Chapter Text
The sun is setting as Naruto is tracing the scars on Sakura’s arm. The lines of silver are irregular, her skin dips under his fingertips as he gives attention to every single detail.
Sakura’s fifteenth birthday is coming to a close; they spend it outside of Konoha, near a stream Sakura discovered during her training with Tsunade, when she was thrown back so far she had to learn how to heal broken back on the spot, on herself.
Naruto doesn’t visit Konoha much — his training journey with Jiraiya is time-consuming, and there’s little to none place for nostalgia or longing. For all his proclamations about his love for the village, the time spent away from it serves him well; he’s grown taller, his cheeks are fuller, and the white tee he’s wearing doesn’t hang so loosely on his frame.
He seems happier, too, even if he wouldn’t dare to admit that.
And yet, he still managed to convince Jiraiya to return, just for a day, so he can celebrate with Sakura.
“When do you think you’ll be back?” It’s tentative, the way she asks him — he has no reason to treat her so kindly, when for the longest time all she offered him were insults and misunderstandings. But Naruto insists they’re friends, even more now that Sasuke is gone and they need to support each other.
“Soon,” he pokes at the silvery reminders of a particularly nasty wound on her forearm. “Where’s that from?”
“Lady Tsunade wanted me to practice healing broken bones, and needed a bone to be broken.” The memory isn’t a pleasant one. Sakura nearly collapsed, the sight of her own bone protruding from her skin making her feel faint; for all the fear of blood Tsunade has, her training methods are unforgiving and bloody. She made Sakura set the bone properly — she did it without complaining, focused, because failing would’ve meant having to rebreak it — and then taught her how to knit ripped tissues together.
“Is granny really this vicious?”
“You shouldn’t call her that— oh, why do I bother.” He snorts, amused, and slowly takes his hand away. “You just can’t change, can you?”
“Would be less fun,” he grins, his hair tousled by the wind. He’s calmer now, much less of a screamer. Maybe they’re growing up — Sakura ignores how terrified it makes her feel. “I would be less of myself, if I was any different.”
“You have such a way with words,” she responds dryly.
The echo of his laughs gets carried by wind; a pleasant reminder of his presence.
Somehow, almost two years since they last saw each other — as this is the first birthday since he left, that Naruto was close enough to Konoha to be allowed to visit her — they still fit in together, like two lost puzzle pieces.
“The village is empty without you.”
He smiles, gratitude lingering around something more somber.
Now, older, Sakura can finally see the unjust way Konoha’s citizens treat him — how they speak harshly whenever his name is mentioned, how they disregard him and his achievements.
Naruto is thriving — and she’s scared that, perhaps one day, he will decide that the injustice he was faced with isn’t worth all the work he puts into becoming stronger; that his dream to become Hokage will be abandoned, and he will leave, because there’s little to anchor him here.
Sakura is terrified of that — once she stopped being friends with Ino when she was little, she was completely alone. And now, if Naruto ever decides to see the world the way Sasuke does, she will lose whatever friendship they have too.
“I’ll walk you to the gates, tomorrow.”
“Aw, Sakura. You’re so sweet, dattebayo.”
She hits his side with her elbow, pleased to note that his ribs aren’t as easy to feel as they were prior — Jiraiya, for all his creepy faults, must be generous in sponsoring him some good meals.
“We’re friends, don’t push it.”
“Can’t you let a guy dream—“
She nudges him again, this time harsher, digging into his ribs.
“I can always show you just how many bones Lady Tsunade forced me to break.”
He jumps away, his eyes wide; he knows she’s teasing, both of them know each other’s endurance by now, but the dangerous edge to her voice makes him second-guess everything he knows about her.
Oh, how miserable will he be when he finds out Sakura passed her exams and is now a higher rank.
She’s keeping that information for when he truly returns to Konoha.
“Will you tell Kakashi-sensei I said hello?”
“He’ll be disappointed that he missed you.”
Naruto grins.
“Once I’m back, I’ll have something to ease his disappointment with. Pervy Sage is working on something he’ll enjoy.”
Sakura hides her face in her hands.
“Gods damn it, why am I surrounded by creeps.”
“Oi, I’m no creep! I even destroyed one of his research spots! And I warn girls whom he creeps on!”
“Truly, the paragon of feminism and justice.”
Naruto sniffs, but he’s not offended for long. He sits down, next to her, his head resting on her shoulder; Sakura is still taller than him. His growth spurt will come soon, so she’ll enjoy this tiny version of him for as long as she has the chance to.
“Happy birthday, Sakura.”
“Happy belated birthday, Naruto.”
They remain there, enjoying each other’s presence — it will take time before they’re able to meet again.
Then, Naruto perks up, and leaps to reach for his bag.
“I almost forgot! You’ll never believe this, but Pervy Sage actually taught the Fourth Hokage!—“
“That’s a pretty well known fact, and you would’ve known that as well if you ever paid attention in class.”
“But that was boring,” he sticks out his tongue and finally takes out a scroll; it’s simple, but the ink is perfect, clearly done by a stable hand. “Look! It’s the prototype of his teleportation technique!”
Sakura leans closer, curiosity sparking in her eyes.
“That is cool,” she agrees. It’s not every day there’s a chance to witness the first stages of a technique creation. Much less one that can bend space and allow their user to move between flagged points in a flash. “No wonder he’s regarded as the best seal master.”
