The Color of Summer

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/24587365.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Category: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Fandom: Naruto
Relationship: Original Character/???, Uzumaki Naruto & Original Male Character(s),
Uchiha Shisui & Original Male Character(s)
Character: Uzumaki Naruto, Original Male Character(s), Original Characters,
Konoha 12, Hatake Kakashi, Nara Shikamaru, Shiranui Genma, Uchiha
Sasuke, Original Uzumaki Character(s), Sai (Naruto), Kyuubi | Nine-tails
| Kurama, Uchiha Shisui, Yamanaka Ino, Uchiha Itachi
Additional Tags: Self-Insert, SI-OC, Uzumaki Twins, things get far worse before they get
better, Blood and Gore, Major Character Injury, Canon-Typical
Violence, Politics, Uzumaki Clan, fuuinjutsu as told by ME, Self-
Discovery, Depression, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse,
actual child abuse, Child Neglect, Poor coping habits, Sexual Content,
Near Death Experiences, Attempted Sexual Assault, Psychological
Torture, Torture, Found Family, Team as Family, Character Growth,
Murder, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues, hopefully
zuko worthy redemption arc, Slow Burn, Extremely Slow Burn, realistic
depiction of ninja life, Exploring Sexuality, Unrequited Love, Multiple
Relationships, Eventual Romance, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of and we change like seasons
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favs, SelfInserts OCs Reincarnation and Time Travel, Not to be
misplaced, stuff i really really like, Fics so good I want to throw my chair
out the window, My Personal Favorites, The Special Collection,
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all, The 1412's Library of Good Reads, SI/OC I can't get out of my
head, Fantastical Across Fandoms, Naruto SI/OC Favorite Fics, Ashes'
Library, Ramen_boy, Fics I love as much as Naruto loves ramen, ✧
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 super_fics, Tales of the Utterly Gutsy Shinobi, The
Infinite Tsukuyomi [無限月読], Gems scattered throughout the
fandoms
Stats: Published: 2020-06-07 Updated: 2023-08-22 Words: 175,063 Chapters:
35/?

The Color of Summer

by spideywhiteys

Summary

There's a quote that comes to mind: “Treat a man as he is, and he will remain as he is. Treat
a man as he could be, and he will become what he should be.” If they'd been smart, the
citizens of Konoha would have realized this. If you call a boy a monster, then a monster he
shall be. Natsume has a head full of a past life's knowledge and the sinking realization that
in this world, no one will step up to protect him and Naruto. So he learns to do it himself,
even if it means staining his hands so Naruto can keep his clean.

Notes

IM SUPER EXCITED TO SHARE THIS!!!! I've had this OC for over five years, probably
more like six or seven, and i'm FINALLY putting him out into the world! ;A; this fic is
going to delve into some of the darker parts of konoha and shinobi life, and there's going to
be quite a bit of conflict, both emotionally and physically. as stated in the tags, relationships
will be wonky for a bit before the endgame ship sails, but i feel like to really get the full
experience it's better to read without knowing. if you're not a fan of characters
experiencing/dealing with other relationships before the Final Love, i get it. sometimes im
in the mood, sometimes im not. it's why i'm giving this warning now that it WILL happen.
also some pretty serious topics will be discussed, like child abuse, murder, sexual assault
and torture. nsfw tones are pretty heavy. i'll tag what i can, but im telling you now. i do
think it ruins the reading experience a little when you know what's going to happen in the
chapter because of warning notes. STILL! i'll do it because i want readers to feel safe, but if
you're going to read a fic like this,,,,, well. good luck?
 VOL. 1, ARC I. (blood red)
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

VOLUME ONE — SHOCK

ARC I : CHILDHOOD

HE DOESN’T COME into awareness immediately. At first he thinks he’s dreaming, or in a coma
and getting glimpses of reality. What he manages to perceive is blurry, distorted and — initially —
painful. The earliest, earliest thing he can recall is the color red. Sheer and screaming. What
follows is numbness and the heavy feeling of detachment that generally accompanies barely-lucid
dreaming.

Then one day that’s no longer the case.

He surfaces from the fog without warning, as though woken from a deep slumber by ice water
being thrown over his head. He coughs, splutters, hiccups — and his eyes focus on a white, aged
ceiling with a single, spindly crack in the plaster. To his left are carefully sanded wooden bars and
to his right is another baby, sound asleep, with whisker marks on their cheeks and a head of hair so
blonde it looks like it came out of a bottle.

Well, this is happening. Upon attempting to move he discovers that not only has he lost almost all
motor function, but he can’t speak beyond gurgles that sound suspiciously adorable. He is
completely, totally, absolutely — a baby.

Now, he knows absolutely nothing about babies. What he does know is that he shouldn’t have all
this knowledge in his head, even if most of it is basic. There’s just a yawning, gaping nothingness.
It’s as if he’s poofed into existence — except he gets the feeling he was alive before this. He hadn’t
died a child, but he had died. How he’d died remains a mystery, as did his previous name, family
and friends. It was as though he’d gone through the reincarnation process half-way. Maybe the big
man’s (or woman’s!) memory-wiping machine had gotten jammed. Either way, here he is. A baby
in everything but mind.

And it’s impossibly boring. All there is to do is sleep, eat, shit and cry. It’s a routine he becomes
intimately familiar with in a very short amount of time, especially since he has a front row seat to
the other baby. Who he’s quite certain is just a regular ol’ baby, not a botched reincarnation or
whatever like he is.

Another thing he notices, which is incredibly alarming, is that they don’t seem to have parents. Or
a consistent guardian. And too many people wear masks. Actual, full-on ceramic masks painted to
look like various animals in a style that seems classically japanese. They always change, like
they’re on rotating shifts, but he sees a Boar, Cat, some kind of Bird, and a Dog. The Dog doesn’t
come very often, and he never touches them, only looms in the corner of their room like a ghost, or
a cloud of depression in human form. Dog-Mask also looks young, like, middle school young. It’s
all very concerning, and all very alien . The masked caretakers aside, it’s the sheer lack of care he
and his (should he assume) brother are getting that really throws him off. When he thinks of infant
care, this isn’t what comes to mind.
The language, however, is actually familiar. Sadly, familiar doesn’t mean he’s fluent by any
means. To his infantile ears it sounds Japanese, and from there he can make out a few words and
sentences, but that’s about it. And it’s not like their stoic, mask-wearing babysitters actually speak
often enough for him to even begin to try and learn the language. They almost go out of their way
not to say a damn thing, relying on hand movements that are at times too quick for his eyes to fully
comprehend.

So. Not great. The whole thing’s kind of scary, even. Finding himself in a place he doesn’t
recognize or understand as an all-too-vulnerable baby means he’s at a severe disadvantage.
Everything is monotonous, dull and boring. The days drag, his brother cries, they remain mostly
ignored — there’s no way a baby can grow fully functional with limited care such as this. At first
he waits, wondering if perhaps their parents are away, in the hospital, or unable to see them yet.
But then days turn into weeks and he realizes with harsh, blinding clarity that no one is coming.
They remain ignored and uncared for, aside from the bare minimum requirements. It also becomes
clear that the masked babysitters barely know what they’re doing, most likely they were guards of
some kind. Trained for combat, not infant care.

Which is, you know. Great again. He thinks, scathingly.

Being ignored for so long with only the blond-haired baby for company, who has eyes the prettiest
shade of blue he’s ever seen, means that he’s getting... attached . Quickly. The whiskered baby is
his only source of entertainment and company, and probably the only reason he isn’t going
absolutely crazy in their unfortunate solitude. Which is why, within the span of what must only be
weeks, he’s decided that this is his baby. His to raise and protect, since no one else will and no one
seems to care. He has the mental awareness for it, body be damned, and he can learn along the way
— but there’s no way he’s letting some poor kid suffer in the hands of dumbass adults.

( Even if half the masked babysitters don’t look tall enough to be considered such -- but who was
he to judge age with height? )

He doesn’t think about it too often, but there remains the ever-present fact that he knows neither
his or his brother’s names. Me, myself and I have worked well enough in regards to himself, but the
other baby has been Blondie or, even simpler, Baby . Blondie cries quite a bit though, always
whining for attention or food or because he messed up his diaper.

The Masks seem a little more hesitant around him (not-Blondie) because he doesn’t cry. Baby in
body does not mean baby in mind, and he’ll be damned if he’ll go around howling all hours of the
day until his face is coated in snot. The Masks don’t exactly care enough to wipe their faces well.
Their experience with children is clearly limited, their hands always awkward and too gentle.

Days and weeks and months probably pass, though it’s hard to keep track of it all. This must be
some form of torture. Deprivation of time, touch, stimulus… it’s enough that he feels almost
insane. He plots things. How he’ll get strong enough to run with Blondie and never look back.
Sometimes he stares at whichever masked figure is on guard duty and wonders what it would be
like to hurt them. It’s a chilling experience, because he doesn’t think the desire for violence is a
trait he had before. If Blondie isn’t quietly gurgling, he’s screaming, and with those sounds being
his only source of verbal stimulation, it’s no wonder he’s feeling a little cuckoo.

The reprieve comes when he’s vaguely mobile and rolling around. Sitting up is easy and he can
bash his little baby fists against the bars while sneering at the masked men. They don’t respond the
way he wants — which is to cower in terror, obviously — but there’s nothing else to do since his
baby has fallen asleep.

That’s when a new person comes.

An old man with a tired, wrinkled face and long white robes. He looks important, and vaguely
familiar. He can’t tell if the guy has stopped by, since a lot of his earliest memories are blurry or
non-existent. Pursing his clumsy lips, he twists his face into a suspicious look — which definitely
doesn’t look it, he can just tell. The old man doesn’t look scared or worried, he smiles at them with
a weary sort of softness, and his hands are gentle when they pick him up. Something in japanese is
said, the man’s deep voice rumbling through his chest and vibrating under his little baby palms.

The only thing he makes out is Natsume-chan. Which he’s quite certain is a name. His, if he had to
guess, since the old guy is looking right at him.

It’s a bit of a relief, actually.

Natsume rolls the name around in his head. That’s fine, he can work with that.

“Ba!” He exclaims vehemently, waving his arms gracelessly. Being a baby really does suck. The
old man carries him carefully, moving to peer out of the single window in this whole damn room.
He’s speaking again, but Natsume can’t understand what he’s saying at all. Annoying, but it’s not
like the guy is expecting Natsume to know in the first place.

The world outside the window is awash with sunlight and color fills his vision. Buildings of all
shapes and size rise and mesh together like carefully placed dominos. In the far distance he sees
patches of greenery that must indicate a forest. To the left, rising high in the sky, is a colossal
mountain with four faces carved into it.

Old Man’s eyes are on them, but Natsume can’t really tell which one he’s staring at. Actually, now
that he thinks about it, the old guy kind of looks like the third face, if not more weathered and
aged. Huh. Old Man smiles down at him, soft and a little bit painful.

Natsume feels like he’s missing something important.

The orphanage is a shithole. Natsume does not say this lightly. He’s completely serious. The
complete lack of childcare, management and order is disgusting. Being outside the four walls of
that white, too-white room is a relief, but really?

Blondie’s name is Naruto, which he learned shortly after his own. It’s pretty cute. Their names
carry the same amount of syllables and both start with Na. The fact that he knows a language that
is distinctly not Japanese is throwing him off a little, because he’s already worrying about exactly
how their grammar rules change things. The odd collection of random information in his head very
helpfully tells him that Japanese has kanji, hiragana and katakana. He doesn’t know the difference
between the three just yet — but he’s pretty sure kanji is supposed to be the more complex
alphabet.

Either way, Naruto and Natsume. It feels good to have a name. They’re pretty nice ones too, all
things considered. What isn’t great is their current living situation. Don’t get him wrong, the
orphanage is leagues better than that room, but the matrons are so….weird.

There are two women, both with brown hair and dark eyes. He can’t tell if they’re related, because
their faces aren’t very similar and one is tan where the other is pale. Both of them are jerks. They
aren’t malicious or anything, just neglectful and wary. It’s like they’re scared of him and Naruto.
Who gets scared of a baby?

Him and Naruto are allowed to lay in a room with a bunch of other babies, but their blanket is
clearly set apart from the rest. Naruto wiggles and belly crawls weakly, fascinated by the loud
laughing and squealing of the other children. Natsume does his best to distract his brother, but there
isn’t much he can do in his baby body, even if he is practically crawling by now.

They must be nearing a year old, right? Or maybe younger...Natsume’s knowledge didn’t have
much on babies or how to tell the difference in age...or milestones. He should probably observe
Naruto for that, but Natsume has no desire to slow his development. He needs to pull himself
together as quickly as possible so he can care for his little brother.

So two weeks later he’s pushing himself up against the wall on wobbly knees. Frankly, baby legs
are like very limp noodles. Trying to walk is exhausting. Exhausting. All that mostly-unused
muscle is suddenly forced to carry the strain of his full weight. Which — he doesn’t really weigh
that much, being a baby.

“Ba! Ba!” Naruto gurgles, rolling over and waving his fists. His crystal blue eyes are wide as he
kicks his legs and gives Natsume a gummy baby smile. It’s so adorably fluff-inducing that if
Natsume had any teeth they would have rotted immediately.

He takes it as an attempt at cheering him on and pushes himself further.

His butt smarts from meeting the hardwood one too many times, but the force of it is more startling
than painful. Natsume refuses to cry over something so miniscule. He keeps standing and falling,
over and over.

Over and over.

Natsume is walking while his little brother still crawls around awkwardly. The movements are
clumsy and slow, but at least he has his feet under him. One foot in front of the other. Finding his
balance is a lot harder than it sounds, but he gets it.

The only good thing about the orphanage is the fact that they don’t starve — and that being
surrounded by so many loud, talkative people means that learning the language gets easier.
Natsume desperately wants to read. Toys don’t hold his attention and, as much as he loves Naruto,
he can’t stare at his brother for hours as a source of entertainment. It’s not a pastime that Natsume
wants to return to. Unfortunately, books are out of his reach right now. He’s still struggling to
understand the spoken word, never mind the complexities of the written.

The dark-eyed lady with tan skin feeds them, her eyes hawkish yet fearful. Like she’s anticipating
something terrible. Her hands shake. Natsume has no idea what’s running through her head. He
doesn’t know why he and his brother are so obviously held to a separate standard.

Feared.
It pisses him off. That anger grows as each week passes because how could this be right? How
could any self respecting adult see these neglectful actions as okay? Contempt and anger is easier
to foster — easier to hold close to his chest, so he can ignore the looming, poisonous loneliness. In
truth, all this rage is really just a culmination of a lot of stressors. Someone hit his factory reset
button and now there’s no one willing to provide support.

Naruto babbles beside him on a pale blue blanket, a few other young children on the other side of
the room. Young kids are loud and annoying — or maybe Natsume is just angry at everything. He
actually thinks he likes children, or just the thought of a family. It’s a pipe dream obviously, he and
Naruto are clearly orphans and with the way everyone looks at them? No chance of adoption in
their future. While he’s practicing moving from sitting to standing he thinks about possible reasons
for all the avoidance and fear. Anger at the fact that it’s even happening has been at the forefront
of his mind the whole time, so he hasn’t really considered anything else.

Of course, the idea that two babies are something to be feared just doesn’t click at all in his head.
Babies are literally the most defenseless creatures out there — human babies even more so than
others. They had to be the one species that didn’t have an inborn survival sense straight out of the
womb. Sometimes it never came in, either. Far too many idiots around for that to not be the case.

He takes another wobbly step, chubby features screwed up in concentration. The blanket is soft
under his feet, but the cool temperature of the floor below it seeps through. He hasn’t really seen
outside since the time they were moved to the orphanage, so his sense of time is pretty screwed up.
Is it fall? Winter? Based on the faint sunlight trickling in and the sound of bird calls, it’s
probably… anything but winter. Which doesn’t help much at all.

The kids that are a little older know a few words or broken sentences, and the matrons speak to
them slowly and softly — they’re doing it right now, while doing their best to ignore Naruto and
Natsume in their little corner.

Fuck you, too.

He glances at his brother, who’s managed to roll over on his back. The little blond has his own feet
in his tiny hands and is sucking on his own toe. It doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere. Natsume
takes the chance to very carefully walk. One step after the other. He doesn’t plan on going all the
way over to the group — he’s not stupid, thanks. But making it to the halfway point is fine. That
way he can hear the childish lessons the matrons are trying to instil in the other kids.

They have little books, ones with pictures and what looks like basic kanji. The tan matron visibly
startles when her gaze lands on him, but he just stares back at her. It’s somehow amusing and
irritating when she begins to look vaguely nervous, her voice wavering.

He’s literally just standing here.

“Ao.” She says, pointing to the square of blue in the picture book. Natsume mouths the word. Ao.
Blue. Colors and shapes make up the first book, all basic. Natsume already feels a looming sense
of dread at the idea of learning an entirely new language. Couldn’t he have skipped this part and
‘awoken’ after the language learning process?

His legs start to ache from standing. Carefully, since his balance is still all out of sorts, he does the
baby-move of leaning forward to press his palms to the floor, then folding his legs until he’s
sitting. He still hasn’t mastered the art of sitting directly from a standing position. As it is, he can
barely walk in a straight line. He’ll take his victories where he can get them.

“Gah!” A yell behind him pulls his attention away from the sort-of-lesson. Natsume looks back to
see Naruto halfway to him, his pudgy palms slapping against the hardwood and an expression of
intense concentration on his chubby face. Ah, that’s adorable.

Smiling gummily at the sight, Natsume twists and crawls back over to his brother. Naruto looks at
him with wide, happy eyes, his little hands tangling in Natsume’s dark blue onesie when he gets
close. Natsume very, very carefully pats his little brother’s head with his clumsy hands. At least
one person doesn’t fear him.

And Natsume will never fear Naruto, either. Never.

Learning a language kind of sucks. Natsume already established that early on, but midway through
the process he still feels the exact same about the situation. One the other hand, it’s something to
do. Exploration is limited and he can’t read or interact with anyone aside from Naruto, so stolen
lessons and running his limited knowledge of the language through his head until it’s memorized is
all he can do for stimulation. Japanese is a beautiful language. He might be annoyed at the
situation, but there’s no denying that.

His first word is, of course, Naruto. In return, Naruto’s first word is Natsume. His little brother
doesn’t have the extra mental help that Natsume does, so he’s quite a ways behind in...everything.
Still, by the time a few more months have passed, he’s walking and babbling a few words.
Natsume is already close to running, and his words are more like half-finished sentences. It’s
almost a matter of pride for him — he doesn’t talk a lot to anyone but Naruto, and he likely won’t
until he has the language under control a little more.

But maybe not even then, he thinks to himself, It’s not like anyone else is worth talking to.

