day in the distant future, a friend? So what? That’s fine. He’s fine. That doesn’t bother Boruto one bit, not even a little. The hollow, aching void in his stomach draining all of the pent up excitement that had been brewing at the thought of being around Sasuke for the duration of this mission is probably just hunger.
He looks up to suggest an early lunch, only to notice Sasuke walking on ahead. Escaping, at that terrible speed-walking pace that Boruto still struggles to match precisely.
Yeah, no. He’s not risking it.
Boruto tosses the flowers to the side, lugs the bags over his shoulders, and follows.
That night, after they have set up camp in a small glade and spread their bedrolls in front of the fire, is the first time Sasuke brings it up. His eyes search the ground for something around Boruto’s lounging figure before they settle.
“Boruto.” He sits stiff as a board, but his voice is even. “I’m counting on you to not be distracted during this mission.”
“Yeah, of course,” Boruto promises. “C’mon, you know me, Master. When’s the last time I screwed something up for you?”
Sasuke doesn’t answer, though it’s fair to assume he has one. His movements are small and timid under his cloak, unable to conceal his discomfort.
“Do you need to… talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
Wrong thing for Boruto to ask, apparently, as Sasuke closes his eyes, his features rippling with displeasure. His attempt to fix up a more neutral expression is a massive failure.
“Rejection… is not the end of the world...”
Oh dear god.
Sasuke continues slowly, every single word chosen carefully and deliberately. But it all feels clumsy, because Sasuke is bad at very few things, and this—this—is at the top of the short list. Verbal comfort over trivial problems. What Sasuke found trivial, at least.
Boruto discovered this shortcoming early on in his mentorship. The first time Boruto chipped the corner of the bento box his mom would pack for his trips; missing out on watching the third Kagemasa movie with his friends because he was away on last minute reconnaissance; sleeping in cold caves; being away from home for too long. Sasuke’s consolation was that none of these problems were insoluble. Items could be replaced. Movies could be rewatched. Learn the jutsu for improving thermoregulation. You’ll be home soon. This used to be a point of contention, Sasuke’s pragmatism, Boruto’s private struggle in adapting to it.
Over the past year, Boruto has become more particular about the complaints he discloses, and Sasuke doesn’t protest as much when Boruto suggests they rent out a warm room, or eat in at a restaurant, or check out what sort of honey the street merchant is selling.
No tangible compromise to offer someone suffering a heartbreak. The ones that come to Boruto’s mind aren’t appropriate for his age, anyway.
Sasuke must think this is a devastating blow to Boruto’s juvenile sensitivities. For the sake of this mission, perhaps Sasuke’s usual willful ignorance is not an option.
But it is! It is! Sensei, quit while you’re ahead! Boruto silently prays.
“At your age, you have fewer… life experiences, making these ones feel more significant than they actually are, especially on the topic of… sustained affection…”
No. No. This can’t be happening. Boruto has to stop this somehow, or else they both explode. His head is shoved between his knees like an ostrich, hiding, his skin going hot all over.
“There are other… fish… somewhere else… that might return your feel—”
“I don’t like Mirai!” Boruto cries out, throwing his hands in the air. He can practically hear Sasuke’s teeth click together as his mouth shuts. “I don’t! I don’t like anyone! Why is that so hard for people to believe?!”
Life is just a cycle of denial and awkward silences for Boruto, it seems.
Sasuke’s shoulders sag slightly, like he let out a breath. “Okay.”
They stare at each other.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I do,” Sasuke says. Too quickly. God, his Master is so bad at this. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. We can stop—”
“Wait, wait, hold on a second.” Boruto’s eyebrows stitch together. “What do you mean, sustained affection?”
Sasuke’s eye flits away.
“Are you kidding me?! No way Shikadai’s fat mouth reached you before today!”
“Of course not.”
“Then how would you—” Shikadai and Boruto had their chat a week ago. Shikadai asked Sarada out the next day. They had their first date five days ago, and Sasuke arrived two days ago and spent the first night at home. Which means, “Sarada told you.”
A pause. Sasuke unclips his cloak. “It’s getting late. We should rest before the morning.”
Unbelievable. An incredulous laugh escapes Boruto.
Two can play that game, if they want to come together and air out Boruto's business.
“Yeah,” Boruto sighs, rolling onto his back with a forced yawn. He tucks his hands behind his head. “Yeah, I guess you’re right, Sasuke-san. I’m getting worked up over nothing. It’ll pass. In fact, I’m kind of over it already. She wasn’t really my type anyway, y’know? Didn’t have all the qualities I’m looking for in a person.”
“Good." Sasuke just sounds grateful to be discharged as he lies back on his bedroll. His mistake, getting comfortable so easily.
“It's obvious Sarada and Shikadai were just trying to shift attention from themselves while you’re here.”
The wind softly blows against the leaves. A lone owl calls, and a chatty frog sings a response. The dying embers crackle faintly in a muted orange glow. The canvas fabric of Sasuke’s bedroll rustles as he sits upright.
“Shift attention from what, exactly?”
“Well, y’know…” Boruto gives him an uneven smile, tipping his head to the side as if to say, the thing, you know, the thing!
“Know what? Stop being vague.”
“You really don’t know? Jeez… well, now I don’t know if I should tell you, Master. I’d hate for it to distract you from this mi—”
“Boruto.”
“Alright, alright.” He leans closer towards Sasuke, his voice hushed. “But you didn’t hear it from me, okay?”