“Maybe we could use it,” Naruto pokes at the ink, “if we figure it out, I mean.”
“What for?”
“To search for Sasuke, of course. We could just grab him and he’d be back in Konoha before he’d have the chance to realise what’s happening.”
Although the thought is sweet and a bit sad, Sakura can’t help but grin.
“And then we’d mark him so that every time he tries to run we’d be able to teleport right to him.”
“He’d be so pissed.”
Something behind them moves; Naruto’s head turns, but the forest remains silent, indifferent to their presence. Wind hums as it brushes past branches and leaves, but other than that, there’s no sound.
Sakura slowly stands up, frowning.
“What—“
“It’s quiet,” she whispers. Naruto stands up as well, his hand reaching for the weapon's pouch. Minato Namikaze’s scroll with a prototype seal pattern is in his left hand, the paper crumpling under his fingers.
“It’s too quiet.”
They both jump as a foreign chakra signature sparks to life nearby; Sakura grabs Naruto by the collar of his shirt and throws him to the ground. They both barely miss the shuriken thrown their way.
“If you want to fight, don’t be a coward and face us like a real shinobi!” Naruto yells. There’s no response, until suddenly he can feel the scroll being tugged away from his grasp. “Oi—!”
Sakura pushes chakra into her fists.
Their opponent is wearing an orange mask, with a singular eyehole. He dodges her attack with ease, his coat swaying in the wind as he jumps to the left.
“He took it!” Naruto’s fingers cross in a seal, ready to summon his shadow clones. Before he can, the man starts dissolving into thin air. “No! Wait!” Naruto turns to Sakura. “Throw me at him.”
She doesn’t need to be told twice; she grabs Naruto and throws him at the man, before joining them, jumping from the right flank.
Naruto’s fist is loaded with chakra as he attempts to grab the stranger — or at least the scroll. His hand connects with the paper and his eyes widen as he feels his chakra being pulled into the ink on it.
The masked enemy nin tries to push him away, his body now tense in something akin to panic but not quite; his strange technique is still active, blurring everything around them into a spiral.
And then Sakura collides with them; there’s a flash of light as the seal activates, and then — nothing.
The blinding pain is what wakes him up; it clings to his bones, echoes in every fibre of his aching muscles, a song he’s long grown familiar with.
Obito opens his eyes. Exhaustion lingers, urging him to lay back down, to indulge himself and rest. He almost caves in, the relentlessness of his body’s demands to fall asleep making his mind fuzzy in an unfamiliar manner.
That strikes him as odd - he sits up, suddenly more awake than before, and possibly alarmed, which doesn’t happen often.
This tiredness is wrong. Wrong in a way that is foreign, far from what he’s grown used to over the years. He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat — most of his intestines are gone, and he cannot keep food down, no matter how much he tried before he finally accepted it. He’s a ghost of a person — he doesn’t get tired.
And yet he’s feeling sleepy, and sways slightly, fighting the feeling off. He goes to rub his eyes with his right hand, expecting the coolness of the Hashirama-cell transplant, but is met with nothing.
He glances down; his arm ends mid-bicep, the scar tissue curling around the stump, clearly healed wrong, too fast. He calls for mokuton, which has always felt present, the affinity for it buzzing under his skin. It’s gone now, and he cannot summon a single branch.
And then yet another thing dawns on him — the depth perception.
Zetsu has always urged him to keep a spare eye in his empty socket, just in case. Izanagi is a powerful weapon, and it’s a shame not to use it when the situation calls for it. But there was no reason to; Akatsuki isn’t yet active in a manner he intends them to be, and all jinchuriki are outside their reach at the moment.
Yet he has depth perception, and doesn’t have to tilt his head accordingly, so that he can keep his lone eye on the environment surrounding him. Both of his eyes are intact.
His left hand travels up to his right cheek. It’s smooth, devoid of scars that twist around his features and tug at his lips.
“Interesting,” his voice is low, lacking the raspy tint that third-degree meeting with a boulder left him with. The word flows out of him clearly, with no stunted speech, another leftover of his isolation absent.
This body is used to talking. A lot.
His mind feels strangely clear, and aside from phantom pain in his missing arm, he’s free of the chronic pain that plagues his body and makes his movements slower than they should’ve been.
Only now he takes in the room; it’s a bedroom, with only one, bigger bed, a desk in front of which there’s a singular chair on which there’s a mountain of unfolded laundry, a simple wardrobe with a calendar pinned to it.
The floor is a mess; clothes and underwear lay around it, tossed without any care.
On the bedstand beside him there are three pictures; one he’s very familiar with and two that make him pause.
There’s the team photo; Minato is smiling sheepishly, clearly aware of how much work his team will need, Rin grins in the middle, Kakashi looks pointedly indifferent and bored, and Obito himself has a lollipop in his mouth and sweat on his skin from running like crazy across the village to make it relatively in time for the photo.
The other two are… different. It’s the three of them, much older. Kakashi is missing an eye, and the socket is clearly empty. He’s smiling, leaning on Obito’s shoulder. His younger reflection doesn’t look offended by the touch; no, Obito’s leaning into it, albeit shyly, if the redness of his cheeks is anything to go by.
Rin stands there, a fond look on her face; she’s staring at the two of them instead of the camera. Her hair is longer, her cheeks devoid of babyfat. She’s older — she grew up.