“Natsu-me.” His name is split into two kanji. Both of which are far more complex than his
brother’s. Every child around their age — and there are six, not including him and Naruto — is
sitting with paper in front of them and markers in hand. Most of the kids aren’t paying attention.
The matrons have drawn out kanji for all of them to trace. There’s a few basic ones for basic
words, like colors and shapes, then there’s their names. Even if the matrons continue to seem
relatively fearful of him and his brother, at least they aren’t attempting to completely leave them
out of the lessons.

But back to the names. Naruto is written with three characters, ナルト. Each one corresponded
with a syllable. Na. Ru. To. He isn’t sure if there’s even a special meaning for it. Natsume, on the
other hand, has a name with two kanji he can not, for the life of him, get his clumsy baby hand to
trace correctly. They aren’t even too hard, in a broad sense. But far different from the literal lines
that make up Naruto. For Natsume? 夏明, Natsu and Me. Scrubbing the english language rules
from his head took a second — because his name sounds a lot like Not-sue-may, being made up of
three syllables, and Japanese clearly doesn’t care for the concept of one character per letter. Or
syllable. There are single kanji characters that mean whole words! For what reason did there need
to be so many? There must be hundreds or thousands of kanji, with half of them meaning the same
thing as something else or just being a less complex form of the same damn word. Naruto has it
easy.

( And Japanese is written and read top to bottom, right to left. Completely opposite from what his
brain instinctively wants to do.)
It’s also during these lessons that Natsume realizes that the four characters just before Naruto and
Natsume are the same. U. Zu. Ma. Ki. Embarrassingly, it takes until about the third session for him
to realize that that’s their last name. Truthfully, he hadn’t given much thought to them even having
one — hadn’t seemed very important in the grand scheme of things.

うずまき夏明. Uzumaki Natsume. He traces the kanji with a finger, the characters sloppily
outlined with his blue marker strokes. It’s also the same lesson that he learns something even
worse.

Kanji can have several different pronunciations and meanings for the same character. That first
one, 夏, is pretty widely known as natsu, and means summer. The second? 明 has several different
pronunciations and meanings, and it’s even the lone character for a few names. A person can read
his name as Natsuaki. That second character means bright, so in a way, aki isn’t wrong. Except aki
is also how you pronounce fall, as in autumn. Even though the kanji is different.

It drives Natsume absolutely crazy.

It’s also perfect for him to focus all his mental energy on.

Naruto isn’t really grasping the lessons just yet, instead scribbling all over the pages. He sticks the
end of his purple marker into his mouth and chews on it. Natsume keeps having to tug it out of his
brother’s mouth. Unfortunately, they’re at the teething stage. Have been for a little while now,
actually. Absolutely nothing is safe from his little brother’s sore gums, Natsume included. Naruto
has used Natsume’s little hands or parts of his arm to gnaw on while whining in discomfort.

After a few days of their combined baby complaints — Naruto’s far louder than Natsume’s,
because he’s not much of a crier — the matrons gave them little teething toys. Some are in the
oddest shapes. A knife? Or maybe-knife. He can’t really tell if it is, because it looks more like
some kind of old age ninja weapon from a cartoon. Maybe it’s a Japanese thing? Not that Natsume
really has any solid memory of…literally anything. He knows that Japanese is a language. That
there’s a country of people who speak it. He knows nothing of what they look like or make or
where they live. Almost all his knowledge is just… this is how you do math. This is how you tie
shoes. Smacking two rocks together makes sparks. People and places? Zip.

So he’s taking everything in as he goes.

It’s fine.

Even if, for whatever reason, the sight of a child with light green hair seems inherently odd. He’s
not sure why, because no one else seems to have a problem with it. It’s just a feeling. The kid is
maybe a year older and the hair looks natural, so all Natsume can do is accept it and move on.
Eyes and hair can be any color on the spectrum, apparently. Noted.

Naruto throws his marker in childish aggravation and yells out his favorite word. “No!” He then
grabs his well-loved teething toy, one of the rubber knife things, and sticks it in his mouth.
Natsume gives him a mildly unimpressed look, but can’t really blame his little brother. Who’s an
actual baby. Toddler? Baby. Eh, somewhere in the middle.

“Don’t make mess.” He says to his barely listening brother. Natsume doesn’t dare get up to grab
the thrown marker because babies are remarkably like dogs. Or would it be the reverse? Bring
them whatever they toss, and they’ll toss it again like it’s some game you’ve unwillingly started.
He’s much more invested in trying to figure out how to speak and read. Dear gods above does he
want to get his hands on a book. It doesn’t even matter what it’s about at this point!
He traces the rest of the remaining characters. It’s still sloppy, but at least he’s seeing a slight
improvement from when they started this a few weeks ago. Natsume isn’t really sure if kids are
supposed to start all this stuff so early — as clearly almost none of these maybe-two-year-olds are
very interested in what’s happening, Natsume aside. Either way, he’s grateful for it. He smacks his
palm on the table to draw the matron’s attention. It’s the pale one. She glances at him with dark
eyes, her mouth set in a slight frown.

“I finished.” He articulates slowly. “Gimme ‘nother.”

She very carefully places a new sheet on his low desk — and they really are low, there aren’t any
chairs so all the kids sit on these flat, square pillows. The desks look more like stools, actually. She
takes care not to touch his hands when she does so, instead awkwardly scooting it across the
surface. There’s no attempt to take the one that’s already filled out. He likes to keep them on the
floor under his and Naruto’s crib so he can look over them in his free time. Helps with
memorizing.

The first time she’d tried to take it, he’d glared at her. Apparently that was enough to make her
flinch away, even though he’s quite sure a baby glaring is in no way intimidating. Maybe she finds
his awareness and clarity alarming? Oh well. That’s her problem.

The new sheet still has his name on it, but there’s a new set of characters. He has a feeling he’s
blowing through whatever carefully paced course they’ve set up for kids.

“Konoha.” He sounds out as he outlines the characters. That’s the village they live in. “Hi.” Fire.
“Hokage.” Fire shadow, technically, but also the title their leader carries. Natsume knows the
absolute bare bones of how this ‘village hidden in the leaves’ works. Being small, determined and
able to walk means he can sneak around and listen in on the older kids’ lessons while Naruto is
safely napping in their crib. He tries not to do it too often or for too long. Leaving his brother alone
in a place like this fills him with terrible anxiety. Like — what if Naruto tries crawling out of the
crib (which is what Natsume does) and ends up falling and cracking his head open? Or what if
someone kidnaps him?

“Aka. Ao. Midori.” Red, blue, green. These characters are more familiar.

Natsume steadies his hand as best he can and continues.

When they’re finally able to spill out into the yard, Naruto and Natsume can both run. Naruto is
still far clumsier, more prone to tripping or wobbling, but at least he can keep up. They’re dressed
in worn, clearly secondhand clothes; thick jackets and red, moth bitten scarves. Naruto had attached
himself to a burnt orange jacket with yellow sleeves, and Natsume settled for the dark purple and
blue one.

The air is crisp and cool, leaves scattered across the ground in varying shades of brown and red.
The yard is barren aside from children's toys, the patches of grass among the packed dirt are
yellow with death. A forest lines the back, and while there’s no fence to keep them out, the
children are told they aren’t allowed in. The matrons spin tales of a monster that will steal away
and eat any foolish child who wanders in. It keeps most of the kids away, and whoever gets too
close is quickly stopped by the watchful adults.
The same watchful adults who turn away their gazes when Naruto is shoved to the ground by a
child who looks to be at least five years old. As far as Natsume can tell, he and his twin likely
aren’t even three yet. Which begs the question of why an older kid even bothers bullying a kid who
clearly can’t understand what’s happening.

Except Natsume does understand what’s happening. His little brother is being bullied. At the age of
maybe-two. They’re clearly setting their sights on him next, but Natsume is consumed with rage at
the sheer audacity of these brats — and at the audacity of those shitty adults who refuse to
acknowledge what’s happening.

He puts whatever weak, feeble energy he possesses into his tiny fist and punches the older boy in
the dick. The kid lets out a squeak and immediately starts crying.

“Try it again.” Natsume goads.

“You’re crazy!” The boy’s friend, a six year old with dark purple hair, exclaims with childish
anger.

Natsume is still young and weak, his reflexes poor and slow. When the kid shoves him in
retaliation as his stupid little friend cries in the dirt, Natsume goes flying. Naruto doesn’t like that
very much, his high pitched yell likely heard three blocks over.

The blond tackles into the purple haired kid, though too small and weak to really do anything.
Natsume sits up, feeling winded and achy. Pain hadn’t really been a factor in his life so far. While it
didn’t really hurt, his knee is skinned and his little baby body does not like that.

“Okay, break it up!” The tanned matron comes over, moving to console the two older boys.

Naruto totters to his side. “Nacchan? You ‘kay?”

Natsume looks up at his brother, “I’m fine.” He lies, and listens to the matron soothe the other
boys, not once reprimanding them for their actions.

She ignores the twins entirely.

Natsume has never actually seen his reflection. The matrons bathed them, always very quick and
efficient about it, clearly not caring to handle them more than necessary. When they reach maybe-
three, Natsume decides to take up that responsibility on his own. He marches himself and Naruto to
the bathroom and bathes the both of them, washing his brother’s hair and scrubbing his little body
with a ratty washcloth. The matrons don’t do anything to stop it, seemingly grateful that they don’t
have to deal with that anymore.

It’s during one of their bathing sessions — and the bathrooms are pretty big and communal, with
multiple showerheads in the wall and little stools to be sat on. There’s a little room that you have to
walk through before you reach the shower area and it’s where you leave your clothes in a little
cubby, and grab fresh towels. It’s like.. A locker room, almost. Because it’s also where bathroom
stalls and sinks are. Then you hop into the next room for the showers. Their baby teeth are almost
entirely grown in, and they have cheap toothbrushes to use. Natsume has to brush his brother’s
teeth for him, and Naruto hates every second of it. They’re both short, being toddlers, so they can’t
really see themselves in the sink mirrors.
 Natsume has just finished brushing his brother’s teeth and he’s...curious. He’s practically
memorized Naruto’s features by now, but doesn’t even know his own. Glancing at Naruto, who is
scowling and scrubbing his wild blond hair with a towel, Natsume takes his brother’s momentary
distraction to pull himself up onto the sink counter.

The very first thing that runs through his head is Red.

See, being twins, there was always the possibility that they were identical. Now? It’s pretty
obvious they’re fraternal. His hair is red. Like fresh blood — the movie kind, because everyone
knew actual blood was dark until you smeared it — or strawberries. Tomatoes. Bell peppers. Ugh,
enough of the food comparisons. Bright, carmine red and somewhat spiked. It looks looser than
Naruto’s very obvious spikes, which are oddly soft despite their pointy appearance. Natsume’s hair
sits somewhere between straight and gravity-defying, while Naruto is very firmly in gravity-
defying territory. That could also just be because their hair is kept relatively short, cropped to hang
around ear-length. At least in his case, it looks like if he grew his hair out it would be tamer.

His eyes are exactly like Naruto’s in color, the same beautiful, crystalline sky blue. Despite the fact
that they are children, and therefore their eyes are very cutely too big for their faces, it’s also
obvious that their eye shapes are different. Naruto’s looked wider, more circular. Natsume’s are
slightly narrower, more pointed at the ends. His eyelashes are significantly longer, too. Or maybe
Naruto’s are just harder to see, being blond. Natsume’s are dark red and therefore more visible than
the shimmery gold Naruto sports.

He is, quite honestly, completely adorable and a little girly looking. There is no doubt he and
Naruto are related, those differences aside. They look alike in the way siblings do, and they both
have tanned skin and the three lines on each cheek that mimic whisker marks.

Huh. That part of him that hosts memory-knowledge makes him feel like his red hair is...odd.
When he thinks of red hair, he thinks of a shade of orange. Ridiculous, honestly. Red is red, after
all. Kids had all sorts of hair colors. There are even a few with varying shades of blond-yellow, like
Naruto — except not. His hair is bright, like sunshine and pale gold.

Natsume pokes his cheek with a finger and watches his reflection do the same. He pinches a strand
of bright red hair. There’s no one with hair like his.

At least, he thinks, no one in this backwater orphanage.

“‘M hungry!” Naruto complains, dragging Natsume’s attention away from the mirror.

He hops down, “Yeah, ‘kay.”

Dinner is miso and rice. Natsume is getting really tired of rice.

Chapter End Notes

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 VOL. 1, ARC I. (burnt orange)
Chapter Notes

AaaAAaA i love everyone reading this rn

See the end of the chapter for more notes

So, ninja are a thing. Categorized in general as shinobi, women being coined as kunoichi. Again,
the thought is a little odd — but he can’t exactly ignore it when they show up at the orphanage
with their flak jackets, headbands and weapons. (Weapons that are carefully kept out of the reach
of all the eager, wide-eyed children.)

All Natsume really gets out of it is a sudden understanding of Konoha and the way this world
works. They are, without doubt, a military state. One that doesn’t see the harm in overtly thrusting
propaganda in the faces of small orphan children in hopes of loyalty and recruitment. Because who
would miss a kid that had no family waiting at home? They were a resource.

Naruto is endlessly enchanted with the idea of ninja. Everytime a recruiter comes by, he sits with
wide, sparkling eyes and listens in rapture as they spin tales of power and heroics. Natsume isn’t an
idiot. He knows full well these shinobi are here to sway as many kids as possible and turn them
into killers.

He’s not an idiot.

That doesn’t mean the thought of power and strength isn’t intriguing.

Right now he’s too weak to protect himself, let alone his brother. His limbs are only partially
cooked noodles and there’s absolutely no muscle definition to speak of. Shouldn’t be, at his age,
but it’s still annoying to feel less capable. So he listens carefully to their speeches of grandeur,
trying to pick out the parts of reality they’ve woven into the embellishments. Whenever one of the
recruiters — and it’s almost always a different one every time, even if they promise to come back
and visit with hollow smiles — meets his eyes, he scowls and glares. Almost out of habit, at this
point.

They don’t cow under his stare like matrons and other children do. Instead they generally just look
blank faced, uncomfortable, or assessing. That last one makes the hair on the back of his neck
stand up…Even if it does feel nice to not get looked at with abject distaste. Or maybe they just
hide it better.

“Nacchan, I wanna be a shinobi!” Naruto exclaims for the hundredth time, running around the
nearly empty yard with his arms wide.

Natsume keeps an eye on him while stretching. The flexibility of baby bodies is as fascinating as it
is startling. “So you’ve said.”

“What ‘bout you?” His little brother asks, moving to run in circles around Natsume.

He smiles fondly at the sight, “Sure, why not?”

It’s not like he has any true desire to be a shinobi. He likes reading and drawing, would love to
maybe study history or write a book — the kind of activity required to be a shinobi isn’t superbly
enticing. But it’s becoming rapidly clear to him that no one is willing to lift a finger to help the
twins in any way, shape or form. It would probably be like that forever. Which means it’s up to
Natsume to step up to the plate and do what he can to protect and provide for his little brother. If
that means becoming a shinobi? Then so be it.

“We’re gonna be super cool, ya know!” Naruto punches his little fists out, filled with boundless
energy. “Boom! Bam! Twin team!”

Natsume feels his lip twitch in amusement at the sound of Naruto’s verbal tic. He has no idea
where the boy got it from, but Naruto’s habit of adding ya know to the end of his sentences doesn’t
seem to be fading anytime soon.

“Oh, Nacchan, hey!” Naruto suddenly pauses in his imitation of a ninja battle, “What’s a
birthday?”

“A birthday?” He blinks in bewilderment. Ah, shit. Did I really forget that? Well, it’s not like it was
important to our survival. “‘S the day you were born. We’re twins so we’ve got the same one. You
count when the day passes every year ‘cause that’s how ya keep track ‘o your age.”

Naruto wrinkles his nose. “What’s that mean? Born? What kinda word iss’at?”

Natsume hums, brow furrowing as he considers exactly how to go about this explanation. “It’s just
the word for how ya came int’a bein’.” It’s a lackluster response, but he’s not touching the birds
and bees subject with a ten foot pole.

“Huh. Okay.” The blonde presses his lips together in a pout, face scrunched in a decidedly foxy
manner — his thinking face. “So a birthday is the day ya were born...then what’s ours?”

Good question. Natsume doesn’t know the answer to that. He doesn’t even know how old they are.
They can’t be more than three or four. Even then, it’s hard to tell because baby bodies are just...
weird. Him and Naruto are relatively small, too.

“I dunno, Naru. No one ever tol’ me.” It smarts a little, not having an answer for his curious
brother. It also kind of pisses him off that no one ever thought to tell them at all. Or celebrate it.
Though with the way everyone acts around them, Natsume isn’t shocked that the matrons ignored
it. Furious and disappointed, maybe. Shocked? No.

Naruto stomps his feet, not out of anger, but to shake off a little more of his endless energy. He’s
always fidgeting and moving, the need to do practically bursting out of him at all hours. It makes
dealing with bedtime atrocious for Natsume. His little brother is not a quiet kid. Nor does he like
staying stationary while dead asleep.

“I’m gonna ask Mori-san.” Naruto decides, nodding his head sharply.

Natsume squints, “Who’s that again?”

The blond just laughs, loud and adorable, somehow thinking that Natsume’s refusal to remember
the matron’s names is the funniest thing on the planet.
Turns out their birthday is October 10th and they’re currently three years old. Natsume’s
guestimate was actually right! It’s currently April, so they’ll be turning four this year.

“That’s right,” Mori-san, the one Natsume had identified as the tan one, says, her mouth set in a
taut line. There’s a flash of something dark and victorious in her eyes. “You’ll turn four and the
two of you will be out of here.”

Naruto blinks at her, “What’aya mean?”

She opens her mouth once more, and there’s no mistaking the cruelty in the lines of her face.

Natsume smashes his fist against the doorway, interrupting whatever she might have said. He peers
into the room like he’s just arrived and hadn’t been standing out in the hall when Naruto
meandered into the kitchen to find Mori-san. When she meets his eyes, she flinches back and shuts
her mouth.

“Naruto, let’s go play.” He coos, eyes trained on the woman and the smile that slips across his lips
is decidedly not nice.

“Okay!” His little brother says, not noticing the tension or ignoring it. He runs over to Natsume and
eagerly takes his hand. “Let’s play ninja!”

“Again?”

“Mm!”

As they leave, Natsume glances back at Mori-san, who stands pale-faced and tense. She never
takes her eyes off of him until they disappear around the corner of the doorway. While it’s still
surprising to him that both he and Naruto seem to be able to scare adults, only he takes advantage
of it. Naruto always sinks in on himself when people treat him like garbage, not knowing why and
not having the extra mental aid that Natsume has to power through it. This gross behavior by
adults towards a child is what makes Natsume not at all sorry about using their fear against them.