Her unfamiliar features make him pause — she’s stuck in his mind as a teen, with baby fat still clinging to her cheeks. In the photo, the sight that greets him is strange, other. Her face has matured, no longer resembling one of a child.
She’s standing next to Kakashi, half-thrown over his shoulder, her smile as kind as he remembers it to be.
Kakashi isn’t looking at the photographer; he’s focused on Obito, staring at him in a fond manner. He’s not wearing anything resembling his shinobi attire — just a lousy shirt with a tacky dog-related joke and a print of a smiling mutt.
Obito — his own face stares at him, and it’s the most alien thing of all. He’s smiling, gentler, without anger clinging to his features. He has both of his eyes, and is lacking his scars. Instead, he has two smaller ones, one beneath his right eye, and the second across his nose.
He huffs and turns from the photo.
His sharingan flares to life, but nothing happens — the genjutsu, if that’s what it is, doesn’t disappear. It doesn’t even waver.
The room stays just like it was, with green walls and a single cobweb in the left corner of the ceiling. It’s well lived in, with clothes scattered around the furniture — the singular chair next to a desk seems like it’s going to collapse under the load of laundry it’s forced to carry.
The pile has mixed colours — through navy blue and purple are the most consistent in repetition — and seemingly, is made up from shirts of different sizes.
Not an illusion, then,
He hums, and suddenly panic climbs up his throat, choking air out of his lungs. His right arm is missing.
He lifts his shirt up, staring at the skin that greets him — pale, but without any remains of the Hashirama Cells; it’s like they’ve never clinged to his body at all.
His forearm is gone; the stump ends mid-biceps, scarred but long healed.
“Shit.”
If not an illusion — then what?
He’s always known Kamui has great potential. One above what anyone could consider or even comprehend.
Space-time jutsu… perhaps his Kamui activated properly, even with those two brats’ annoying intervention. But hiraishin—
He pauses.
Hiraishin isn’t supposed to work like this, but that was the prototype. One of Minato’s many failed attempts.
He almost laughs, because it’s ironic at best, that his signature technique would get him stranded in some parallel dimension of sorts; that Minato would get his revenge from beyond the grave, all because his technique somehow mixed and messed up Obito’s most prized one.
“You know, if you keep on scowling like that it will turn permanent.”
He turns towards the door; Kakashi leans on the wall, smiling at him. His scar is present, jagged around the edges, and the eye socket is empty.
Obito never gave him his eye in this reality.
That would explain why his depth perception suddenly improved.
“Do you want to scare off the elders?” Kakashi doesn’t move from his spot. He seems… happy. Light. So unlike the trash he should be. “Not that I’m opposing. I think that would be…” he lowers his voice, glancing at Obito with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “hot.”
Obito absolutely bluescreens.
He freezes, staring at Kakashi in disbelief; the aforementioned laughs, awkwardly. His shoulders shake, and the shirt he is wearing is very tight. The fabric stretches as he does, and it shows off his muscles.
“Okay, that was bad, I admit it. Don’t judge me, I’m not in my prime yet, it’s too early.”
Obito doesn’t move.
Training with Madara didn’t prepare him for whatever this is. He can almost imagine his strained, elderly voice, losing his mind and screaming about world peace, Hashirama, wars and Hashirama again.
That Hatake boy resembles that bumbling oaf’s brother. Couldn’t you have chosen someone better for your sharingan to go to?
Maybe he would scream at the sight of this affection too — Obito really wants to.
His thoughts are a mess, all urging him to move — but his body doesn’t listen. He leans into this, like it’s familiar; like his skin doesn’t know the coldness of abandonment and loneliness.
Like it’s used to being loved and cared for.
“Now, spare that foul mood of yours for when the Council starts talking shit.”
Obito swallows; his mouth is dry. Strange. He’s almost an outsider to this body of his — it doesn’t respond in a manner he’d like it too. Kakashi’s still watching him, and the weight of his stare isn’t repulsive nor difficult to bear.
He perks up at the mention of the council — he doesn’t intend on betraying that he’s not who this Kakashi thinks he is, so he must rely on context clues to get the full picture. What role is he playing now? Not Tobi, not the Shadow Mizukage. Not Madara.
He will have to take the face of a boy buried at Kannabi; a corpse half rotten and twisted beyond recognition.
Kakashi’s words suggest that he’s used to being around the council — at least enough to complain about them so often it seems like it’s a joke between them.
“I’m not feeling well today.”
“Oh, spare me this bull crap. Do you want Rin to beat you up for being lazy again?”
He almost freezes at the mention of her name — but forces himself not to. It’s not the real her; no, that girl awaits for Kakashi and him in the Infinite Tsukuyomi. This is merely a doppelgänger wearing her face like a mask.
He slips on a mask of his own — Uchiha Obito, the loyal shinobi who is apparently close enough with Kakashi to live together and be used to mindless chatter.
“She wouldn’t beat me up, she respects me too much.”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, but I’m uncertain if anyone respects you, much less Rin.”
“Bakashi.”
“I’m sorry, trusted advisor, I’ll try to repent for my sins to my best ability.”
The banter is relaxing; he can almost imagine what could’ve been, if the reality hasn’t been so cruel.
But none of this is real — just a mishap with a teleportation technique.
He could try to leave — but he knows well enough not to try. If this body lacks the Hashirama Cells, then using Kamui would render him blind. He doesn’t have the prototype hiraishin seal either.