If they wanted to wave their weakness in his face, they couldn’t blame him for taking advantage of
it.

All he really has to do is glare and make mean faces and people go scurrying like rats. His face
isn’t even inherently scary looking! His features are still rather adorable and girly-looking, even his
resting face is soft. (Which is a bit of a bummer, if he had a resting bitch face then it would make
his intimidation game that much stronger.)

Naruto wants friends. Natsume would have to be blind to miss that. As much as he loves his
brother, spending every waking minute with the blond boy is exhausting. To begin with, Natsume
isn’t much of an extrovert. Keeping up with Naruto takes more energy out of him than he likes, and
some days he just wants to be able to sit alone in a room and read. But if he does that, then Naruto
gets to sit around, alone, and watch other kids play while they purposefully leave him out. He tries
— oh, he tries — but kids are warned away after the first few times. As if Natsume and Naruto
carry some kind of disease.

Natsume doesn’t try. He doesn’t want to make friends with these little idiots.
So it’s both stressful and relieving when about five days after their fourth birthday, they move into
an apartment. For one, it means everything is much quieter. They have their own space, their own
monthly allowance, and no supervision. That last one probably isn’t great when you consider that
both he and his little brother are four. Luckily, Natsume has a lifetime of information in his head.

Keep the house clean. Don’t touch hot stoves. Change your sheets. Check expiration dates on food.

All the little things that would have been impossible for a toddler to figure out on their own without
being taught. Or learning through experience. He’s pretty sure a normal kid would literally die.
Whether from malnutrition, burns, drowning in the tub, or falling — which is a legitimate concern,
because they live in an apartment at the top of the building and even have their own balcony —
there is no thought or care about their safety.

The con, however, is that neither Naruto or Natsume have set foot outside the orphanage grounds
before. They don’t have access to a yard anymore either, which means Naruto can only burn off his
energy by leaving the house and facing the dangers of the outside world.

Konoha is actually quite pretty, in a rustic, japanese-infused way. The main streets are packed dirt,
not a stone in sight. Stalls and stores line the roads, the air filled with the babble of citizens and the
scent of five hundred different things. The individual houses are much farther away from the main
hubbub, and there’s sections of the village for apartments. Those buildings look like something out
of an old movie that Natsume can’t remember seeing. It’s as if five different buildings had meshed
together, ramshackle yet sturdy, textures and colors changing with every level. Their own
apartment is at the very top of one such complex, a small, one bedroom hole in the wall. It has a
kitchen-living room combo, a bedroom and a bathroom.

When they’re older, it’ll certainly be far too cramped for the two of them. As it is, they only have
one bed. That’s alright though, Natsume is used to his brother clinging in his sleep by now. The
very first thing he does when the matron drops them off, tossing a key at them and leaving without
a word, is clean. Naruto eagerly explores, excited by the idea of living alone.

“Nacchan! We have our own bathroom!” Naruto exclaims, arms up in the air and baby teeth
gleaming as he smiles.

“That means we have to clean it, too.” Natsume mutters, pulling his head out from under the sink.
He shuts the cabinet and grips the rags he’d found there. Whoever gifted them this apartment at
least outfitted it with basic things — like cleaning supplies, dishes and toilet paper. The place is
furnished, and they even have a towel set for the bathroom. It seems like the only thing they will
have to worry about is getting food and making sure they don’t kill themselves.

Naruto groans, “Cleanin’ is boring!” He drags out the last word, little feet pattering across the
wood floors. He launches himself up onto the ratty green couch they’ve been provided with.
Natsume eyes its rundown appearance distrustfully. He hopes there’s some disinfecting spray in the
cleaning supplies.

“But necessary,” Natsume reminds him, dragging a stool over so he can reach the kitchen sink to
wet the rags. He can’t wait to be taller. “Can’t be a ninja if ya can’t be organized.”

“Hm.” Naruto hums without care, knees dug into the cushions as he presses his nose and fingers to
the window the couch sits under. Even from across the room, Natsume can see the way his little
brother’s sky blue eyes are glued to the brand new sights outside.

Ah, well. He can be a kid a little bit longer. Natsume doesn’t mind picking up Naruto’s slack as he
learns. It’s what their parents should be doing — but, well.

That doesn’t mean he’s going to do everything. “Hey, let’s make a game out of it, whoever cleans
their half of the house first gets to pick dinner.”

He lets Naruto win. It’s not as if either of them know much about food or the kinds of places to get
it, so he’s jumping for any one dish. Their fridge has a few items; a couple pieces of fruit, some
milk, and about six frozen meals. The stipend they received has about 10,000 ryo, and they’ll
receive a check every month of the same amount. Natsume has no idea if that’s a lot of money or
not. What he does know is that it’s all they have to cover food, clothing and toiletries. For two
growing children. He’ll have to do some looking around when they get to the market, that way he
can check out prices and see what the norm is. Though wary of not taking enough, he hides away
over half of it under their fridge and only takes 2,000 ryo with him when they leave. The bills feel
heavy and awkward in his pocket, but he tries not to draw too much attention to it when they
finally make it out into the street. The last thing he needs is to get mugged.

Turns out they don’t really have to worry about that.

Naruto skips happily by his side, blue eyes wide and mouth agape as he swings their joined hands.
He points at everyone and everything they pass, talking nonstop. He hasn’t noticed yet, but
Natsume has.

The people they pass do double-takes. Eyes glance over them, then pause and heads swivel back in
their direction. Whispers start up, civilian women huddle and hold their hands to their mouths in an
attempt to be quiet.

Natsume grips Naruto’s hand a little more securely and glowers at anyone willing to meet his eyes.
Most of them skirt around nervously, no one daring to come close as they stroll innocently down
the street. Two four year olds in worn shorts and ratty blue t-shirts with a red swirl on the back.

Met with suspicion, fear, and anger.

He doesn’t miss the ones who glare back, the ones whose faces twist and scowl. There’s something
terrifying about an adult staring you down with rage in their eyes when you’re all of three feet tall.
He hates that it scares him. He makes sure none of that fear is seen on his face. All the tension
almost makes him forget about the money issue.

Though reluctant, he finally turns his gaze away from the people and looks around the street. The
shops are colorful, signs out front covered in bold kanji and pictures of products. There are a
couple stalls of fruit, knick knacks or fast food pressing into the street, and citizens walk around
them with familiar ease. Naruto puts a finger by his mouth and stares up at one of the carts, the
scent of something fried wafting towards them.

It makes Natsume’s stomach clench in hunger.

“Hey, what’s that?” Naruto asks loudly.

The man at the stall turns to them with a customer service smile on his face. “Oh, it’s—” Then he
pauses as he registers who exactly stands before him. The pleasant expression slips off his face in
an instant, a dark look replacing it. “None of your business. Scram.”
Naruto recoils at the harsh tone, obviously shocked by the sudden aggression. Being bullied by
kids is one thing, but they’ve never dealt with actual aggression from an adult before. The two
matrons had been too wary, especially with Natsume around. In the face of this?

Natsume swallows and pulls his brother away. “We’re goin’.”

“B-But!” Naruto begins, stumbling as he’s dragged, “The food…”

“We’ll go somewhere else,” he promises. “That guy was a jerk. I don’t wanna pay him nothin’.”

His brother doesn’t look very happy, but nods solemnly after glancing over his shoulder. The stall
owner is still watching them as they wander away, his brown eyes narrowed. Natsume feels the
urge to stick out his tongue, only just managing to refrain from doing so.

They don’t have luck at the next one, or the next one or even the one after that. No one wants to
give them the time of day, no one wants to risk serving them. On the bright side, he gets some
knowledge about the worth of money. A bag of apples is around 20 ryo. A bowl of udon is 140.
The 2,000 ryo in his pocket suddenly feels even heavier than before. He’s carrying way too much
for two meals.

Finally, when the evening is starting to edge into night and Natsume’s feet hurt from walking, they
find what looks like a grocery store. It’s quaint, the storefront half wood, half glass. Every inch is
plastered with posters advertising products inside and deals on food. When he pushes the door open
a bell chimes at the top.

“This don’t look like a restaurant.” Naruto observes, eyes squinting at the cramped aisles.

“Doesn’t.” Natsume corrects absently. “And it’s a grocery store, that’s why.”

He pulls his brother further in, and Naruto quickly forgets the reason why they’re here and not at a
food stall when he spots everything the aisles have to offer. Natsume has to pull him away from
rubbing his grubby hands on half the contents of the store.

“C’mon,” he goads, “Pick something over here.”

There’s a pre-made food section with some hot meals still left. Natsume isn’t entirely sure what
they are, but they can’t afford to be picky right now. He presses his free hand on the sliding glass
and pushes it open. A burst of heat smacks him in the face, and he ignores it in favor of pulling out
one of the containers. The kanji scrawled on the box spell out yakitori. He’s pretty sure that’s some
kind of meat kabob. Naruto pulls out one filled with fried rice.

Neither of their choices are particularly healthy, but they’re buying their food from what Natsume
is beginning to assume is a convenience store, not a grocery store. From the rack of chilled foods,
he pulls out a container of onigiri, releasing Naruto’s hand so he can hold the stacked boxes. The
food at the orphanage wasn’t exactly special or varying, so he’s not even sure if he’ll like half the
stuff they buy.

“What’a we do now?” Naruto asks, fingers edging around his box like he’s trying to figure out how
to open it. There’s a distant bell sound from the front of the store.

“We gotta pay for it ‘fore we can eat it.”

Naruto stops messing with the box, giggling sheepishly. “Sorry!”

Smiling softly at the look on his little brother’s face, Natsume just shakes his head. You’d think
he’d be used to having to teach Naruto... everything. “Just stay close, okay? We can’t hold hands
like this.”

“Okay, Nacchan!” The blond agrees easily, trailing after him when he starts walking to the
counter.

There’s a younger teen behind it with a bored expression on his face. Dark hair hangs over his
forehead and his eyes are a dull blue. Natsume stands up on his tiptoes and puts the boxes on the
counter. Naruto glances at him, then mimics the movement with his own. They both peer over the
edge with wide eyes.

The boy — because honestly, he can’t be more than fifteen, frowns heavily, looking distinctly
uncomfortable when he sees them and their pudgy fingers wiggling against the countertop. “You
even got the money for this?” He asks.

Natsume quickly adds up the prices in his head. With an unkind smile that’s partially hidden by the
counter, he says,“165 ryo, right?” He then proceeds to take a 200 ryo bill — the smallest they have
— out of his pocket, placing it before the teen and his ugly scowl.

“Hey, mister! Do you work here? What’s your name?” Naruto interjects.

The kid takes the bill and flickers his dull gaze to Naruto’s cheery countenance. “Of course I work
here, stupid. And my name is none of your business. Get out of here already.”

Natsume puts his hand out, palm up. “Change. Then we’ll leave.”

“You should be grateful I’m even letting you buy food.” The teen snarks, shoving their food boxes.
Natsume scrambles to catch them before they tip and spill onto the floor. He awkwardly
maneuvers them into his brother’s arms, trusting Naruto to handle them for the moment.

“The change.” He demands again. With no job and only Konoha’s orphan fund to rely on, they
couldn’t afford not to pinch pennies. And this little jerkwad has no right to withhold money that
doesn’t belong to him. Natsume is a hundred percent sure that’s illegal — he’s also pretty sure no
one will give a shit when it involves him and his brother.

“No way—” The kid starts, then pauses. His face goes pale as he stares at something behind them.
“Fine.” He fumbles with the register before pulling out their change. For a moment it looks as if
he’s going to throw it, then he glances behind them again and grudgingly drops it on the counter.

Natsume swipes it quickly and shoves the coins in his pocket.

He takes two of the containers from Naruto and finally turns around. There’s a man a few paces
back dressed in a jounin uniform, ankles wrapped and his headband — not visible. Instead there’s a
bandana on the man’s head. He’s young looking, maybe early twenties or near enough, with
features on the handsome side of plain. Straight brown hair falls down to brush his jaw, and his
eyes are only two shades darker. Between his lips there’s a long, needle-like…toothpick? His
posture is loose and unassuming, not a flash of emotion other than boredom on his face. Natsume
has never seen him before.

Their gazes meet, umber against the sky, and Natsume holds it for a second. Wondering.
Considering. Then he ushers his brother past the man and out the door. He just wants to get out of
here before it’s so dark they can’t find their way home.

He tries not to think about how that shinobi was the only one today who didn’t look at them with
disgust.
The moon is high in the sky when they finally get home. They’re both sweaty and aching,
stomachs tense in hunger. They don’t use the table, instead they sit on the ground and eat with their
hands. Naruto eagerly talks about everything he saw, even though Natsume had been right next to
him the whole time. He nods at the right moments and gives short replies as he eats — but Naruto
is used to it.

The Yakitori is great, as are the salmon onigiri, but he’s not a fan of the onigiri with the red bean
filling. Naruto eats it without much complaint, the literal black hole that he is. Washing him up
afterwards is a bit of an event, because he doesn’t want to take a shower and throws a small
tantrum.

After Naruto is settled in bed, both of them freshly showered and teeth brushed, Natsume goes back
into the living room and cleans up. Naruto is an unfortunately messy eater, so the ground is sticky
with the remnants of grease, soy sauce and the occasional grain of rice. After, he wanders back in
and observes his little brother. Naruto is laid out spread-eagle on their single bed, sleeping without
a care in the world. The thin blanket is already tangled around his legs and his features are washed
pale by the moonlight. Carefully, Natsume crawls onto the bed.

When his brother doesn’t stir, he relaxes and turns to face the window. He peers out into the
darkened streets of Konoha, the streets lit with lanterns and a few stragglers still wandering in the
cool fall air. All the stress and activity of the day is catching up with him, but sleep is the last thing
on his mind.

I need to be a shinobi, he thinks. I need to be so strong that no one even thinks about bullying us.

The day they find the park, Naruto has a good few hours of running around with kids who have no
idea who he is. Then their parents come to pick them up, and each time the adults scowl or look at
the twins with thinly veiled fear.

“Don’t talk to them.” A mother scolds her child, her hand tight on the kid’s arm. “Don’t you ever
play with them again.”

She’s not making much of an effort to whisper, because both he and Naruto hear her poisonous
words. The boy in her grasp glances back at them with usure green eyes.

“Okay.” He says.

And that’s that. The children don’t know why they have to avoid Naruto and Natsume, but blind
hatred is a learned trait. They do it anyway.

He really wants to know exactly what they’ve done to earn this kind of treatment. The answer is, of
course, nothing. Because they were children. Frowning heavily, Natsume throws the woman a dark
scowl and feels victorious when she flinches and tugs her snot-nosed brat away. At his side, Naruto
looks down at the ground sadly, toeing the dirt morosely.

“Don’t worry, Naru. We don’t need friends anyway.”

The blond shrugs, looking up to watch the kids walk away with their parents, hands clasped and
smiles on their faces. “But it’d be nice to have jus’ one, ya know.”

Natsume did know. An introvert he may be, but even he wants someone to look at them without
scorn just once. It’s tiring to have no one to turn to aside from a literal child, to have no one to trust
and hold conversation with. Natsume is a parent more than he is a brother, he has no one for
himself. But he can’t let those feelings take root, he can’t let himself get distracted by his own
growing loneliness. Naruto is the real child here, the one who deserves happiness. He looks around
with wide, innocent eyes while Natsume is already glaring away, bitter and wary.

He doesn’t say any of that. “You have me.”

Naruto smiles, “Yeah!”

Natsume can only hope that will be enough.

They race each other home, Naruto with his arms behind him. He’s been trying to imitate the
shinobi who run across the rooftops. It doesn’t seem particularly efficient, and half the time Naruto
loses his balance mid-step and ends up tripping. But if all the shinobi are doing it, then it must be
for good reason. Natsume tries it himself, when they’re at the park and running through the trees,
far from the laughter of other kids.

It’s not hard to tell the difference between civilians and shinobi. Civilians are the ones who scowl
too easily and flail out of the way when he and his twin run by. Shinobi, even when not in their
uniforms, still carry a dangerous sort of grace that Natsume is envious of. They dodge oncoming
children with such ease — it’s as if they were planning to move that way the whole time.

So maybe Natsume is a little bit more than envious. He’s downright jealous. One day he’ll be able
to move that smoothly. One day. Who cares what the people of Konoha say? And he can still hear
their whispers, trailing after him and Naruto wherever they go.

“It’s those boys—”

“You’ve heard, right?”

“Can’t believe they’re allowed to—”

He grits his teeth and pushes forward, little legs straining. The weather is getting colder and he’ll
have to use some of their money to buy winter clothes. Just the other day he and Naruto had
managed to go shopping for a few spare underthings and shirts. They weren’t given much to wear
from the orphanage aside from the clothes on their back.

Coats, scarves...longer pants. Probably boots, if they sell anything like that. All I’ve seen are
people wearing those ridiculous sandals. What do they do when it snows? Hope their toes don’t
fall off? It’s worrying to think about how much money it’ll cost. It’s worrying to think that he can’t
get a job for another few years, if even then. (Becoming a shinobi really is his only route, isn’t it?)
Relying on Konoha’s ‘kindness’ puts a sour taste in his mouth, especially considering they likely
didn’t give much of a shit otherwise.

Beside him, his brother huffs for air, “Can we have curry tonight?”

They have some left over from yesterday’s takeout. It wasn’t Natsume’s favorite, but it’s food and
he isn’t exceedingly picky to begin with. At this point, anything is better than plain rice and miso
soup.

He takes a deep breath through the stitch in his side and pretends he can’t feel the stares of every
 villager in their vicinity, “Yeah, why not? But I get t’ choose tomorrow.”

Naruto leaps, arms spread wide, “Yay yay!”

His infectious joy makes Natsume wish he could pretend Naruto didn’t hear the vitriol spat their
way either. But he did.

Every single word.

Chapter End Notes

yes that was genma, he That Bitch. find me on tumblr!

 VOL. 1, ARC I. (golden yellow)
Chapter Notes

this chapter is hella slow but it had to be done for ExpositionTM

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The first snow happens mid-november. It’s frigid inside their apartment, and the two of them have
to burrow under the covers together for warmth. Luckily, both he and Naruto seem to run high,
which creates a little pocket of heat for them to hide in. Konoha winters get really cold, just as their
summers reach high enough temperatures to bake eggs on the street.

It was a good call to purchase a bunch of blankets, even if it meant they had to buy a few more
instant meals than Natsume would have liked. There’s at least five blankets on the bed now, and
he’s warm and content enough that he could lay here forever without moving. Outside their blanket
burrito is icy hell.

He’s not sure if they have heating, or if the landlord just refuses to turn it on. He’d ask, if he knew
who the hell the landlord was. All the rent money is taken care of without their interference. Sure,
Natsume can go looking. But does he really want to? It’s not as if he can do anything about it yet,
being the weak little four year old that he is.