So he will remain in this strange reality — and then he will leave and pursue his purpose once more.
He must succeed — and he will. He’s done too much to look back on his choices and regret them.
“What are you thinking about?”
“World peace.”
Kakashi laughs — it sounds sincere. Obito doesn’t think he’s ever heard him laugh like that before.
He looks back to the photos.
The third photo is a picture of Kakashi and Obito; they’re eating dango, and Kakashi is looking at Obito with something in his eyes that is beyond his understanding.
He takes the second picture into his hand and runs his thumb alongside Rin’s face. Kakashi makes a vague sound in the background, but offers no comment.
Strangely, there’s no ache in his heart; usually when he starts to reminisce, it feels like his chest is trying to implode or burst out open. It’s calm now, aside from the wave of grief that overtakes him.
Rin, alive.
Rin, looking older than she would ever be.
He almost misses the soft knock to the doorframe.
He jerks up at the sound of footsteps, but his eyes don’t pry away from the photo.
Kakashi huffs, not particularly affected by his sudden silence, and slides into the room, his footsteps light and careful. He manoeuvres around the laundry scattered across the floor — picking it up with one hand and tossing onto the pile stashed on the chair.
Obito is staring at him now. His eyes linger on Kakashi’s scar.
He gave up on wearing the prosthetic, although Rin chastised him for that, because he risked his facial structures and he should fill that hole with something.
She stopped insisting after he told her he has different holes he gets filled every other day, so he doesn’t need anything in this one.
She didn’t speak to him for a week after that, and complained about it to Obito, very loudly, insisting that Kakashi’s a bad influence.
How does he know that?
The answers come to his mind in flashes of recognition that don't belong to him. How does he know about something that hasn’t happened?
“Am I looking as handsome as always, mister World Peace?”
Obito is still observing Kakashi, silent and analytical. He looks at his hand, then slowly touches the stump of his right arm, where it ends mid-bicep.
“Phantom pains?” Kakashi guesses, and doesn’t pry any further.
He puts the breakfast on Obito’s lap and leans in to kiss his forehead — and smiles triumphantly when he leans into the affection, taken aback by it.
It’s muscle memory for this body, Obito realises, suddenly feeling cold.
“Rin came by, she’s making her students perform a vivisection. I triple dog dare you to send her and the brats to Suna. It will build character.”
Obito blinks slowly, tense — and then he relaxes; a carefully crafted mask slips onto his face.
“We cannot send them to Suna, they will cause a political incident, and I assure you, we cannot afford that.”
“Cannot afford or don’t want to deal with?”
“Same difference, is it not?” He plays with the eggs, looking at them strangely; he’s unsure how to eat. It’s been years since the last time his body needed food. He takes a bite, slowly, and chews for far longer than necessary. “Stick to traumatising people.”
“My cooking’s good and you know it. Don’t insult the chef, I can spit into your drink next.”
“I always knew you’d be into some weird things.”
Kakashi snorts and starts sorting through the laundry; he picks up a lavender T-shirt with a tacky print of a bowl of ramen placed inside a heart.
“May I suggest you a new formal attire?”
“I’m not wearing that.”
“Ah, I forgot, the Hokage’s most trusted advisor cannot step so low as to be whimsical.”
Obito rolls his eyes, grateful for how easy it is to fall back into the banter. It’s most useful if he learns as much crucial information as quickly as he can. Kakashi — this strange, alternative version of him — still seems oblivious to the fact that he’s replaced whoever Obito of this world was.
“The Hokage’s most trusted advisor can see that the shirt would look far better on his roommate, is all.”
Kakashi snorts.
“Ah, that’s what we’re calling it? Roommateship? Also, I expected better of you than to try to get me to strip naked first thing in the morning.”
Obito looks outside; the sun is high in the sky, a few clouds crawling lazily onto its path. It’s nearing noon.
“I’m going to call in sick,” he decides,
“You won’t,” Kakashi tells him, like he knows it’s just empty talk.
Obito scoffs, but doesn’t argue out loud. He simply forces down the rest of his breakfast — because that’s the best descriptor for how he eats it — and leaves their bed, considering throwing the now-empty plate at Kakashi.
He moves through the apartment without any sense of familiarity, hoping that Kakashi won’t realise that something’s amiss.
He gets dressed eventually. It takes some time; he struggles with the purple turtleneck for far too long, his right arm moving, expecting to find his hand at the end of his stump.
Obito pauses for a moment, after managing to put on his sandals. His head turns slightly, but he doesn’t meet Kakashi’s eyes.
“Aren’t you dressing up? Where’s your headband?”
Kakashi makes a weird noise.
“I don’t have one. I resigned six years ago, remember?”
“You? Quitting being Konoha’s most loyal dog?” There’s an amused lilt to his voice, laced with disbelief. He takes notice of the change in Kakashi’s expression and hums to himself, contemplative. “Sorry. I know that. I got confused.”
“I pray every day you don’t get confused when it comes to something actually important, dunce.”
He doesn’t take the bait and Kakashi — fortunately — lets it go.
He starts getting ready to leave as well.
“Why?”
It looks like Kakashi stops himself from saying something he wants to, but deems too risky to say aloud.
“I wanted to try something new.”
Obito lingers — he’s sensing the lie, but doesn’t intend to call him out on it. He nods; once, sharp.