“Nacchan, I’m bored.” Naruto complains, his legs and arms flailing under the sheets.

The redhead frowns, “What, ya wanna go out ‘n the cold?” Just a half hour ago, they’d lasted all of
five minutes eating breakfast in the kitchen before they’d flown back into bed.

Naruto grumbles, his eyes squinting and lips pouting. “But it’s so borin’! I hate just sittin’ here! I
wanna go play!”

“Well,” Natsume sighs in resignation, “We have some winter clothes. You have t’ put ‘em on if ya
wanna go outside.”

His little brother flings off the sheets in excitement, “YES! Ah, cold!”

The chilly air immediately seeps into their space and Natsume hisses at the sensation, goosebumps
rising along his visible skin. He groans, “Ugh, c’mon.”

They get out of bed, teeth chattering. The closet has a sliding door with a crack in the frame. There
is easily enough space for twice as many clothes as they own — but, well, that would cost money.
Natsume has it organized by season, to prevent Naruto from tossing everything to the ground while
looking for something to wear. He stands on his tip toes and pulls down the jackets they’d picked
out last week. They’re already both clad in long pants and thick sweaters, having changed just
before breakfast.

For Natsume, he’s merely wearing all black, and his puffy winter coat is a blue that’s at least two
shades darker than his eyes. Naruto prefers colors, however. So while his pants are black, his
sweater is pale green and the coat he’s currently slipping on his tiny frame is eye-searing orange.
Natsume doesn’t have the slightest clue why his brother is attracted to such a loud color, but it fits.
Naruto totters over to the door, face flushed with eagerness. He plops clumsily on the ground to
pull on his boots, some ratty secondhand things that are a size too big. Natsume manages to wrap a
scarf around his brother’s neck and force gloves over his pudgy fingers.

“I wanna gooo!” Naruto tugs at the doorknob.

Natsume scowls at his brother’s back, still tying the laces on his own well-worn boots. “Just hold
on a second, the snow will still be there.”

When he’s finally ready, he gently pushes Naruto out of the way and opens the door. His little
brother flies past him with a yell, “Snow! Snow! Snow!”

Natsume quickly locks the door behind them, running after Naruto’s exuberant form. “Hold on!
Stop running, you could slip!”

They make it all the way down to the ground without incident, but then Naruto proceeds to jump
into the nearest snowbank. He pops up a second later, nose red and clumps of melting snow stuck
in his hair. “COLD!”

“Jeez, you’re gonna get sick.” And wouldn’t that be the worst thing ever. It’s amazing that neither
of them have, actually. He’s not going to take that luck for granted — a sick Naruto would be
awful to deal with. Naruto takes his hand when he offers, and he pulls his shivering brother out of
the snow.

Konoha looks different when covered in snow. Softer, somehow. Beautiful, even, if Natsume feels
like being poetic. The freshly fallen snow crunches under their boots, leaving a trail of tiny
footprints down the street. Naruto keeps his hand clasped in Natsume’s, his blue eyes turned up to
the cloudy sky and his tongue out to catch falling flakes. Everytime one lands against his golden
eyelashes he scrunches his nose and blinks furiously.

Natsume watches from the corner of his eye, relishing in the carefree innocence of his brother.
How he’s able to smile despite the clipped comments and poisoned arrows directed at their backs,
Natsume will never know. Maybe Naruto is stronger than him.

He doesn’t think that would be so bad. If he has to, Natsume will willingly shield his brother from
the worst of the scorn. Because Naruto is precious, he’s like sunlight and hope and a hundred soft,
kind adjectives that Natsume doesn’t have the vocabulary for. Naruto is just a child.

They spend hours at the park, rolling globs of snow into lumpy, misshapen snow people. They get
in a two-way snowball fight, because joining other kids ended up being disastrous when they all
turned on him and Naruto. Dodging snowballs packed with ice and rocks wasn’t very fun, but at
least most of the kids had shitty aim.

“I feel sweaty ‘n cold.” Naruto huffs, his breath heavy and condensed in a cloud before him. He
wiggles his gloved fingers and waves his arms in wide circles, still filled with energy even hours
later.

“Feels weird, huh?” Natsume laughs, his own toes and fingers feeling like icicles, while his torso is
hot and sweating under the layers. Both of their noses are running, their cheeks bitten red by the
cold. “Ya gettin’ hungry yet?”

Naruto pats his tummy and hums, rocking on his heels. “Hm...yeah! Can we get some food?”

“We gotta go home, I didn’t bring any money.” There was no way he was going to risk ruining the
money in the snow. “I think we have some instant ramen left.”
The blond lights up, “YES!”

“You like ramen way too much.” It wasn’t even the good kind. Natsume’s never had it himself, but
he’s certainly seen and smelled it. He’s pretty sure they won’t be allowed in most establishments
— nor is Natsume willing to even try entering them. They get harassed or ignored in the places
they do manage to buy things from.

Honestly? Natsume has half a mind to move the hell out of Konoha when he’s finally old enough,
dragging his brother along with him. Unfortunately, that route will likely be blocked if he becomes
a ninja, unless he wants to go missing nin and have the whole force on his ass.

And he needs to be a ninja to become strong and earn enough money to care for both of them.
Naruto shouldn’t have to work and suffer for it.

“It’s the best food in the whole world!” Naruto exclaims, puttering through the packed snow.

“Gyoza is better.” Natsume mutters, to the abject horror of the blond. His brother whirls around
with betrayal on his face.

“No way, ya know!”

He rolls his eyes and pushes the other along as they make their way home. “You should be happy
I’m not as obsessed as you, it means ya get more of it t’ yourself.”

After lunch, Naruto and Natsume warm up under their pile of blankets, this time situated on the
couch. He has what few books they own in his lap. One of them is stolen, but he’ll never admit to
being a thief. It’s not as if the snot nosed kid at the park was using it — or couldn’t afford for it to
be replaced. They’re books designed for kids, made to help learn basic japanese. One of the good
parts of the orphanage were the resources. Now that they live on their own, there’s no one to help
educate them.

So Natsume decided to do something about it. Naruto isn’t a fan of the lessons, he’s more of a
physical learner and whines when he has to sit still for too long. It’s not like Natsume doesn’t have
the same issue, the level of energy within him almost feels unnatural at times. That doesn’t mean
it’s hard for him to put all that energy into mental work. Naruto, clearly, struggles immensely.

“Just a little longer, Naruto. Then you can go out and play again.” Compromising is the only way
anything gets done around here. “Now try reading this sentence again.”

Naruto furrows his brow in concentration, “Uh... the man...went to…GAH!” He throws his head
back, “This is crazy hard! Nacchan, I’m too bored!”

“It’s not hard.” He reprimands, tapping his finger against the kanji. “Look, this says The man went
to the store. See, you almost had it.”

His brother groans and buries himself further into the blankets until only a tuft of blond is visible.
It’s a miracle Natsume managed to wrangle the other boy into studying for as long as he has.
They’ve been inside for a few hours now, both of them fed and warmed up — Naruto is probably
itching to get back outside as soon as possible.
Natsume glances back to peer out the window. It’s starting to get darker out, the days shorter in the
winter months. It’s probably best to let Naruto out now, so he can burn off as much of that excess
energy as he can before he’s locked in with Natsume for the night. He loves his brother, he really
does, but playing alone with him for hours gets tiring. As does listening to his non-stop talking.
Sometimes he needs a break.

As if that’s gonna happen. Sighing for what feels like the millionth time, Natsume closes the book
and sets it on the wobbly coffee table. At the sound, Naruto perks up, his big eyes peeking from the
mass of fabric.

“Fine, let’s go play.”

Naruto surges from the blankets, tangling his legs in them and falling on his face. This doesn’t
hamper his excitement at all, and the blond wiggles his way out of his self-inflicted confinement to
leap across the cold floorboards.

“YAY!” he crows, already making his way to the door.

“Hey, don’t even think about leaving without putting on your winter clothes!”

Naruto pauses at the door, “Oops.” He says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head.

Natsume tries not to smile at the sight as he wanders over, once again hit with the change in
temperature when he’s away from the cocoon of blankets. He really wants to stay there. He does
not want to go outside again. It’s not even that he hates winter, he just prefers...warmer
temperatures. And not being wet and cold.

“Not for long,” he reminds his brother. “It’ll get dark soon.”

“Sure!”

There is nothing more terrifying than turning around and finding your kid gone. Natsume isn’t a
dad, but with Naruto it’s essentially the same thing. So when he turns around after not hearing the
crunch of Naruto’s footsteps, it understandably sends a shock of pure terror through his system.
The sky is dark, the moonlight glinting off the snow. A few soft flurries continue to fall, nowhere
near as heavy as it had been earlier. It’s far later than Natsume would like — and now his brother
is missing.

A thousand terrible scenarios run through his head, but he swallows down the anxiety and
backtracks, following his fresh footprints. It doesn’t take long to find where Naruto had veered off.
Just a street back, his path breaks off and turns to the right. Natsume jogs as quickly as he can
through the heavy snow while clad in multiple layers, haggard exhales forming thick clouds of
condensation.

Naruto comes into view on the next empty street, his hair lit like a beacon under a harsh streetlight.
He’s holding hands with a girl about their age, with dark hair and pale eyes. She’s not dressed for
the weather, and her tiny frame is shivering violently.

“Naruto!” Natsume snaps, “What were ya thinkin’!? Why didn’t ya tell me where you were goin’,
ya know!”
His brother jerks in surprise, smiling guiltily. “Sorry, Nacchan, I jus’ forgot ‘n got distracted!”

The girl at his side hiccups, her pale, trembling hand rubbing over her teary eyes. Now that he’s
closer, Natsume can see that her eyes have no pupils, and they’re a lovely shade of lavender. She’s
holding Naruto’s hand without complaint, without trying to move away. Natsume purses his lips.
Contrary to the belief of Konoha’s general population, he doesn’t actually like being mean to kids.
Only after they turn on him or his brother does he retaliate.

“What’s’a matter with you?” he asks gruffly, toning down the usual bite in his voice.

The girl sinks into herself a little, “U-Uhm, I-I’m lo-lost…”

“She was cryin’ all alone!” Naruto butts in, “I said I’d walk her home!”

Breathing out through his nose harshly, Natsume can only shake his head. Of course Naruto would
do that. He really was too nice for his own good; which was amazing, considering the treatment
they’ve experienced so far. Natsume really does wonder where the blond got his kindness from —
it can’t be him, because he’s always too quick to push others away or fight back.

“Alright.” Even he doesn’t feel right about leaving a crying, shivering girl in the middle of a dark
street. “Do ya know where ya live?”

She nods, “M-Mhm.”

He can’t tell if her stuttering is from the cold or from nerves or just how she normally talks. It still
dredges up some measure of sympathy for her, and he finds himself unwrapping his scarf from
around his neck and draping it over her.

She looks startled for a moment, her free hand reaching up to press against the green, body-warm
fabric.

“Let’s go.” He says, tilting his head.

They take off down the street, Naruto skipping happily through the snow and half pulling the poor
girl behind him. Natsume keeps pace, glancing at every dark corner and alley way that they pass.
Three four-year-olds out at night is just asking for trouble, or a kidnapping. There isn’t much
talking, their energy put into moving quickly through the snow — and it’s starting to come down a
little heavier once more.

After a good few minutes, they enter an area that looks far more expensive. The houses get larger
and they end up running alongside a huge, gleaming white wall. It reeks of upper class and money,
which makes Natsume more than a little uncomfortable and out of place. Naruto doesn’t seem to
notice or care, pulling the girl along behind him even though she’s supposed to be the one leading.

“H-Here….” She whispers eventually, breathing heavily.

They stop, seeing a gate leading into whatever the white walls were hiding. There’s a giant house
just in view, built with dark wood in the style of traditional japanese architecture. Natsume glances
over at the girl, who’s still shivering in her — now that he really looks at it — expensive kimono.
He wonders if the only reason she isn’t being mean to them is because she’s sheltered or
something and has no idea who they are.

“Whoa! You’re cryin’ and you live in this big house?” Naruto asks without thought.

Natsume elbows him in the side. “Money doesn’t always mean happiness, Naru.”
The girl looks down, her grip on Naruto’s hand tensing for a moment, enough that the blond looks
over at her.

“Sorry,” he says, sounding properly apologetic. “At least you’re not cryin’ anymore! Why’d ya run
away to begin with?”

“U-Uhm, m-my Otou-sama…” she mumbles, her gaze dropping to the ground. She looks reluctant
to continue.

Naruto looks confused, but shrugs it off with a smile. “Me ‘n Natsume never cry, so you shouldn’t
either. Even if things are suuuper hard, I’m sure you can do it!”

“Hinata!”

Natsume jerks, looking to the gates. A man is approaching, his features stern. The scowl on his
face sharpens when pale, pupil-free eyes land on Natsume and Naruto. The tone of voice hadn’t
been very nice, either, which already has Natsume’s hackles rising. He glances to the side to see the
girl, Hinata, sink in on herself.

“Naruto, let’s go.” He mutters, pulling his brother away. Sad as it is, there isn’t much they can do
here. This guy could seriously hurt them if they stick around. Naruto doesn’t protest, not aware of
the situation at hand.

“Oh, okay. Bye!” He waves back at the girl as they leave.

Natsume glances behind him to see the man towering over Hinata, a giant compared to her tiny,
trembling form. He grits his teeth and turns forward, gripping Naruto’s hand tightly. When he
raises his free hand to pull up his scarf — he grasps air, and realizes he left it with Hinata.

Well, there goes that. He sighs.

“I wonder why she wanted to run away from her Tou-chan.” Naruto hums, chubby cheeks puffed in
thought. “If we had a Tou-chan, I’d never wanna leave!”

It’s a cute thought, but not a realistic outlook of the world. “There’s a lotta different kinds’a
parents, Naru. Some of ‘em are like the villagers who glare at us. If ya have mean parents,
sometimes it’s better not to have ‘em at all.”

Naruto furrows his brow. “I thought all parents loved their kids? That’s what it’s like at the park,
ya know!”

“I think most parents do. But not all of ‘em.”

“So…” His brother halts, peering at Natsume with wide, concerned eyes. “Does that mean that
girl’s Tou-chan is a meanie?”

He recalls the way the man had looked, his face displaying anger rather than worry. How Hinata
had sunk in on herself. How quiet she was — and he’s starting to suspect that her stutter is from
anxiety rather than the cold. “I think so.”

“Huh.” Naruto starts walking again. “I hope she’s gonna be okay.”

“Yeah,” Natsume mutters, a little surprised at how truthful his words are, “I hope so too.”

He does wonder what their own Tou-chan would have been like. Could they have been a happy
family? Had he and Naruto been loved? Would they be, if their Tou-chan was alive? Their Kaa-
chan? It’s no use imagining something that will never happen, but the thought makes him feel
wistful.

(For all he knew, they could have had horrible parents. Parents that were criminals, or parents that
hated children. And he and Naruto have to live with not knowing. )

A man is at their door. Natsume opens it only after dragging a stool over and hoisting Naruto up on
his shoulders so his brother can peer out the peephole.

“It’s an old man in robes and a big hat!”

“...Is there anything on the hat?”

“The kanji for fire!”

So, the Hokage is at their door and Natsume has no idea why. He only opens it a crack, staring at
the man distrustfully. The Sandaime smiles back, his face weathered with age. It’s definitely him
— hard not to recognize a guy whose face is plastered on a mountain.

“Hello boys, I’m here to drop off your check.” he says, procuring an envelope from within his
robes.

It’s the leader of their village, so Natsume doesn’t think he can just turn the man away. Especially
when he’s giving them the money they need to survive. Opening the door up the rest of the way,
Natsume steps aside so the Sandaime can come in.

The old man wanders in casually, subtly glancing around. If he’s surprised at how clean and
organized the place is for housing two four-year-olds, he hides it well.

“Hey, who’re you?” Naruto rudely points a finger at the Hokage, eyes squinted.

The man just grins as Natsume cringes. They’d just gone over the Hokage’s! What a way to
discover that his brother barely retains anything from their study sessions.

“Sarutobi Hiruzen, Naruto-kun. I’m the Sandaime Hokage.”

Naruto gapes, “You know my name?”

“Of course I do,” Hiruzen replies, “And I know little Natsume-kun’s name, too.”

“I’d hope so,” Natsume mutters, “You’re deliverin’ our money.”

Chuckling, the old man places the check on the kitchen counter. He appears oddly amused and soft
when he gazes at them. It’s a deep contrast from how they’re usually looked at.

Natsume is immediately suspicious.

“True, I came to do just that. But I’ve also come to speak with you boys about your futures.”
Hiruzen pinches his gray beard, the picture of a stereotypical old man. “How do you feel about
being shinobi?”
Naruto’s eyes light up and he starts bouncing on his toes. “I wanna be one! Shinobi are super cool,
ya know! Are you gonna teach us? Can we learn crazy powerful jutsu? And go on missions? Oh,
Oh—”

“I was rather thinking about enrolling you both in the Academy, it’s where all young shinobi
hopefuls go to learn and train.” Hiruzen interrupts smoothly,, “Unfortunately I’m a bit too old now
to keep up with you rambunctious youngsters, so I leave the teaching to the Academy Sensei’s.”

It’s a lot like how the orphanage was, with shinobi coming in to entice orphans into joining their
cause. Except this was the damn Hokage trying to get them to become shinobi, and Natsume
doesn’t believe a man who oversees all of Konoha has enough time to personally visit every
orphan in all of Konoha. There were too many to count, with this place being a military state.
Which begged the question as to why he was visiting them.

What made him and Naruto special enough to warrant personal deliveries and recruitment speeches
from the most powerful man in the village?

“What about you, Natsume-kun?” The man asks, still acting like a normal, gentle old man and not
the leader of a military dictatorship.

“The plan was always ‘t be a shinobi.” He replies. To think they started training this young,
though. It was always kids around six or seven who started at the Academy — at least, that’s what
Natsume had assumed from their time at the orphanage. But four?

They’ve only recently had their birthday too.

“That’s wonderful to hear.”

Natsume eyes Hiruzen distrustfully. Is it now?

He’s kind of getting the feeling there isn’t much of a choice in the matter, and they’re just lucky
their paths align with the Hokage’s desires. There’s no way this is just a house call. No way. He has
to be missing something. Naruto doesn’t seem to care, still jumping for joy at the prospect of
learning how to be a super awesome ninja and walk on walls and rescue princesses.

“The new year starts in April, so you still have some time yet before you begin. But I thought it
prudent to get your opinions on the matter. It’s not an easy decision to make, and the life of a
shinobi is as honorable as it is strenuous.”

Naruto blinks, “That’s a lotta big words, jii-chan.”