The door clicks shut, and Obito slowly exhales, the weight of the world shifting from his shoulders for a moment.
This Kakashi loves him.
It’s obvious — the body he’s in remembers that, and takes it for granted. He wants to slap himself for this softness. This is a shinobi world — a different version of it, but the ruthlessness of it remains.
Perhaps the Kannabi mission turned out different, but they still sent children to die in a war as cannon fodder. They still participate in an unjust system that holds gain and power over the lives of its people.
Obito wants to laugh — he should’ve known better.
Shitshitshit
The world around him is a blur, and it takes everything in his might not to lash out and kill the first person he encounters.
He knew he should’ve listened to Zetsu’s warnings about his experiments with Kamui — how the risk wasn’t worth the effort, and how his focus should’ve been on The Plan, not some juvenile shenanigans.
Madara’s shadow, his will, the creature who bears his words of wisdom and advice, is absent now — all because Obito did something reckless and didn’t heed the many, many warnings about how he should stop clinging to unnecessary pieces of nostalgia.
Shit.
He’s done enough research on both Kamui and Hiraishin to be aware of how space and time can be bent to anyone’s will, as long as the individual is strong enough. Kamui itself is a crack in reality he can slip into. All in all, it’s not that surprising that he somehow ended up stuck in some alternate reality.
The basics seem the same — the faces of the four kage loom over the village, all identical to the ones he remembers from his reality.
The question is: where exactly does the path of this world diverge from his — it would be a good navigating point as to what changes he should expect.
He lost an arm — most likely during the Kannabi mission. He’s Hokage’s most trusted advisor — the words taste rancid, the sheer idea of participating and helping in leading the system that exploits children and doesn’t value anything but war is revolting.
Rin is alive, with a team of her own; Kakashi doesn’t have one. He does something else, but has resigned from the life of a shinobi. His arm was blank — no ANBU tattoo, nothing signifying he was ever a part of the Black Ops. Maybe he wasn’t. Not here.
This Obito is Konoha’s loyal dog, if his position and the fact that he’s still an active member of the village are anything to go by. He never met Madara. Never saw the reality for what it is — hell that needs to be escaped.
He’s still blind to the truth.
He loves Kakashi. He doesn’t dwell on it — the ache from this body is not his own, nor are its simplistic needs. Kakashi is a trash who cannot keep his comrades alive. Who loses people one after another, and couldn’t even save his student from leaving Konoha to train under Orochimaru.
These emotions don’t belong to him. This reality won’t twist him to accept it and live happily, content with someone who can only be saved by being removed from reality and living through the perfect dream.
Until he can figure out the seal that brought him here, he’s positively stuck. Luckily, he can pretend; play the role of a loyal advisor who never wished harm upon the village. Who wakes up in his apartment, in a bed that has an echo of Kakashi’s warmth hidden in the blankets.
The phantom pain, as Kakashi called it, is ever so present.
He’s dissatisfied with the system enough to know what the insinuations are. Shinobi without a limb is quickly pulled from active duty, and disregarded like trash. His saving grace would’ve either been his status as Minato’s student, or sheer stubbornness; both options are likely.
Kakashi hesitated when asked about the reason he retired.
Obito huffs, satisfaction buzzing under his skin — because the look in Kakashi’s eyes told him everything. The overwhelming guilt he decides to keep silent.
This version of himself must’ve been forcefully retired and disregarded, with his dream crushed into nothingness.
And Kakashi must’ve retired sometime after, likely because of the guilt of his failure as team’s captain. He always liked to internalise his shortcomings.
“Obito!”
The voice that calls him is familiar, enough so to strike a nerve. Itachi bows politely, holding two bags of groceries.
“Itachi,” he keeps emotions out of his voice, settling for something bland and dry.
His cousin has rounder cheeks, and, in his right hand, is sporting an inhaler — the likes of which Obito only saw in Orochimaru’s disregarded drafts.
He does look tired, but not as exhausted as the other Itachi. He’s healthy — very obviously so, with a light frame but not so skinny his bones are showing.
“I’m taking Sasuke to the riverbank this evening. I was hoping to invite you to join us.”
He glances around, as if searching for something. Possibly his father — judging by his hushed tone, this invitation is not something his parents might know about.
The Uchiha district is in the centre of the village, just how it used to be, before Obito released the Ninetails. But his own apartment is outside it, clearly stating that no matter the universe, his clan would never consider him worthy.
He slips on a smile, one Itachi wouldn’t even dare to think fake.
“I’ll see what I can do.” The promise is empty, but Itachi looks content with it — like he knows it will be kept.
They must be close, here.
He would’ve never imagined Mikoto’s brats searching for him and going out of their way to be in his presence.
He doesn’t know about the younger boy — he’s a cog in the machine, a part that is not yet relevant. Filled with so much anger he one day might prove to be useful. Obito will guide him — shape his hatred so he can, too, see the truth. A nice little failsafe, in case he loses the other members of the Akatsuki too early.
Itachi has an expiration date. He’s a valuable member, but pairing him with Kisame was a conscious decision. He will be useful for a while, and then he will kill himself by his brother’s hand; then Obito will sweep in, and tell Sasuke the truth.
This Itachi doesn’t look burdened by life; he’s easygoing, far from what Obito would’ve imagined him to be.