“Naruto!” Natsume hisses, poking his brother in the side. “Watch ya manners!”

“It’s no bother,” the Hokage waves his hand, looking more amused than anything at Naruto blatant
disrespect. He pats the envelope of money, “Now, just remember to be careful how you spend this,
alright?”

“I got it.” Natsume says, arms crossed. His I mean business attitude isn’t really effective when he’s
all of three feet tall and adorable.

The Sandaime ends up talking with Naruto for a few more minutes, the boy hanging off every
word the man says. Natsume doesn’t talk much, giving short answers whenever there’s an attempt
to draw him into the conversation. The old man isn’t doing anything to make them uncomfortable,
but Natsume’s pretty sure he’s forgotten how to talk to people normally. In the weeks they’ve been
out of the orphanage, he’s grown used to having everyone in the village against them.
Eventually, the Hokage leaves, using the excuse that he’s a very busy man to pull away from
Naruto’s non-stop talking. His brother waves as the man walks away, hanging over the balcony to
watch the Hokage walk down the street.

“Come back inside, it’s too cold and ya ain’t wearin’ ya coat.” He orders, shivering by the open
door. Naruto huffs out a breath and reluctantly pulls away from the railing.

“But Nacchan, I’m so excited!” He throws his arms around the redhead, almost sending both of
them tumbling to the ground. “We’re gonna be shinobi! We really, really are!”

Natsume pats his little brother’s back in fond exasperation, chest tight with affection and worry. A
life as a shinobi isn’t as glamorous as Naruto might wish to believe. At their age, nothing seems
like it can hurt them. Shinobi missions are likened to fairy tales, where there’s always a happy
ending and impossible victory against an evil villain. In reality, it’s the same as being a soldier.
They are the tools — the weapons — used to fight the enemy. Whoever the enemy is.

They aren’t currently at war, but the nations had just finished with one not even a decade ago.
Tensions at the borders are still high and trading routes aren’t up to snuff just yet. At least,
according to the village’s civilian gossip. He doesn’t know much about shinobi aside from what
the recruiters at the orphanage spoke of. He knows they go on missions that can range from
deliveries to rescue to murder — even if that last one was skimmed over. They are, essentially,
glorified rent-a-cops. Even though he should, Natsume doesn’t think about what being a shinobi
will require of him. He can’t.

It’s what he’s going to be, so he might as well get used to the idea. He can’t let the thought of
violence and murder scare him. So for now, he puts it out of sight out of mind. There’s only one
thing to focus on now, and that’s what to do with the money they’ve received. He immediately
shuffles over to grab it off the counter, opening the slim envelope and pulling out the bills within.
Carefully, he counts the stack once, twice, three times. Just to make sure.

All 10,000 ryo is there and accounted for, just in time for them to go grocery shopping. It’s a good
thing, too, Natsume is tired of instant ramen. Naruto loves it so much he might as well bleed ramen
broth — that much sodium can’t be good for him, but it’s not like there’s many alternatives.

Healthier food is more expensive. 10,000 ryo for a whole month's worth of food for two people
only buys so much. Adding clothes and books and other essentials on top of that? Tuning out
Naruto’s rambling, Natsume wanders over to the fridge, where a measly 200 ryo sits underneath.
After a second of debating, he pulls it out and adds it to the stack in his hand. Maybe under the
fridge isn’t the best place to store it. Nothing has been spilled just yet, but knowing Naruto, it’s a
disaster waiting to happen. He climbs up on the counter carefully, his arms wobbling with the
strain.

He puts the whole stack on top of the fridge, wiping a heavy layer of dust away before doing so.
Coughing, he jumps down, arms waving for balance as he lands.

“Alright, Naru.” He claps the dust from his fingers. “Time to do some more studying!”

His little brother pauses mid rant, a look of dismay overtaking his cherubic features. Not even the
puppy dog look will save him this time. “But, Nacchan, do we have to?”

“Absolutely,” he says firmly, “What do ya think we’re gonna be doin’ at the Academy? If we want
to form good study habits, we gotta start now.”

In the spring, they’ll begin the first step to becoming trained murderers.
He’ll be damned if Naruto isn’t literate by then. He himself still has a long way to go, only
knowing the less complex hiragana. More complex kanji characters still confuse him. There’s
thousands of them, after all, so it’s not like it’s going to be a walk in the park memorizing them
when he only has shitty secondhand or stolen books.

“C’mon, we’ll do an hour of reading and then you can go play outside.” He compromises.

Naruto sighs heavily, an over-dramatic look of defeat on his face. “Fiiine, but you promise it’s only
an hour?”

“Of reading, yes.” Natsume grins, “We can work on our strokes before dinner.”

Naruto groans and throws himself on the couch.

As promised, they only read for an hour. Naruto fidgets the whole time and ends up having to
reread his segments at least twice, getting caught on certain characters or giving up and throwing a
tantrum halfway through. When an hour is up, Natsume knows not to push his luck with his
energetic little brother, and releases him into the outdoors. Wrapped up in his winter things, Naruto
immediately flies down the steps. When he reaches the bottom, he slips on a patch of ice and falls
face first into a snowbank.

“This wouldn’t happen if ya slowed down.” Natsume chides, pulling Naruto out. This has
happened way too many times. “The snow ain’t goin’ anywhere anytime soon.”

“I’m just so excited!” Naruto exclaims, cheeks pink and eyes sparkling. “Reading was so boring, ‘n
now I’m ready to play!”

“Reading isn’t borin’—” He tries to say, only to get cut off when Naruto lets out a yell.

“No, no, no! No more talkin’ about that!” He takes Natsume’s hand and starts trudging forward,
his little boots crunching in the snow. “It’s park time. We can go build a snowman again!”

Natsume lets his little brother tug him along without much of an argument. It’s not like that would
get him anywhere. Naruto is a force of nature, a whirlwind of laughter and sunshine and never-
ending energy. Natsume can only let himself get dragged along for the ride, lest he risk being
swept away entirely.

His brother dances through the snowbanks, sunlight against hair of the same shade. Gold spills
across gold, bright and warm against the naturally tanned tones of his skin. Naruto is the
embodiment of all that is good. Natsume knows this — knows he could never face the citizens of
Konoha and still think to smile. He’s not doing that now. Doesn’t know if he ever will. Yet Naruto
keeps trying. Keeps pushing for friends, keeps getting up off the ground whenever he’s shoved
down. He stands his ground against bullies and holds his hand out, desperate for anyone to take it.

Natsume isn’t like that. He doesn’t feel that natural kindness that exudes so easily from his blond
counterpart. Maybe he could have been happy in another life, had they not been orphaned. But
they’ll never know.

He’ll never know.

It’s just them. They’re all they have. Natsume will do whatever it takes to stop Konoha from
tainting the open, vibrant smile on Naruto’s face. His little fingers are turned up towards the sun,
eagerness in his eyes. Purposeful. Determined. Like he can pluck that burning star from the sky and
hold it in his palms.
 Natsume almost believes he can.

Chapter End Notes

i wont even lie i love hinata and i think kishimoto did her hella dirty. good thing
fanfiction cures all ills. also naruto apparently failed the genin test two or three times
(cant remember off the top of my head) but UH what the hell,, does that MEAN?? how
,, , WHERE does that fit in on the timeline?? KISHI EXPLAIN !!! but anyway i
solved that by making Hiruzen think "oh lemme shove them in the academy early so
it's easy to keep an eye on them". bam. logic. from there, i'll assume he failed passing
the YEAR, and got held back twice until he ended up in the class that's his actual age
group / the canon class. because that's literally... the only thing that makes sense to
me..... any w h o find me on tumblr!
 VOL. 1, ARC I. (dark blue)
Chapter Notes

eyyyy lmao uh sorry this is actually Late AF

See the end of the chapter for more notes

In January there’s a Winter Festival to celebrate the new year. It’s a loud event, the streets
decorated with beautiful ribbons, lanterns and countless snow and ice sculptures. Fireworks are set
off in the dark, chilly nights for three days straight. Konoha citizens dress in heavy kimonos, put
painted masks on their faces and stroll down the packed streets. There’s a big local shrine that
people flock to for blessings and luck. Naruto loves the lights and sounds. He presses his hands to
the cold window every night to peer into the sky as it comes alive in a myriad of colors.

He wants to be part of the crowd, wants to eat the food they sell at festival stalls, wants to clap his
hands at the shrine even if he doesn’t know what the purpose is.

Natsume isn’t as eager.

He knows they aren’t liked. That much is clearly obvious. For them to wander around during a time
of joy has two possible outcomes. One, and this is the most favorable ending, they get ignored as
everyone is caught up in the merriment. Two, their presence ruins the merriment and people attack
them. Humans aren’t kind, especially when caught in a mob mentality. Four year olds can’t do
much against a bunch of adults, so it’s not really a risk Natsume is eager to take. It’s not as if
anything will change! Vendors still won’t sell to them, villagers will still eye them like they’re
criminals — what would be the point?

They still end up running around at night, hoods and hats pulled over their hair, shadows long in
the lantern light. It’s cold and lonely but it’s beautiful. Explosive vibrance in the dead of winter.

There’s another festival in the spring, when the snow is all melted away and the flowers begin to
bloom. The weather is cool but the sun is out, and people wear pretty clothes decorated with
embroidered flowers in pastel colors. It’s harder to hide in the day, so they get scolded and chased
out of a few places while exploring the shrine grounds.

Just a few weeks after, in early April, they begin their first year of the Academy.

“If ya don’t hurry, we’re gonna be late.”

Naruto huffs from the bathroom, “Well if ya just let me go—”

“We are not leavin’ until you brush your teeth!” Natsume scolds, stuffing Naruto’s bento into his
backpack. He’d spent all last night carefully crafting lunches for him and his brother. Learning to
cook was a good way to take up some time — and help their diets. Naruto would live off instant
ramen if given the option.

His book collection now covers language, history and cooking. Three of them are stolen. Once
again — he’ll never admit it. Hey, books are expensive. And it isn’t often he has the opportunity to
even get in a store that sells them. It’s even less likely if Naruto is tagging along. As much as he
loves his brother, Naruto is not quiet.

The sink faucet runs for a few more seconds, and Natsume hears his brother spitting.

“Ok, I’m done!”

When his brother comes around the corner, Natsume pulls at the blond’s whiskered cheeks and
peers at his tiny baby teeth.

“Gwah!” Naruto makes a sound of complaint, but sits patiently until Natsume releases him.

“Alright, you did good.” Swinging his bag over his shoulder, Natsume offers the other bag to his
brother. Naruto eagerly puts it on, the worn green knapsack clashing terribly with his bright orange
shirt.

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Naruto exclaims, hopping into his sandals and flying out the door in
seconds.

Natsume sighs at his brother’s energy, hanging back to lock the door. “Will ya slow down! You
don’t even know how ta get there!”

“Do too!”

They end up running all the way to the Academy, the building in the shadow of the Hokage’s
office. There’s a yard area in the front and what looks like a small forest to the sides. Having only
one tree in the front with a single swing on it seems a bit odd to him, but whatever. They’re
learning how to be murderers, they’re not supposed to be having fun.

For a few minutes, no one seems to notice them. Families surround children, parents or siblings
sending off ninja-to-be with cheery smiles and well wishes. Even orphans are grouped together,
laughing and talking with each other as they enter the gates. Naruto’s exuberance dims slightly
when he takes in the scene, his little hand reaching out to take Natsume’s.

He glances over at his little brother and frowns at the sad look in those bright blue eyes. “Come
on.”

They wander onto the Academy grounds and people begin to notice them. The weight of his
backpack is nothing in comparison to the weight of the stares that follow them all the way up to the
doors. It’s terrifying.

The only saving grace is that they aren’t being split up. Both of them are in the same class, but all
their classmates are around two years older and both taller and heavier to prove it. Natsume
swallows at the confused and antagonistic eyes that turn to him and Naruto as they enter their
classroom. There are a few open seats still, and Natsume immediately zeroes in on two open ones
next to each other, just by the windows and in the center. Naruto follows when he pulls him along,
and Natsume keeps his eyes on the seats and ignores everything else.

Children do not whisper quietly.

“Aren’t those—”

“My kaa-chan told me they were bad news.”

“We can’t be friends with them, I heard they—”

Naruto sinks into himself, frown turning mulish. He crosses his arms and puts his head down on
the table. Natsume puts his bag down beside him and begins to take out some materials. Luckily,
Naruto can passably read, though it had taken all of Natsume’s willpower not to throttle his little
brother during the process. For a four year old, Naruto’s reading comprehension is probably
impressive. Natsume is still ahead of him, but that’s to be expected. He’s the older brother after
all.

The door opens for a final time just five or so minutes later, and an adult walks in. It’s a man in a
shinobi uniform, his flak jacket only zipped up halfway. He’s got a forgettable appearance, plain
features with short brown hair and eyes. Not even a scar or some beauty mark to make him a little
more noticeable in a crowd. There’s a stack of papers in his hand, which he places on his desk
before looking at the whispering and giggling children.

“None of you should be laughing right now.” His voice is deep, “You can call me Takano-sensei.
It’s my job to weed out those who don’t belong in the ninja world. They’ll tell you that you have
until the very end before you’re tested. That’s a lie. Your entire Academy experience is a test. You
can fail at any moment.”

Takano-sensei glances at all of them, his gaze barely lingering on Natsume and Naruto. The class
is quiet. “I’m going to hand out placement tests. You will do your best, or you will leave.” His
palm presses down on the papers he’d put on his desk. “When I call your name, come up here and
get one. I hope for your sake you all brought a writing utensil.”

Natsume nudges his brother and Naruto finally pulls his backpack off his shoulders and riffles
through it for a pencil. It takes a few minutes before their names are called, almost the entire class
is already sitting with a packet of paper at their desk by the time Takano-sensei gets to the U’s.

“Uzumaki Naruto.”

Naruto scrambles from his seat, ignoring the whispers that start up again. He bounces down the
steps with a foxy grin, acting confident. Acting as if the stares and comments aren’t affecting him.
Takano-sensei doesn’t even look at him.

“Uzumaki Natsume.” When his brother comes back to his seat, Natsume stands. He walks a little
slower than his brother, no visible expression on his face. Takano-sensei ignores him too, but
Natsume can’t tell if it’s malicious or not. The man hasn’t really acknowledged any of the students.
He seems a bit harsh for a teacher — especially for one teaching first years — but what does
Natsume know? Not much, when it comes to the schooling system. Anything relating to shinobi
education is very carefully protected and monitored.

There’s only one other person after him, and once they get their test the class is told to begin. They
aren’t told how much time they get to complete it. That in itself is probably another added layer to
the test. Working with unknowns and under pressure. Smart.

Natsume flips through the packet. It’s three sheets, test questions on both front and back. It’s a
combination of questions from five subjects: math, science, history, language and morality. They
get harder as they go, and there’s thirty questions in total with six for each subject. The first math
question is basic addition, the last math question is complex algebra. Even then, the hardest
questions aren’t impossible, but rather the type that only someone who studied a lot would know.

He answers all the math related ones first. Numbers come pretty easy to him, but he knows that
anything more than the algebra he sees will be too difficult. He doesn’t really remember any of the
other equations or rules. The language ones are harder, with the last few being more intricate and
complex kanji. He can’t read a few of the characters in the last question so he leaves that one
blank, and he’s pretty sure he got the fifth question wrong because he made an educated guess
based on the other kanji in the sentence.

Naruto isn’t going to get half of these. He doesn’t know anything beyond basic addition and
subtraction, and he’s more fluent in reading hiragana and katakana than kanji. Granted, so is
Natsume — but he at least knows a little more, especially since his own name is made up of kanji.
History? Forget it. He’d had months and he still wasn’t able to make Naruto sit through more than
just learning how to read and write. (Passably.) Meanwhile, Natsume devoured history books so he
could better understand the world they’re in.

It also served to tell him just how rooted in propaganda and lies their history was. The saying
‘History is written by the victors’ was never more true. Every action the Land of Fire takes in the
three wars Konoha has fought in is painted favorably. That right there tells Natsume all he needs to
know. War is made up of countless brutalities and mistakes. Not a single lick of that is visible in
the history books he’s managed to get his hand on. The public library hadn’t been much better —
the one time he’d managed to sneak in. Konoha obviously very carefully controlled exactly what
kind of information their citizens could consume.

The first question is easy enough. What are the names of the four Hokage?

He’s sure Naruto knows their names, but he’s not sure if his brother knows the correct spellings.
The kanji for Senju are easy enough. But Hashirama? Tobirama? Both contain kanji that took
forever for Natsume to memorize.

Forget even attempting to write Sarutobi in the correct kanji. It’s a lost cause for Naruto —
hopefully the teacher will accept katakana or hiragana characters instead. Natsume sighs quietly,
keeping his pencil steady as he carefully traces out the twenty-two strokes that made up the two
kanji for their Sandaime’s last name. At least Hiruzen is written in katakana. Can’t go wrong there.

Namikaze Minato.

Natsume blinks down at the name. Yondaime-sama and Naruto only have one character difference
in their name, order aside. The man is also the only person to have become Hokage while not
coming from a clan, which definitely pissed some people off. That’s just how politics worked. War
hero aside, Yondaime-sama carried a name fit for a dock worker or fisherman. There was nothing
prestigious about it.

(Quite honestly, Natsume’s just happy it takes the least amount of strokes to write.)

Then the questions pick up a little.

When was the village founded and by who? What were three underlying factors that swayed
Konoha into joining the Second Great Ninja War? How did the Third Great Ninja War affect
Konoha’s economic status?

As if half these kids even know what the word economy means, Natsume thinks to himself. Actually
most of these questions just...seem designed to fail the majority of kids. Takano-sensei is really
throwing them into the deep end without a life jacket. It’s doubtful these kids have even been to
school before this, which means they didn’t have an opportunity to even learn anything. Some of
them probably don’t even know basic math.

What is the purpose of this test? To see where the majority of students are in the educational
system? How much they know?
He skims over the science questions. It’s not his strong suit, and a few of the questions seem a little
odd. Name a poison. What are five examples of a compound? Describe the pH scale; on what level
does blood fall? How does chakra interact with natural elements on a molecular level?

Natsume hasn’t the slightest clue of what chakra is. Aside from...energies? That doesn’t seem very
murdery. He leaves that question blank. Science doesn’t come to him as easily as the other
subjects. Out of the four subjects he’s done so far, it’s probably the worst he’s done.

Morality, however, is a completely different field. Maybe he should have expected such a subject
to come up, seeing as they were going to be taking lives in the future. Murder and torture can really
fuck a person up. Exposing that kind of shit to kids? Something about that just doesn’t sit right with
Natsume, even if it’s the norm around here. Logically, you’d think starting young would give the
best results. But on the flip side — it leaves you with possibly traumatized teens and adults that end
up going crazy or killing themselves.

Does Konoha even have anything for mental health?

Natsume stares down at the first question.

Why do you want to be a shinobi?

For money. For stability. Because he doesn’t really have a choice in the long run. Those are the
true responses he could write down. Unfortunately, that’s probably not what Takano-sensei is
looking for. Konoha wants blindly loyal shinobi. They want people willing to die for their village.

To be strong enough to protect others. Is what he writes, though it’s a lie. There’s some truth in it
— he does want to be strong, and he wants to protect Naruto, who fits into the category of others.
Morality is...tricky. It’s hard to know what the village expects. Konoha yells to the heavens about
teamwork, about the importance of working together. But then they write out in their rulebooks
about the mission coming before everything and anything. Kill your friend if it means success. Kill
your team. Kill yourself.

Natsume answers another question about choosing the many or the few — he writes that he’d save
the many, obviously, because that’s likely what’s expected. But he doesn’t care about the many.
He only cares about Naruto. His answers are all lies, but he’s going to be a shinobi. Shinobi make a
career out of lying.

He’s one of the first to be done, even though he left three questions completely unanswered. A
quick glance lets him know that other students are progressing a little slower, and many have
pained or confused expressions on their faces.

Beside him, Naruto is still scribbling away, face scrunched with stress. It doesn’t seem to be going
well for him. Natsume turns to look out the window. He doesn’t want to risk getting called out for
attempted cheating.

Everyone is done by the time lunch rolls around, so on their way out they all place their packets on
Takano-sensei’s desk. Naruto is frowning heavily as they walk out into the schoolyard, graphite
smudges on his fingers and his knuckles white with how tight he grips his backpack straps.

“Don’t worry about it.” Natsume says.

Naruto sighs explosively and tilts his head back. “Gahhh! But that was so hard, ya know! What
kinda test was that anyway!”

Natsume shrugs. They sit far enough away from the nearest group of kids to not be overheard.
Everyone’s been avoiding them anyway, giving them looks or scowling when they wander too
close. Naruto slumps down to the ground beside Natsume, plopping his bag in his lap.

“I think it was just to see how much everyone knew.” He replies, significantly more careful with
his own bag. When they both take out their bentos, Natsume’s is more put together than Naruto’s
— his almost looks like it’s been shaken.

Naruto stuffs his mouth with onigiri, still grumpy and eyes squinted against the midday sun. “Well
it was dumb.”

Natsume just rolls his eyes and eats his lunch. “Don’t try to skip ya vegetables.”

Naruto pauses, eyes wide. There’s a carrot in his hand, poised to be discreetly tossed to the side.
“Eh...hehe.”

After he eats, Naruto tries to play with some of the other kids.

It doesn’t go well.

Takano-sensei gives him an odd look when they get back to class. It’s not particularly nice or
mean, or any emotion that Natsume can place. It’s just. Odd. They spend about an hour listening to
him talk about the basic ninja rules and regulations, before he makes them all go back into the
yard.

They aren’t the only class outside, there’s two others, and all the students gather in a group and sit
on the ground. Friends find friends, the sound of children’s chatter fills the air. Natsume and
Naruto sit off to the side, closer to some of their classmates. The sun is warm and high in the sky,
still bright enough to make it feel early, even though the school day must be ending soon.

Sarutobi Hiruzen appears.

It takes about a minute before the other kids notice the man moving to stand before their seated
group. He doesn’t look very impressive, just old and tired despite the smile on his face. Kind.

For a military dictator.

“Hey!” Naruto says excitedly, “It’s that old man from before!”

Natsume sits back on his hands, “The Hokage, Naruto. Not just some old man, even if he looks it.”

The Sandaime glances at them briefly, but doesn’t focus on them beyond that, choosing to address
the entire crowd. Natsume really doesn’t know what to make of him. He talks a big game about
teamwork and something called The Will of Fire, but what does that really mean in the end? It still
seems like a big sales pitch towards a bunch of young children who think they’re playing hero.
Naruto included.

His little brother has stars in his eyes, bouncing up and down on the ground like he’s about to
explode. Natsume sees the same earnest expression mirrored in the face of almost every other kid
there.

For a moment, Natsume is jealous. They look so innocent and excited — why is it only him who
feels concerned about the future? About the reality they’re going to have to face? There will be
blood on his hands. On all of their hands. But they look up to this old man like the sun shines out of
his ass, ready to jump right into the fray this very moment.
Shortly after, families begin to show up to take their kids home. Mothers and fathers gush to the
Hokage, and he weathers every comment and simpering expression with grace. Natsume double
checks that he and Naruto have all their things. He gives the Hokage one last glance.

They leave, the muttering and glares of the crowd burning into their backs.

The Academy is great.

For the most part.

Naruto tries his hardest to make friends, but no one in their class wants to befriend a four year old.
Especially when everyone else tells you not to. Kids fall into a mob mentality far too easily, eager
to fit in with others and not be discriminated against themselves. Sucks for him and Naruto.
They’ve been pegged as the black sheep of Konoha.

It’s just that...while Naruto struggles with the schoolwork and barely pays attention in class,
Natsume breezes through it.

It’s boring. Easy. The language refreshers are great, however. Japanese is a pretty complex
language, so it’s taught consistently throughout all the years. He knows most of what they’re going
over in class, but the repetition is helpful. Plus he’s not just scrambling to figure it out for himself.

As long as he pays attention, everything goes fine. Takano-sensei ignores them. Literally. Neither
he nor Naruto can ask questions, because the man doesn’t even look at them or acknowledge when
they raise their hands. It means Natsume has to take very, very detailed notes, then try to explain it
to Naruto later. Which goes as well as one would expect.

Their schedules go like this:

Natsume gets up and goes through his stretches. Sometimes Naruto manages to wake up enough to
do them too. While Naruto showers, Natsume makes breakfast. They eat, then they both brush their
teeth and dress before leaving. After the Academy, they do their homework — which takes ages
because Naruto struggles every second of the way. Then they go out for an hour or two, during
which Naruto plays and Natsume runs through whatever new kata he learned at the Academy.
They go home. Natsume makes dinner. He showers. Makes bento boxes for the next day. Then
they sleep.

Rinse, wash, repeat.

It becomes a routine, and one that Natsume has no trouble sticking to. It’s nice, actually, having
some kind of structure in his life where he feels like he’s going somewhere. Every day he learns
more, every day he gets stronger. Spring fades into summer and the heat cranks up, the sun bearing
down on them during taijutsu class and making everyone sweat and complain. Their little bodies
are put through the ringer. Fifty laps every class. Five more if you act up.

Somehow, the sensei also finds a reason to make Naruto and Natsume run extra. It’s awful, the
heat and the sun and the sweat, his lungs burning and his head aching. His legs throb and he
constantly feels like jelly. Trying to learn from the sensei teaching taijutsu is worthless. They run
through the basic kata, then help correct the other children’s stances. All while giving Naruto and
Natsume a wide berth.
Doesn’t matter.

Natsume observes. He watches the other kids, their stances, their corrections. He moves his body
slowly and carefully until every kata feels perfect.

“I don’t get it!” Naruto howls, his little fists pounding into the grass he’s sprawled on. He’s still
four, and still prone to tantrums. There’s a red mark on his forehead from Natsume’s fist. “Why
can’t I get you!”

He sighs and crouches next to Naruto, watching out for flailing limbs. “I just practice more than
you.”

Sparring is fun. Just not when Naruto wants to get involved. He’s clumsy still, chubby with baby
fat and too eager in his movements. All his attacks are wide and slow. Natsume can see him
coming from a mile away.

Naruto pouts, blue eyes teary. “But that hurt.”

“Yeah, well.” Natsume glances away awkwardly. “Sorry.” He knows their classmates wouldn’t
have held back, not like him. Maybe it’s cruel, but his brother has to get used to physical pain.

Or maybe he’ll give up being a ninja entirely.

Natsume can dream.

He pulls Naruto up off the ground. Naruto sniffs and wipes his runny nose on the hem of his shirt.

“Come on, we’ll run through the kata one more time, then you can go play.” Natsume promises,
his tiny body slipping back into the stance. And while Naruto will run away, eager to try and make
friends and unable to understand the concept of responsibility and training — Natsume will stay.

He’ll practice until his limbs go numb.

By some luck, his body always feels better in the morning, his muscles less strained. Bruises gone.
Little cuts scabbed over. He heals fast, as does his brother. Whether or not that’s a ninja thing is
something else entirely. (It could be.)

Also, apparently Chakra is a thing.

There isn’t anything inherently fun about training. Underneath the unforgiving sun, it’s more of a
chore than anything — his incredible stamina aside. It’s busy work. Exercise. It takes a lot of
motivation he’s pretty sure he never had before, in that first possible life. In this case, it’s kind of
for his literal survival, so there’s no other option. There’s also not much else he can do.

They don’t have board games or cards. The technology feels really wonky here, there’s TVs and
movies but they don’t have video games. There’s fridges and electric stoves and cameras, but they
don’t use those cameras for security purposes. How weird is that? No computers, no cars, no
phones. If he doesn’t throw himself into taking care of Naruto or furthering his education, he’s
bored. Not even books really help, because the librarian isn’t super nice and he still gets chased
away from bookstores most times.

Training is all he can do. Training and cooking and fathering Naruto, when they should be
brothers. That’s the kicker, isn’t it? Natsume isn’t a dad — certainly not Naruto’s. They’re
brothers, and Natsume doesn’t actually know if he’s the older one or not. It’s just. A lot. He’s tired
and grumpy and his little, childish body isn’t built for this kind of stress.

In the shade of the trees, Natsume practices his katas until he feels like he’s going to throw up. The
park is just meters away, and Naruto is running around with some kids too young to understand,
who haven’t been pulled away by their parents. Sweat drips down his brow, stinging his eyes.
Crimson strands stick to his skin. He brushes them from his face, then pinches a chunk of his hair
between his fingers. It’s been getting pretty long, he hasn’t thought to cut it recently. There’s no
way he trusts Naruto with scissors anywhere near him. Cutting his little brother’s hair is well and
good, but his own hair is another story.

Turning away from the cheery faces of his brother and the other kids, Natsume moves a little
further into the forest. It’s still so hot out, he can barely stand it. The middle of summer really does
suck. Natsume drops into the starting stance, weight spread evenly across his feet. He runs through
the first few steps, sweeping a leg and lashing out with an arm. To be frank, he can’t do jack shit
until he grows up a little. Ninja or not, a four year old doesn’t have the reach, strength, or speed to
take on an adult. Chakra reserves? Forget it. They didn’t stop developing for another handful of
years, and it was incredibly dangerous to even mess with chakra when you were young.

Chakra exhaustion kills.

Natsume is not looking to die again just yet.

He drops his arms, taking another break. He feels tired and bored. The Academy curriculum is
slow, or at least too slow for him. He feels eons ahead of everyone, but his body doesn’t match and
it’s frustrating.

“You shouldn’t wander so much, kid.”

Natsume jerks around, reflexively falling into a fighting stance. The one who’d snuck up is
probably a decade older, somewhere in his low teens. He’s far taller than Natsume, which isn’t
hard to be, seeing as he’s four. The guy is also — amazingly — smiling. Not particularly widely,
but it’s there, in the soft curve of his mouth. He’s got curly black hair and matching dark eyes, his
lashes long enough to give him a girlish appearance. There’s no hiding the puberty-awkward,
masculine line to his jaw, or the way his voice cracks a little. Both of these tell Natsume that the
teen is, in fact, a boy. (Probably. Who is Natsume to judge, after all?)

He’s also wearing a hitai-ate around his forehead, the Konoha symbol proudly engraved in the
metal. A shinobi. No flak jacket or uniform in sight, but that doesn’t mean much. He’s wearing all
black clothes, his shirt flaring at the neck in a wide collar that rises to just below his chin. There
aren’t any weapons in sight, but that doesn’t mean the guy isn’t carrying any.

“That’s none of ya business.” He replies belatedly.

The older boy chuckles like he’s heard something funny. “I guess you’re right, squirt. Still
wouldn’t hurt to listen, yeah?”
Natsume squints. “Do you want somethin’ or what?”

“You’re kind of a weird kid.” Dark eyes says, hands on his hips. He puts a finger to his lip, “Hm,
well. I suppose I do want one thing. What’s your name?”

“Uzumaki Natsume.”

“Nice to meet you, Natsume-kun! I’m Uchiha Shisui!”

Right, okay. Eyeing the teen oddly, Natsume starts to turn away. “Well, whatever. I’m busy, so…”

Shisui stifles a laugh, “Little kids like you shouldn’t be busy, Natsume-kun.”

“Try being an orphan, then.” He mutters in return. “I’m trying to train. Stop bothering me.”

“So cold,” Shisui whispers dramatically, following near-silently when Natsume begins walking
away. “Hey, hey, aren’t you a little young for training?”

He glares at the teen over his shoulder. It wasn’t even his intention to go deeper into the forest, but
now he just wants to lose this guy. “You’re an Uchiha, right? Should you really be asking me that
question?”

As far as Natsume knows, Clan kids are basically spawned for the sole purpose of being shinobi.
They’re purebreds in the eyes of Konoha. Plus, most of them come with fancy bloodlines or secret
jutsus. The Uchiha in particular have those wacky eyes. The history books talk a bit about them,
but barely anything more than just the casual mention. Actually, the books talk very little about the
Uchiha Clan in general, despite them being half the reason Konoha exists.

Shisui hums, “Fair point.”

“You got anythin’ else to do other than follow around a kid?” Natsume scowls, “You’re not some
kind of creep, are you?”

The Uchiha pauses, blinking wildly. They hold eye contact for a moment, before a wide, slightly
manic grin stretches across Shisui’s lips. “Oh, you’re funny. I like you.”

A feeling of dread slides down Natsume’s spine. “The feeling isn’t mutual.”

“Hey, hey,” Shisui exclaims, ignoring everything Natsume says, “Want some training tips?”

Natsume pauses, which lets Shisui come to stand beside him. The older boy smiles down at him
disarmingly. It makes Natsume a little uneasy. Which is probably really sad, when he thinks about
it. The first sign of kindness and he’s suspicious.

“What kind of training tips?”

Shisui presses a finger to his own lips like he’s about to shush Natsume, “Just some tips and tricks
to help out a fellow tensai-chan! Trust me,” The teen says, “I’m a jounin, after all.”

Natsume narrows his gaze sharply. A jounin? At that age? It’s impressive, if it’s true. And
Natsume can’t exactly prove that it is aside from taking the other boy’s word for it. He crosses his
arms and puts on his best glaring face.

It doesn’t seem to do much, which is a little disappointing. “Why? What do ya gain from helpin’
me?”
 No one wants to help me. He doesn’t say.

Shisui smiles, and this time it’s a little less nice. “Because, little tensai-chan, kids like you don’t
always last long.”

Chapter End Notes

*tensai means Genius, so ,, shisui is calling him "genius-chan" find me on tumblr!

 VOL 1, ARC I. (tastes like chocolate)
Chapter Notes

HEYHEYHEY thanks for all the comments ily guys

See the end of the chapter for more notes

They never meet in the public eye. In fact, it’s always Shisui who finds Natsume. He’ll be training
alone one second, then be interrupted by the bubbly Uchiha the next. He doesn’t know what to
think. Shisui isn’t mean, but he’s certainly not kind — not in the usual way. He treats Natsume like
an adult, once all the jokes are said and done. He speaks bluntly, candidly, and without remorse.

It’s refreshing, if annoying.

The summer sun is still blinding and hot, but at least the shade of the trees cools them a bit. As do
the water bottles Shisui pushes on Natsume. The days that Shisui appears to offer training tips are
random, and sometimes over a week passes between visits. The little copse by the park has become
something of an unofficial meeting place for the two of them.

“They call me Shunshin no Shisui. In terms of speed through ninjutsu, I’m practically unmatched.”
Shisui says, “I’m not a heavy hitter. I prioritize speed over strength, and as a child it saved my hide
more times than I can count.”

Natsume bites back a comment about how Shisui is still technically a kid.

“You’re tiny. You barely have any muscle. There’s no way you can take down an adult without
some kind of advantage or trick up your sleeve.” The Uchiha winks, “Trust me, I know how it is.”

“So you’re sayin’ I should focus on building up my speed.” That sounds doable. Probably. Seems
like it means a lot of running — which, in this heat? Yikes.

“Exactly!” Shisui crouches down, dappled light shifting across his pretty features. His dark eyes
pin Natsume in place with the same odd, slightly manic energy that reveals itself in bursts. “Child
geniuses have to learn how to be ruthless and underhanded. You need to pick out any weaknesses
you can find and exploit them, otherwise victory is impossible.”

(Natsume thinks Shisui isn’t entirely sound of mind. It’s to be expected, obviously. Child soldiers
in a world with no mental health care?)

He shifts on his feet, exhaling gustily. “Fight dirty, ya mean.”

“You do your worst, or you die.” The older boy says without pause, a grin still stretched across his
lips. “I don’t recommend getting training weights just yet, but you can start with running.”

“Running.” Natsume repeats blandly. His secondhand shirt is already stuck to his back with sweat.
“This ain’t some long-con t’ kill me, is it?”

Shisui just grins, “You’re so funny, tensai-chan.”

“I don’t get it.” Naruto complains, his homework spread across their low table. He shifts back and
forth on his knees, elbows on the table and hands squishing his cheeks. “It makes no sense, ya
know! This is too hard. Can’t we go play or somethin’?”

“No,” Natsume replies, focused on his own work. His papers are noticeably more organized. There
aren’t even that many, seeing as it’s only their first year. It’s not especially hard for Natsume, he’s
just about done and they’ve been working — or whatever Naruto’s version of working is — for
about half an hour. “If ya don’t do it now, ya won’t do it at all. And then where will ya be? Failin’
class, that’s what.”

Naruto groans dramatically, tossing his head back. “But it’s dumb! I don’t need t’ know this t’ be a
strong ninja, ya know!”

He loves his little brother, he really does. That doesn’t mean Naruto isn’t supremely annoying at
the worst of times — and sometimes even on a good day. When Natsume wants to complete one
task, Naruto is always there as a distraction. It’s not Naruto’s fault, obviously. The kid is four.

It doesn’t change the fact that Natsume is an introvert. Is it too much to ask for just one quiet
night? Just one?

“Just try,” he mutters, tired from suffering through his overly packed schedule. “We’ll go out when
I’m done with my work. Until then, try t’ get as much as ya can done. Deal?”

“Ugh, I guess…” The blond looks back to his messily written homework, balancing his pencil in
one hand. They sit a few minutes more in blessed silence, and Naruto’s brow furrows as he slowly
writes out a few answers. It’s clear that even with their promise, he won’t last much longer.