And he seeks him out; they must be relatively close, despite the Obito’s differences with their clan. How peculiar.
“You’re going to the office?” Itachi asks, apparently deciding to join him on his walk. “How’s the trade agreement with Kumogakure going?”
“That’s classified.”
“You’re as fun as my father,” Itachi pouts, like an insolent, moody, nosy teenager and not the genius shinobi he is. “Is the stick up your ass what causes you to be so hilarious?”
“Please, now be serious. Your father doesn’t have a stick up his ass, he has an entire tree in there.”
Itachi snorts.
“Your unique understanding of how to piss off every single clan leader is something I aspire to gain, one day.”
“You’re going to be the next head of the clan. Why would you need to know how to make yourself miserable?”
“To stay humble.”
Obito hums; he takes note of Itachi’s words. So he’s somewhat involved in multiple clans matters, enough so that their leaders dislike him.
“How are you?” He asks, because this Itachi is eager enough to accompany him and keep on talking. It’s a perfect opportunity to gather intel.
The teen smiles, and shrugs.
“Izumi has been around a lot lately. We bake together.” The name means nothing to Obito, but it must be somewhat important to Itachi. “I don’t know about the engagement, though. I don’t feel ready yet. I know my parents had me around this age, but you said it yourself, children shouldn’t be in a rush to grow up, right?”
“Right.”
“I like her. But I don’t know if I like her because we’re childhood friends and we’re destined to be, or because I don’t know anyone else enough to see if this feeling’s real.”
“Skill issue,” Obito decides, shifting slightly into the Tobi act. It’s something he really wanted to try out lately, mostly to see how much he can ragebait Nagato before he pairs him up with Deidara so his boredom is someone else’s problem.
“Skill—? Who are you to say? You sleep around with a guy who writes porn for a living, I’m not taking criticism from someone like that.”
There goes an explanation of what Kakashi does. He should’ve expected it. Maybe his hopes were too high for a moment.
“I’m also Hokage’s advisor, and your superior. Go do your chores, instead of bothering people on their way to work.” Itachi rolls his eyes at him. What a strange reality this is.
They stop in front of the office and part ways; Itachi makes him promise, again, to show up at the riverbank.
It doesn’t matter — Obito can indulge in something so trivial. Right now, with no clear way back, he can poke around this world, study it. He has time and patience. Infinite Tsukuyomi is still waiting for the right moment.
Maybe, if he gets to know this world, he can save it too.
Minato sits behind the desk, agonising over a piece of paper. It’s unusual — when he was still alive in Obito’s original world, he not even once had an issue that took him longer than an hour to solve. His desk never had stacks of papers lying around, collecting dust.
And yet he looks like he wants to be anywhere but in his office.
He perks up when Obito enters the room, plastering an easygoing smile onto his face.
“Hello.”
“Sensei,” Obito bows his head, a polite little showcase of manners he doesn’t truly care for. This man is weak, pathetic. Oh, how cold he looked when they fought, not an ounce of recognition, despite training Obito for years. “You looked better,” he lets the comment slip past his lips, and Minato looks relieved at any form of distraction.
“I won’t argue,” he laughs and drums his fingers on the surface of the desk. “Naruto wasn’t feeling well today. I tried to get him to borrow his germs, just for today. I would kill for a break.”
“I don’t doubt,” he does, actually. Minato fits into the role of the kage perfectly well. He’s playing up his need for rest, but in reality it’s not likely he would try to get sick on purpose, just so he can avoid work.
Obito picks up the document Minato is slouching over and reads through it.
It’s a trade agreement, but one that poses tariffs on Kumo’s already limited produce. The Council would be happy with how strict they are; the department of agriculture, however, will riot if the seeds they import from that village will cost twice their current price. And even more if it affects their exports.
“What moron drafted that?”
The document is something he might’ve signed to compromise Kiri and fuel its isolation from other villages. But Minato should have Konoha’s best interest in mind.
Minato looks away, his smile sheepish.
“After last week’s Council session I had to compromise. It’s best if we create an agreement that will please them—“
“At the cost of making everyone else unhappy?” Obito stares at him. “You know that you’re supposed to avoid starting a conflict? The last thing we need is a trade war with Kumo. They’re already a pain to handle.”
“The Council—“
“The Council clearly wants you to sabotage our international relations, if this crap is what they deem satisfying,” he waves the document at him; a sudden urge to rip it apart almost overtakes him. This ridiculous body and its loud, unnecessary emotions.
Minato closes his eyes and nods sadly, like he’s been expecting for this to happen.
“I'm Hokage, I can’t just go around the Council all the time. I need to make decisions that will please them too.”
The solution is very simple — the Council wouldn’t be a problem if there weren’t any Council Members, Obito thinks.
But he doubts that his advice to just murder anyone who disagrees with rational decisions and tries to sabotage the village for their own gain will be met with grace.
“You serve Konoha, not its elites.”
Obito must’ve chosen the right words — ones spoken by the heart of a crazed fanatic who doesn’t see the faults of the system — because Minato smiles fondly and moves to ruffle his hair.
“The elites pay a lot in taxes, we kinda need them, Obito.”
“You say that because you’re clanless. If you had to deal with a clan head pestering you about your life choices, you’d have a different opinion.”
Minato just laughs — he’s good friends with Fugaku, since one of his teammates was an Uchiha, and thus he had the chance to get familiar with the clan.