All the more reason to hurry up.

Natsume’s already finished with his japanese work, now all that remains is a few more math
problems and some reading for history. That he’ll do at night before bed, so he can read their
textbook out loud. It’s the only way to expose Naruto to it, because the kid has no interest in
cracking open a book. Not even for the Academy. If the subject isn’t immediately interesting,
Naruto loses interest.

It’s pretty much a lost cause to get him to be more academically inclined. That’s fine. Everyone has
their own thing. Natsume is learning enough for the both of them. (It does make him wonder
sometimes — whether or not he’d be more like Naruto if it weren’t for these incomplete memories
in his head.)

“Alright.” He finally puts his pencil down after finishing the last question. The packet had only
been a few pages, but overall the whole thing didn’t even take an hour. It would have taken even
less time if he wasn’t stopping every five seconds to help his brother. “Done.”

Naruto lets out a whoop and rises from his seated position in a flash. His papers get knocked off
the table in his hurry, fluttering across the floor. The blond ignores them, tripping over himself to
get to the door and slip on his shoes. Natsume pinches the bridge of his nose and tidies the mess.
By the time he has their homework put away, Naruto is long gone. The door is still open a crack.

“No sense of danger.” He mutters to himself, tugging his ratty sandals on. One of the straps on the
left is hanging on by a thread. He estimates three more busy days with them before he has to
purchase a new pair. ( New being a relative term.)
Naruto always goes to the same park, so Natsume isn’t too worried about finding him. He takes his
time walking, dodging civilians on the street who don’t notice him. When he is noticed, he
pretends he can’t see their scowling mouths and fearful gazes. If he keeps his eyes forward it’s as if
they don’t exist, like he’s just a normal kid walking down the street.

It’s been a few days since he’s last seen Shisui. The teenager just might be a jounin with how busy
he is, and he really is fast. Natsume isn’t allowed to use chakra, but watching Shisui use the
shunshin really makes him want to break some rules. It’s only the possibility of him literally dying
that has him waiting until the academy starts chakra exercises.

It’s not that he misses the guy — because their relationship is all give and take — but Natsume is
starting to get used to talking to someone outside of Naruto. A crazy thought. Sad, too. It wasn’t
until Shisui’s appearance that Natsume really took note of how completely and utterly isolated he
is from everyone else. Both purposefully and not.

He ducks down an alley, kicking up faint clouds of loose dirt. The smell of garbage is heavy, and
he holds his breath until he comes out the other side. Summer’s heat is vicious. He can’t wait until
fall hits — it’s ironic, really, that his name means summer and he prefers any other season.

Some lady shouts when he runs too closely by her. Ignoring her entirely, he relishes in the
noticeable fact that his speed and stamina really have improved. He’s faster, little legs pumping
swiftly and without expending unneeded energy. Shifting to weave in and out of the crowd is a lot
easier than it had been just last month. It’s addicting, the speed.

Faster, faster, faster.

Natsume skids to a stop by the park entrance, sand and wood chips crunching under his feet.
There’s a group of children running around by the sandbox, and another pair by the swings.

Naruto is nowhere to be seen.

Dread immediately fills him. Refusing to show any of his mounting panic, Natsume very carefully
scours every inch of the playground. The forest just a few yards away gives him no clues from
glancing observation.

What the hell, he thinks. What the hell, what the hell, what the hell.

Naruto likes playing ninja with whatever group of kids will take him. Generally, they end up
migrating into the woods for easier hiding and evasion. For all Natsume knows, his little brother is
just somewhere in the trees. Not kidnapped. Or dead in an alleyway somewhere.

Focus. Natsume slips into the forest, his azure gaze peeled for the slightest movement. He slows
his breathing and quiets his steps, moving quickly through the trees. More than a couple yards in
and he still doesn’t see anyone.

“Naruto?” He calls, sticks crunching underfoot as he walks. Dappled light slips through the
branches and leaves, illuminating the bright red of his hair — foreign among the greenery. He puts
a hand to a tree trunk and peers around it. A river is up ahead. It’s not more than a foot deep, more
of a creek than a river and clear enough to see all the round stones at the bottom. The little clearing
is empty. Naruto is nowhere to be seen and Natsume is starting to think that his little brother isn’t
playing ninja in here at all.

Where the hell could he be? Distracted at a food stall? Caught up in trouble? Trying to pull a
prank? The worst case scenarios keep poking at the back of his mind, but he refuses to
acknowledge them until he witnesses it happening.

Naruto is fine. Probably just lost. Naruto is fine.

He hears the crack of a branch behind him —

A weight slams into his back before he can turn. Natsume pitches forward and only just manages to
catch himself on his hands and knees. The sharp slap of the ground smarts his palms, and the shock
of pain dulls his reaction time. Another hit slams into his side and sends him sprawling.
Scrambling back, he manages to look up behind him and see three older boys. They can’t be more
than nine, but that’s enough of a difference in age to make them seem like giants.

He can’t believe he hadn’t heard them at all. Do they attend the academy? He’s never seen them
before — then again, they are a few years older than the kids in his current class. None of their
features seem familiar. The ringleader has dark brown hair and eyes. To his left is a boy that stands
an inch taller, his hair deep blue and his eyes a smoky gray. The last boy is the shortest, with
pudgy cheeks and cinnamon colored hair and eyes.

Natsume pushes himself to his feet and glares. “What do ya think you’re doin’?”

“My kaa-chan told me you’re a monster.” Ringleader says, with all the intentional cruelty of a
child. “She said you’re trash, and she must be right because you speak like it.”

The other two boys laugh; high pitched giggles that betray their age.

They’re kids, he thinks to himself. Just kids.

“I don’t have time to play with ya.” Is what he says, purposefully demeaning. And he doesn’t. He
needs to find Naruto. He doesn’t give a shit about some prepubescent bullies who think they’re
being cool. “So back off.”

He goes to move by them, intent on leaving the forest. If Naruto isn’t here, then he’s got to start
retracing his steps. Maybe his troublesome little brother is at the park now, having just been
sidetracked by something or the other. That’s always a possibility. Naruto really does get distracted
easily.

“I’m talking to you!” The Ringleader exclaims, face reddening in embarrassment. A hand lashes
out, and it’s only Natsume’s lightly trained instincts that save him from taking another tumble. He
manages to shift to the side, a hand coming up to smack away the older boy’s arm in a quick
sweep. Since he could see it, the movement seemed oddly... slow.

Maybe Shisui was good for something.

“And I’m not listenin’.” Natsume replies, keeping his voice void of care. Bullies only do what they
do when it gets a reaction. The hope is that they’ll leave him alone when they can’t get a rise out of
him. “I’m busy ‘n you’re in the way.”

“I’m not the one in the way, you are!” The dark haired boy grits out, and this time he attempts to
use two hands to shove at Natsume. “Nobody wants you here at all!”

He manages to back up, but it only serves to take him farther away from the direction of the park
and closer to the creek. He can hear it bubbling gently behind him.

Fuckin’ hell, he doesn’t have time for this. Natsume twists his face into the most menacing
expression he can. “I said get out of my way.” Then he takes a confident step forward and shoves
the boy harshly in the side.

Ringleader stumbles into the taller boy. “Hey!”

Natsume attempts to make his way past them, but ends up having to dodge the grabby hands of the
shortest boy. Unfortunately, it’s all three of them that come at him in the next moment. He barely
makes it four steps away when fingers tangle in his shirt and drag him back. He hears the stitches
in the fabric strain, and his heels catch on the dirt. Lashing out with his arms, he dislodges the first
hands, but doesn’t notice the fist aimed at his head.

Stars burst across his vision when knuckles collide with his eyebrow. He tries to shift into the
academy taijutsu stance but someone hits him in the gut and across the face once more before he
can get his limbs up, and he tumbles back to the ground. Instinctively, he lashes out with his feet
when one of the boys tries to crouch over him.

“Ow!” The boy cries out, Natsume’s foot hitting the meat of his thigh. It’s the blue haired boy.
Natsume rolls over in the dirt when the boy sinks to his knees and shoves. With a cry, the boy falls
onto his back and Natsume crouches over him, fist cocked.

Without a single shred of remorse, he punches the little bastard in the nose hard enough to feel it
crack under his knuckles. A scream punctuates the air and hot liquid paints his fist. Hands pull his
hair and pain lances across his scalp. He’s tossed off and a foot lands on his gut.

There’s three of them and one of him. They’re all bigger. Probably stronger. Natsume blocks the
next hit and, flat on his back, puts his foot in the nearest boy’s stomach to knock the wind out of
him. He’s a little faster.

Heaving himself up, Natsume only makes it two shuffles to the side before he’s back-handed hard
enough to cry out. The metallic taste of blood floods his mouth, and the crimson liquid spills over
his lips. Another hand in his hair throws him further to the side and he feels his heels slip and the
soft bank of the creek give. With a splash, he hits the water, spluttering and gasping. He sees wild,
dark brown eyes and a bruised cheek — the Ringleader — before hands come around his neck and
shove.

He scrambles for purchase when his head is submerged under the water. Fingers dig into the flesh
of the hands grasped around his throat; legs kick and fuss in a furious attempt to dislodge the
weight of the boy on top of him. Natsume gags at the pressure, feeling real, genuine terror seep into
his bones as his lungs burn. His vision is obscured by the violent expulsion of air bubbles and his
wildly floating hair. Frantically, he gives up on trying to pry the hands off his neck and reaches up
out of the water, aiming for the eyes. His hands flail at nothing, and he can’t see where the boy’s
face is. Can’t even tell if his arms are long enough to reach.

New plan. He grabs at the soft flesh of the boy’s forearms and twists, tearing his nails across the
skin as hard as he can. There’s a sound, and the boy on top of him shakes him violently under the
water. Natsume gasps as his head thunks against the creek bed, draining the last of his air. His lung
capacity wasn’t very impressive to begin with.

I’m going to die. I’m going to die. The thought races through his head as his vision darkens and his
head throbs with the heavy beat of his pulse. He’s going to drown. He’s going to be killed by an
angry child. I can’t die, who will take care of Naruto. I can’t —

The weight disappears.

Natsume is roughly tugged out of the water just as his lungs are prepared to give out. He sucks in a
lungful of sweet, fresh air, hacking and coughing through it as he’s dropped onto dry land. His
head is ringing and sheer terror makes his limbs shake. He gags, desperate for air, vision still blurry
and adrenaline surging through his veins. Dirt sticks to his wet hands and body, smearing mud and
filth across his shivering form. The hot drip of blood down his lips and chin makes itself known
again.

He blinks water from his eyes.

“Did you inhale any water?” Shisui asks, his pretty face uncharacteristically serious. There’s no
sigh of the other three boys.

Natsume wheezes and spits a glob of blood onto the ground. He thinks he’s two seconds away from
crying. Or throwing up. If it comes down to it, he’d rather vomit. He feels sick. Words refuse to
form on his tongue. Everything happened so fast.

I want to go home. Where’s Naruto? I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m scared.

Shisui moves to touch his shoulder.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me!” Natsume growls, hoarse and painful. He digs his hands into the dirt and
pushes himself up. It doesn’t matter if he’s scared. No one at home is going to make it better. No
one at home is going to go to those kids’ parents and get them reprimanded.

“I’m fine.” He says. “I’m fine.”

Shisui frowns, his eyes unblinking. Like a cat. “You almost drowned.”

“But I didn’t.” Natsume pushes himself to his feet without assistance and looks over at Shisui, who
remains crouched. His limbs still shake. Water drips off his soaked form to splatter the ground at
his feet. Mud is caked to his front, to his hands. Locks of red hair cling to the skin of his face, the
usual volume gone under the weight of the water. Blood runs slick and diluted down his face to
stain the collar of his shirt. He looks like a drowned rat.

My kaa-chan said you’re a monster. She said you’re trash.

Natsume grits his teeth. He doesn’t have time for tears.

Something in Shisui’s expression shifts. He tilts his head in the direction of the park. “Your
brother’s back there.”

Without a response, Natsume turns to leave. He wants to go home. Forgot about what Naruto wants
for once, there’s no way Natsume is staying in these wet, muddy clothes. Not when it feels like
he’s five seconds away from a panic attack.

“Next time we meet…” Shisui calls, drawing Natsume’s attention. “Let’s do something different.”

When he glances back, the Uchiha is gone.

Naruto holds his hand the entire way home, quiet for once in his life. He keeps sending Natsume
these tense, worried looks that are endearingly obvious. Unfortunately, as cute as his little brother
is, Natsume is not in the mood for anything.
“What happened?” Naruto finally asks, when their apartment complex is in sight.

Natsume turns to him, poison on his tongue. He sees Naruto’s wide, anxious eyes and pauses.

Naruto’s fingers clench at his own.

“I thought you got lost. I went into the forest to look for you and slipped in the river.” He lies.

Naruto blinks, “Oh,” he says, like he’s not sure whether or not to believe it, “Sorry I ran ahead.” An
expression of remorse crosses his whiskered features. “It’s my fault you got worried ‘n fell.”

“No,” Natsume replies distantly. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

That night, he lays awake while Naruto slumbers beside him. As his little brother snores away in
his ear, he can’t help but remember every second of the earlier events. The cold, creeping feel of
water pressing at his nostrils. The weight of hands and knees pinning him into the sandy creek bed.
When he shifts his arms it still feels like those rounded stones are pressing back.

He hopes the bruises will disappear by tomorrow morning.

Natsume saves up to buy ingredients for a birthday cake. It’s not anything fancy, just plain
chocolate. He likes matcha well enough, but Naruto prefers sugary-sweet flavors at the moment, as
most kids do. The entire day is a village holiday, so the Academy is shut down, as are most of the
stores. A day of remembrance, they call it. In honor of all those lost in the Kyuubi’s attack —
which coincided with the day of their birth, funnily enough. It’s a pretty... odd coincidence, but
they can’t be the only kids born that night. Natsume doesn’t know anyone else as ignored or hated
as him and his brother.

Naruto puts his sticky fingers in the batter bowl and insists on licking the spoon. It’s a bit of a
mess, but at least it’s something to do. Not only is this cake for their birthday, but it’s also for the
anniversary of their first year living on their own.

It comes out a little lopsided.

They end up eating it all in a single day, despite that. No matter the appearance, cake is still cake.
Cooking it was a mess, but at least cleaning it up gives them something to do. There’s a festival
going on all throughout the day, but Natsume doesn’t feel very safe going out in the streets
anymore. Especially not today of all days.

Something is telling him it’s a bad idea.

The glares had been especially terrible in the days leading up to October 10th. He’s not stupid
enough to think anything has changed aside from their approaching birthday. Keeping Naruto
inside is a challenge in itself, however. The blond Uzumaki wants nothing more than to go out and
see the festivities.

“We’re having an us day.” Natsume explains. “Since it’s our birthday.”

Naruto presses his fingers to the window, looking down at the crowded streets and the flashes of
shinobi traveling over rooftops. “But Nacchan, I wanna see what’s happenin’ outside, ya know! It’s
like a big party on our birthday!”

“But it’s not for our birthday. It’s for the Kyuubi Attack.” He pulls Naruto away from the window,
willfully ignoring the puppy dog eyes aimed at him. “In here it’s just for us.”

“I guess…”

“Come on,” Natsume pulls him over to a pile of paper placed on the ground. “I got somethin’
special.”

His brother plops down on the ground a second after Natsume does, looking at the sheets of blank
paper in confusion. Beside it is a box. “What is it? Paper?”

Natsume flips the box open, revealing a bunch of crayons. “Yep. We can do some drawin’.”
They’d never had crayons before, nor were they big on doodling without intent. There was never
an opportunity to do so. He’d really splurged on the cake and crayons.

(It was their birthday. They deserved it, just his once.)

“Whatta we do with this?” Naruto asks, eyes bright despite his confusion. He rifles through the box
of crayons, peering at every color and laughing at the waxy texture.

“Draw.” He shrugs, “Whatever ya want. A dream. A future ya want.”

Naruto claims the yellow crayon for himself, the orange one following shortly after. Natsume
settles for his red crayon, carefully shading in his hair. He himself doesn’t know what to draw — it
was a bit of a spontaneous idea, one founded by the desire to create an indoor activity for his
hyperactive brother. He draws himself and his brother, side by side and holding hands. The
stereotypical family drawing.

Sans parents.

He eyes the crayons speculatively. Logically, based on his and his brother’s difference in coloring,
one of their parents had red hair, the other blond. One parent had blue eyes — the eyes that both
Naruto and Natsume inherited. The other was a mystery. Might be one forever. It didn’t sit right in
his chest.

(Indigestion.)

He adds a man with bright red hair and blue eyes next to the little figure symbolizing himself.
Beside Naruto, he draws a woman with spiky blond hair and uses the black crayon for her eyes.
Dark eyes are pretty popular in Konoha, so it’s probably not a bad guess. Probably.

There.

He looks over his semi-stick figures, the drawing made without any form of effort. A family of
four. Natsume presses his finger against the waxy crayon shading, smudging some of the father’s
red hair. It’s just a daydream.

It’s just a thought.

He wonders if they were wanted.

Shisui shows up in his usual black outfit, a smirk on his face and a tanto strapped to his back.
“You’re getting better,” he comments blithely, observing Natsume’s speed drills with a curious eye.

Sometimes the Uchiha reminds Natsume of a big cat; silent, graceful and menacing. There’s never
been a reason to fear Shisui, but that doesn’t stop Natsume from remembering that the other boy
has most certainly killed people before. The thought bothers him less every day.

“Speed and evasion are both up.” The older boy continues, slipping into a more critical assessment.
“Your reach is still poor, but hopefully you’ll do some growing.”

Fast as he’s getting, Natsume still doesn’t manage to dodge Shisui’s hand, and suffers through a
fierce ruffling of his loose red locks. “Quit it.”

Shisui backs off with a cheery grin, “Your taijutsu is improving a lot...the academy style still
doesn’t suit you, however. You’ll want to remedy that.” Then he preens, like he’s already done
something praise worthy.

“What.” Natsume squints, “What did’ya do, Uchiha?”

“Nothing!” The older boy laughs, dark curls shaking, “Well, not yet. There’s a style I have in mind
for you. I just need to see about getting the scroll for the Beginner’s Kata. That is...if you want to
learn it.”

Natsume furrows his brow, kicking at a pile of fallen leaves. They’ve been meeting up for months,
and it still... bothers him that the older boy is giving him the time of day. To go so out of his way,
it just doesn’t make sense. He eyes Shisui carefully. “Of course I do.”

For a moment, Shisui’s grin dims. Only for a second, though; fast enough that Natsume can almost
say he imagined it. “What, no please?”

He rolls his eyes, “What’s the style called?”