“Do you think you can handle this?”
The Council won’t like this. Nor the Clan Heads.
Obito bites the inside of his cheek, mulling over this decision. He’s an advisor — that much is very, very clear — but he’s not an active shinobi, nor does he have the respect from others who hold some power.
Yet his word is significant enough that they obey it, albeit with complaints and loud disapproval.
Minato must trust him — but he must also know that Obito will never be his replacement. That no matter how hard he tries, and how much he changes, no one in actual power to make that decision will approve him to be his successor.
“Are you going to be able to endure a screaming match, sensei?”
“I’ve survived the ones that came before,” Minato shrugs helplessly. “But if you could spare me the worst of it, that would be great.”
Obito shakes his head. The Council will scream regardless, especially if Minato will agree to change the current plan of tariffs to something more suitable for a good, stable leader of a prospering village.
“They won’t like it.”
“They don’t like half of your propositions, and yet you’re right every time,” Minato ruffles his hair again.
Are they close, here? Back home, he was just a cold, distant teacher. A shinobi many would aspire to be. His accomplishments spoke for him. But he never showed this amount of compassion and fondness. Not to Obito, not to Rin.
Obito swallows his pride.
He’s right, every time.
He must remember that — he must stay focused, and not forget about everything he’s working towards.
He will play his part, a gentle but fierce, brilliant advisor who seeks to prioritise the well-being of Konoha above all else.
“Get me ink, and all of our current trade agreements. Also reports from the department of agriculture, alongside any farmers’ statements you might find.”
Minato laughs.
“A man on a mission,” he searches for the keys to the archive; “I’ll help you.”
“I don’t doubt it, sensei. Someone must teach you how to manage this circus.”
The day at the office offers him a routine he finds himself thankful for. It reminds him of the time when he ran Kiri from the shadows, only this time he’s not trying to actively destroy the village from the inside.
It’s easier to face documents than this strange world.
It would be easy to ask Minato about his seals; to get him to show his prototypes.
But it imposes a risk, and Obito doesn’t intend to get restrained and hidden in the depths of the Torture and Investigation department, until al his secrets are spilled.
He can wait, play the long game — he’s patient, Madara taught him that. All effort takes time.
Minato yawns and stretches. He glances outside, pretending that his stomach doesn’t growl as loudly as the Kyuubi.
“I think we are done for today.”
“Hm,” Obito nods. “Slow day.”
“I am glad for that,” Minato says. Reminiscing seeps into his voice like poison; “we did good, that our kids don’t have to grow up in fear of war.”
“Your kids, sensei. I’m too young for that,” the dry response makes Minato chuckle.
“You know what I mean. It’s something we all should strive for, to give the next generation a future we could’ve only dreamt of.”
Obito bites down the urge to bristle and argue — this peace is temporary. A piece of cloth stretched over an open wound. Any day now, someone can start starving for power and reduce all of this into rubble.
Naive. Weak.
This Minato is just as much of an idealist as that failure from Obito’s own world was. Preaching peace when his hands were permanently stained with blood.
“Itachi is waiting for me.”
“Well then? What are you still doing here?” Minato stands up, “tell him and Sasuke I said hi.”
“Right.”
The walk to the riverside is a surprisingly short one; Obito’s footsteps are steady. His back hurts — it’s nothing compared to the chronic pain he’s usually in, but it lingers on the edge of just being uncomfortable enough to annoy him.
He keeps on trying to scratch his neck with his right hand, and grimaces when he doesn’t find the limb attached to his shoulder.
He notices Itachi right away; his younger brother perks up and visibly brightens when he sees Obito approach.
That’s a strange reaction.
“You came!”
“I was under the impression that I had no other choice,” Sasuke laughs — is this really the same brat his Kakashi struggled with? “I assume your day was productive?”
“Oh, don’t get him started,” Itachi laughs. He offers Obito an onigiri, and he takes it, unsure. Eating is almost completely alien to him. It’s nice to have reminders that this body needs to consume.
It’s inconvenient.
“I will start if I want to,” Sasuke huffs. “Sensei made us perform a vivisection on a squirrel. Vivisection. I didn’t sign up to be a medic!”
“It’s important to know basic medicine. She’s making sure you won’t die the moment Sakura is out of your sight,” Itachi bickers. His brother doesn’t look like he appreciates it.
“On-hands approach to learning is most effective,” Obito tells him, because he’s refusing to unpack the fact that someone made the mere genin open up a living creature. It’s not unusual to learn from corpses or those injured, but rarely do teachers actually force their squad to do it manually, not as an opportunity but a requirement.
Sasuke whines.
“Can’t you just teach me?”
Itachi glances towards Obito, observing his expression. The corner of Obito’s lips twitches.
“I’m afraid only active shinobi can do that. Besides, I was never skilled enough in the fighting department.”
“Bet you wouldn’t have made us kill innocent animals to learn about anatomy.” Sasuke huffs. “One day she will bring us humans and tell us with a smile to execute them and gouge the nervous system from between the muscle and other types of tissue.”
“I doubt she would make you execute them,” Itachi says. “That would be a waste of a learning opportunity. It’s best if you see the body and mind react to what you’re doing.”
Sasuke shoves him, rolling his eyes. Obito watches them in silence.
There was no need to kill animals for him. But he was taught about the weaknesses and strengths of the human body by salvaging corpses to learn from them.
Madara always looked indifferent, no matter the state the bodies were brought in.
“I finished the book you gave me,” Sasuke says. Obito looks at him, curious. “Naruto says it’s dull, but I think it’s cool to learn about diplomacy and stuff.”
“I’m not sending your squad outside of Konoha,” Obito finds himself saying; it’s like an old argument, leaving his mouth out of reflex. The kid just rolls his eyes, like it’s a response he’s long used to. Obito thinks briefly to the dumber, younger copy of his old sensei. “Of course Naruto would think it’s dull.”
Both of the boys snort at that.
“Well, every ideal team splits brawn, smarts and looks by one between each member.”
Sasuke eyes Itachi, and puffs out his chest, announcing loudly: “and Team Seven is an exception, because I gave all three.”
“Sure, lie to yourself.”
“I’ll tell dad you’re mean to me.”
Itachi looks amused by the threat, so Sasuke frowns and turns to Obito.
“Can you defend me here?”
“You’re doing good by yourself,” Obito waves him off and reaches for a second onigiri. “But if you want Itachi to reconsider his behaviour, you should probably ask him about Izumi.”
Itachi’s face grows visibly red, and he immediately slaps his open hand across Sasuke’s mouth before he can tease him.
It’s bizarre to watch — they’re behaving as if they’re close, and the difference when compared to their original counterparts is amusing. At the very least Obito will get some free entertainment out of this.
The lack of weight in his heart is almost alarming, but it’s easy to blame it on this strange, useless body.
Sasuke goes on about his day; the missions they do in between classes — which they still have to take, strangely enough — and how Naruto got punted by Sakura for transforming into a naked woman.
Itachi joins him with his own stories — each far removed from the Uchiha clan territory. He avoids talking about his soon-to-be fiancé, and mostly goes on about the most recent compilation of instances where Shisui almost got himself killed by his reckless behaviour (which doesn’t land that well with Obito. It’s hard to imagine that law-obeying, honest, loyal kid as someone eccentric and unreasonable) or a courtier mission he had to another country.
Obito keeps his retelling of his week short — he quips “it’s confidential”, and they both groan, but don’t pester him about it more.
The sun is setting down by the time they get up to leave — Obito with some more understanding of this reality.
It seems that his role as an advisor is influential enough that he managed to force Minato to change the system; which explains a bit more as to why clan heads supposedly hate him.
Genin still get assigned to teams at 13, but until 15 they are prohibited from leaving Konoha unsupervised and from taking missions higher than D ranks - much to Sasuke’s annoyance. At 15, they can get missions with a C rank assigned to their teams. They still have to attend classes every week, and their basic education doesn’t end until they turn 18.
At 18, they are seen as adults and fully graduate, and only then are granted the possibility of applying for the chunin rank, and having the opportunity to do missions with higher ranks — still as a team.
After enough missions and a set of exams, they can apply for the jounin rank, and work alone.
They truly did remove children from the frontlines — even more, from the battlefields themselves.
And Minato of all people agreed to that idea.
This version of Obito must be just as much of a dedicated lunatic as he is, because that couldn’t have been an easy feat.
“See you soon!” Sasuke waves at him, and drags Itachi back to the compound; Obito opts to take a slow stroll to his own apartment, still getting used to how the village looks.
The streets all feel familiar, but his memories are tangled with what this mind is trying to recall. He knows for a fact that at least some of his familiarity with the layout is fabricated — many of the buildings and streets he walks by were destroyed during Kyuubi’s rampage.
He walks inside his — theirs, he supposes — apartment, leaving his sandals next to Kakashi’s.
Kakashi is in the kitchen, hunched over a piece of paper. He holds an ink brush and slowly works through a manuscript, grunting when his glasses — where did he get those? - slide off his nose.
Obito is silent; he watches him, as his hand steadily brings his ideas to reality, words turning into sentences which his characters will have to serve.
“Do you like what you see?”
Maybe, Obito bites his tongue. This warmth isn’t his. The annoyance at his other body twists and blends with tiredness after a long day and a foreign affection towards the man in front of him.
“What’s there to like?” He teases, searching for familiarity. Kakashi smiles, and something inside Obito preens with satisfaction.
“What’s there to not?”
“Valid question,” Obito takes a theatrical breath and holds up his fingers, counting, “smells like dog food, writes porn for a living, used to be a brat, doesn’t aim well—“
“You know I don’t have depth perception—“
“— doesn’t fold laundry properly, and— and I’ve run out of fingers.”
“That’s too bad. I have all ten, though, and I can use them to count as well.”
“Congratulations, you know basic math.”
Kakashi rolls his eyes, sets his brush aside and holds his hands up.
“You’re loud, unapologetic, you called the last envoy from Suna an incompetent idiot who is a waste of the oxygen one of our poor trees is tirelessly producing for him to breathe, you steal blankets, your dentist appointment cost us half of my paycheck last month—“
“Okay, okay, I get it, you can do ten, you have an intact right hand, congratulations.”
Kakashi grins.
“That’s more like it.”
It’s temporary, Obito reminds himself, fighting through the warmth that spreads inside his chest at the sight of Kakashi’s proud little smirk. It’s not his. He cannot allow himself to be confused by those stray emotions.
He might not have a way back yet – but he will find one, and when he does, he will follow through with his plans. With luck, he will save this world too, no matter how bizarre it seems.