Shisui hums, blinking his stupidly long lashes. “Tsunami. It capitalizes on swift movements based
on flowing water, and overwhelming speed. Not a very popular style around here though. It’ll be
difficult to learn without a master.” Another grin flashes over his lips, significantly brighter,
“Konoha, however, has a man who specializes in taijutsu. Any and every style.”

Natsume grunts, “You say that like anyone’ll teach me.”

“Don’t be so negative!” Shisui exclaims, hands on his hips. “Trust me, Gai isn’t like that. He’s a
good person. A little weird, but who isn’t.”

“You got that right.” Natsume mutters, eyeing Shisui pointedly.

The Uchiha pouts obnoxiously. “ Anyway, I’ll get you that scroll. If we can’t figure it out, you can
go to Maito Gai. He’ll help you. Eagerly.”

With a chilly exhale, Natsume turns his gaze away from the older boy and stares down at the array
of leaves once again. From the brightest of oranges to the deepest of reds, they curl as they dry out
and die. He crunches a few under his feet. It’s not cool enough to see his breath just yet, but any
day now they’re expecting a temperature drop.

“Why?”
 Shisui tilts his head, dark eyes like twin voids. Or hot coals. The older boy’s lips purse and he
shrugs. “You’re a child of Konoha, same as me.”

“I am no one’s child.” Natsume replies.

Shisui just smiles. “The Tsunami Style is compatible with kenjutsu.” He taps the hilt of his tanto.
“Maybe if you figure the kata out, I’ll teach you a few tricks to go along with them.”

Never a straight answer, huh. At best, Shisui is mysterious. At worst — well. Natsume glances at
the tanto. He can’t say the idea of learning how to wield a blade hasn’t ever crossed his mind.
Using his fists is well and good, but his hands feel empty and awkward at times and more than
once he’s thought how much better an attack would be with something extra. He’d been leaning
towards something like a kunai or shuriken, as Academy students start with those. But a tanto, or a
full blade?

“I’ll learn them.” He says, determined. There’s no way he’s passing up the opportunity to learn
kenjutsu basics.

Another odd flicker of emotion across Shisui’s face — then he tugs at a lock of Natsume’s hair
impishly. “As expected of little tensai-chan!”

Batting away the offending hand, Natsume scowls at the older boy. “Be serious.”

Shisui laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling. The autumn air is flat, and the sky is dull with
clouds. In that moment, Shisui is a dying sun. “Never.”

Natsume sighs and pretends the teenager isn’t the closest thing he’s ever had to a friend. It’s a
thought he can’t afford to have. Not now. Maybe not ever. How can he, when they still hide away
like their meetings are forbidden? When they never interact if not alone? Shisui is just as confusing
as he’s always been, but he’s the most genuine person Natsume has ever met.

“Thank you.” He murmurs, unable to look the teen in the eye. He’s not sure what he’s saying thank
you for. The scroll, maybe.

Shisui is quiet — then chuckles, strained and soft. “You never have to thank me for wanting to
keep you alive.”

Don’t I? Natsume doesn’t even try to say, knowing very well how that would be received. Because
the only other person who seems to want me alive is my five-year-old twin.

He kicks a rock and turns to leave. “Don’t be stupid. And don’t forget the scroll.”

“Cross my heart!” Shisui calls at his retreating back.

Natsume exhales and his breath puffs, visible. With his back to the older boy, it’s gotten a little
colder.

Chapter End Notes

my boy natsu goin through it. find me on tumblr!

 VOL. 1, ARC I. (tastes like vanilla)
Chapter Summary

in which natsume is probably interrogated and maybe thinks gai's bowl cut is a Wig

Chapter Notes

y'all i just rlly love shisui

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The Tsunami style is all fluid, quick kata that his little body can’t yet entirely do. There is a certain
grace in the movements that he is still too inexperienced and clumsy for. It’s annoying to fail more
than he succeeds, but as the weeks and months pass there is progress. He learns to strike with every
exhale, to draw his body up with every inhale. He practices steps that let him flow across the land
like the ocean, like a dance. The key is speed and flexibility. He’s lucky enough that he’s both
young and kept up with his stretching, so as long as he continues and works on his speed, he’s
pretty set.

It feels natural.

Shisui grins, secretive and happy, when Natsume tells him such.

In the midst of winter, Natsume steps into the ring during the Academy’s mock-spars. He is a good
four inches shorter than his opponent, a kid with a slightly crooked nose and greenish hair. The
area is cleared of snow, but the ground is frozen solid. The students elbow each other and laugh
when they see the match up. Naruto is the only one yelling Natsume’s name.

“Go easy on him, Shoichi! He’s just a baby. ” A voice yells from the crowd, and more laughter
follows.

Naruto scowls and waves his fists, “You can do it, Nacchan!”

Natsume ignores all the voices, slowing his breathing and focusing only on his opponent. He
doesn’t pay attention to his classmates normally — which is a problem now, when he thinks about
it, because he has no idea how the other boy fights. Going in blind isn’t ideal, but it’s a good test to
prepare him for real life situations. At least, that’s what he tells himself. He’s still a little annoyed.

“Begin!” Takano-sensei exclaims.

Natsume moves first.

Compared to Shisui, Shoichi is about as fast as a snail. The other boy’s arm barely comes up in the
time it takes Natsume to get all up in his space and launch a jab. With a grunt, Shoichi goes
skidding back. He’s taller and bigger, but he’s not fast.

Natsume adjusts his feet, ducks under a retaliating blow, and plows his fist into the underside of
Shoichi’s jaw. The boy cries out as he bites his tongue, and Natsume doesn’t wait a single second.
Staying light on his feet, Natsume twists to the side and dances around Shoichi’s lunging frame. A
snagging foot sends the other boy tumbling to the ground as his weight and balance is disrupted.
Natsume is on Shoichi’s back within a single blink, knee to the older boy’s spine. He twists an arm
up and to the side, rotating Shoichi’s shoulder joint painfully.

“Ahhh!” The green-haired boy screams, his feet kicking out into the hard dirt.

“Enough!” Takano-sensei’s voice booms across the silent space.

Natsume hops off and away, out of Shoichi’s reach. The class is silent. Naruto gapes, his fists
halfway up in a forgotten cheer. The fight had lasted five seconds, took barely any of his energy,
and hadn’t been challenging in the slightest. He snorts quietly as Shoichi pushes himself off the
ground with teary eyes, grasping his shoulder.

Not talking a big game now, are you?

He looks over to Takano-sensei, whose lips are bloodless and pressed in a thin line. The chunin’s
eyes bore into Natsume’s own, and the emotions found there are impossible to decipher.

“THAT WAS AMAZING!” Naruto yells, his boisterous call breaking the tenuous quiet. The blond
points a finger at Shoichi, “You suck!”

The older boy growls, “Shut up, you worthless monster!”

The words make Naruto flinch back, and suddenly all the observers feel like looming mountains.
It’s just Naruto and Natsume again, being judged and looked down upon. Something icy grows in
his chest, bitter like poison. He hates those expressions. Every single one of them.

“Losers don’t get to say shit.” Natsume’s cold tone draws all eyes, “But by all means, bark away
like a wounded dog.”

Takano-sensei snaps his fingers, looking agitated. “I said that’s enough. Make the Seal of
Reconciliation.”

Shoichi scowls heavily, face mottled red with humiliation. Natsume holds out his hand and they
curl their fingers together for a brief second. It’s all they can manage before Shoichi is striding
away, wiping his hand on his pants like he’s touched something foul. Natsume should have rubbed
his smarmy little face in the frozen mud. He vacates the ring and stands by Naruto, who grasps his
arm in equal parts excitement and comfort.

“Shoichi, go to the med-nin on staff.” Takano-sensei orders, “Next fight will be—”

“Nacchan, can you teach me?”

Natsume turns to Naruto, snow crunching under his boots. He grimaces at the harsh, icy wind
slicing across his face. Though it’s only a twenty minute walk from the Academy to their
apartment, his nose is already numb from the chill. “What, the taijutsu style?”

“Yeah!” Naruto says, blue eyes sparkling, “You went so fast, like bam! Bam!”
Natsume chuckles at his brother’s exuberance. “I guess so...but ya know you can’t get better at it if
ya slack off. So don’t complain if you don’t see results.”

“I’ll work at it, ya know!” Naruto assures with childish glee.

It’s not that he doesn’t believe his brother, but Natsume knows how Naruto is. Young. Easily
distracted. His interests change every week and there isn’t anything in the world aside from ramen
that can keep his attention for longer than five minutes. Maybe in a few years, when Naruto is a
little older and less ruled by his base emotions, that burgeoning drive will evolve into full
determination. Natsume can’t blame the boy for wanting to play, for having trouble paying
attention — Naruto is a child.

( So are you. )

No, he thinks to himself. I’m not allowed to be.

“Then I’ll teach you a few moves.”

And Naruto takes to as well as expected. He’s clumsier than Natsume; slower and less inclined to
practice for four hours straight when the laughter of other children distracts him. Compared to last
year — Naruto is, however, far more interested in becoming a strong ninja for the purpose of being
cool and worthy of the village’s acknowledgement. He works a little harder, spends a little more
time training. They’ve both gotten faster, able to leap longer distances and use their surroundings to
scale buildings and hop rooftops. It’s dangerous without chakra, but neither of them mind. Or care,
really.

Because it’s fun.

The adrenaline makes Natsume actually smile for once. When he’s heaving himself up over the
uneven edge of a roof slat, or bounding across the tiny gaps between cramped buildings. Shinobi
children move faster, better, stronger than civilian children, even without chakra. They have to.
Conditioning their bodies is the first step, and it helps weed out those who don’t have the
motivation or drive to push through.

Natsume likes training with his brother. Though he’s faster and — let’s face it, better — than the
blond in their current states, Naruto is an eager student. The Tsunami style suits them both, oddly
enough. They’re both small and young though, so there’s no doubt that will change. While learning
both speed and stealth is a good match for Natsume, Naruto doesn’t have the patience for it.
Eventually, the blond will look for something else that works better with his loud, brawler
personality.

Maybe I should ask Shisui about that Gai person. It’s been quite a while since the Uchiha began
showing him the kata, and soon they’ll run out of forms for him to practice over and over. Shisui
only has the one scroll, because apparently the Tsunami Style really is as rare and unused as the
teen initially stated. Soon they won’t have any other choice but to go to the man Shisui hailed as
Konoha’s taijutsu master — the only one who could further the style based on the kata alone.

It’s the tail end of winter and the snow is wet and melting, turning the ground into muddy slush.
The temperature remains cool enough to warrant a jacket, but not much more than that. He doesn’t
trust that winter is entirely over just yet — another harsh snow could be just around the corner
before spring comes. Natsume puffs out a breath and leans against a barren tree. The forest is quiet,
the animals long gone to avoid the cold. At his feet is a disgusting mess of slush, dead leaves and
mud. His navy jacket is worn with frayed hems and his green gloves have holes in them at the
pinkies. It’s not too bad.
Shisui doesn’t spend time with him when he’s training with Naruto. He should probably feel weird
about that, or at least offended on his brother’s behalf. It’s Naruto, after all, that’s so desperate for
friendship when Natsume would rather sneer at anyone who comes close. But with Shisui
everything felt so secretive, like what they were doing was taboo. Or just between the two of them.
Naruto has the kind of personality and wide, open heart that seeks and draws in friends like moths
to a flame. Natsume does not.

He doesn’t trust easily. Doesn’t want to trust. And yet he has Shisui.

Shisui who might be a little cracked and rusted at the edges, who sometimes gazes at things that
aren’t there. Shisui who laughs easily and doesn’t just poke the bear — he smacks it. Is it so bad
that Natsume keeps this one thing to himself? Him and Naruto share everything, but maybe…

Well, maybe he can have this.

It’s harder for them to meet these days, with Naruto so eager to learn. Shisui doesn’t show up when
the blond is around and Natsume never utters the Uchiha’s name. His brother has no idea that
Natsume meets with another person on a regular basis. Perhaps it would only serve to make the
younger brother jealous. Natsume does not want to deal with that, and it wouldn’t even be Naruto’s
fault.

(Because it really wasn’t fair, was it? That Natsume got the equivalent of a friend while Naruto
struggled, even though he was good and whole and sunshine incarnate.)

So when he does manage to ditch his brother for a few hours, he finds himself here. Waiting.
Sometimes Shisui shows, sometimes he doesn’t. Today he does. It’s harder to hide in the trees
when they’re barren and bleak.

The tree he’s leaning against trembles, and half-melted snow smacks the ground by his feet.
Natsume looks up sharply, greeted to the sight of Uchiha Shisui crouched on the widest branch, a
grin on his pale, pretty face.

“Hey, hey, tensai-chan! Lookin’ a bit chilly, there.”

“I’m fine.” He replies, not flinching when the teen disappears in a blur and reappears before him.
“It’s not cold today.”

Shisui doesn’t say anything for a moment, tilting his head to the side as he thinks. The hitai-ate on
his forehead doesn’t gleam in the dull, gray light of a cloudy winter day, but it draws Natsume’s
eyes all the same. Patriotism for Konoha continues to evade Natsume, but Shisui is chock full of it.
Naruto as well — the blond takes to all the propaganda with disturbing ease. Desperate for a way
to fit in. It worries Natsume sometimes when he thinks about the lengths Naruto might go to make
friends.

“Hey, wanna come somewhere with me?”

Natsume blinks, assuming he’s heard the older boy wrong. They don’t go places. “What?”

“Yeah,” Shisui nods to himself, “Yeah, let’s go somewhere.”

“Go where?” He asks, “Why? We can’t.”

Dark eyes observe him carefully, “Why not?”

Natsume presses his lips into a thin line, discomfort swirling in his gut, “You know why.”
“Forget that. You’ll be with me.” Shisui’s hand darts out, still too fast for Natsume to dodge. A
hand tangles in his coat and heaves him off his feet. Maybe it’s because he trusts Shisui — even
though he doesn’t want to, and tells himself he doesn’t — but he forgets to struggle for a beat too
long and ends up perched on Shisui’s hip.

The Uchiha is warm, running hot enough to feel even through the layers they both wear. Up close,
his smile is blinding and a little too much teeth, and Natsume can count every single one of the
teen’s ridiculously thick eyelashes. Shisui looks tired.

“What are you doing?!” He shrieks, his senses returning to him. Shisui’s arm is looped under him,
securing him to the older boy’s side like a mother does with their child.

“Relax! We’re gonna play pretend!” Shisui winks.

In the next moment, Natsume feels something shift, and glances down at himself to see that his
clothes have changed. Only visually, however. Henge. He blinks at the coat — still navy — and
the false quality. He looks at the gloves, now visibly dark and without holes, even though he can
still feel the chilly air seeping through.

He stares at the Uchiha symbol embroidered on the breast pocket. Shisui pinches a strand of
Natsume’s hair between his fingers, snickering. It’s pitch black, the same shade as Shisui’s. For
whatever reason, Natsume is quite sure the teen has given him the appearance of an Uchiha.

“Wait, we can’t just go!” He exclaims when Shisui takes off, leaping through the trees. “Naruto is
still at the park, I can’t wander away too far!”

“Don’t worry about it, nothing will happen to him. I promise.”

Natsume grips Shisui’s shirt, torn between kicking his way out of the teen’s grip — risk of falling
and all — or, Sage forbid, trusting Shisui’s word. “How can you say that?”

“Natsume,” Shisui says, and it’s not often that he actually uses Natsume’s name, “I promise.”

He looks into the Uchiha’s dark eyes and believes.

They stop on a rooftop overlooking the market, the streets busy with the afternoon rush. When they
hit the streets, Natsume struggles a little, not willing to stay perched on Shisui’s hip like some
baby. He’s five, not two, and he doesn’t need to be carried around! But the teen doesn’t even
flinch, and even has the gall to grin in amusement at Natsume’s predicament. Huffing, he relents
— only because he doesn’t want to draw too much attention to himself, or dispel the henge
accidentally.

The villagers smile and talk with such ease, unknowing of his presence. They make their way
through the crowds without much more than a few glances. It makes Natsume’s stomach curl. How
can they act so happy now, and then sneer at him and Naruto at the drop of hat? They look
peaceful. Kind. Calling to each other with jovial ease. He almost doesn’t recognize it — all these
people are unfamiliar to him without the shadow of fear-hate-sadness lingering in their faces. Even
pressed to Shisui’s side, the thud of the older boy’s heart beneath his palm, he feels...alone. Like
his face is pressed to the glass and he’s peering into a world that he doesn’t belong in. Natsume
turns his eyes away from the street and hides away in Shisui’s shoulder, all the while refusing to
admit that what he’s doing is hiding.

Shisui’s grip tightens for a moment and Natsume thinks he feels something brush against his hair.
Maybe he imagined it.
“Konoha was founded on the belief that children would no longer have to die.” The Uchiha
murmurs, his quiet voice drowning out the hustle and bustle of the streets. “That children would be
spared in war, and could grow in a world of peace.”

Natsume snorts unkindly. “And how’s that been workin’?”

Shisui chuckles, “I know, we haven’t stuck to our ideals, have we? Konoha was created for noble
reasons — that doesn’t mean it reached those goals to begin with. We’ve been working towards
that perfect world, slow and steady. One day Konoha will be a place of laughter and kindness,
where we’re all at peace with each other. However long it takes, I know we’ll get there. It’s my
dream to see it.”

“Your dream?” Natsume whispers, “Or Konoha’s dream?”

“Why not both?” The teen rebukes, his pace slowing. They enter a shop, a bell tinkling above the
door merrily.

Natsume isn’t sure what to think. He’s not like Shisui or Naruto. All he sees in Konoha are the
shadows, the hate, the pain — the sneers and cold winters, the glazed eyes and scorching
unacknowledgement. Shisui talks about it like it’s something to be proud of, a place he can call
home. A home he wants to improve. That’s all well and good — great, even. But not once has
Natsume ever considered Konoha home. All that loyalty, that so-called will of fire… it doesn’t exist
within his brittle, bruised heart.

Shisui greets the shop owner sunnily, a muted, mature version of Naruto. They make small talk that
Natsume ignores, choosing to lay limp in Shisui’s hold like he’s asleep. He wonders what the pair
of them look like. Brothers? Cousins? Is it wrong to feel a connection like that when he already has
a brother? He can’t tell if he likes it, or feels guilty.

“What about your brother, Uchiha-san?” A woman, likely the store clerk, says.

“Oh,” Shisui replies, not skipping a beat, “He’ll just take vanilla.”

“A bit early for ice cream, isn’t it? You’ll ruin your dinners.” It’s said knowingly, traces of humor
in her voice. She sounds like what Natsume imagines a mother does.

Shisui chuckles sheepishly, “I couldn’t say no to him, he’s just too cute! It’ll be our little secret.”
He makes a shushing noise.

The woman giggles good-naturedly, and Natsume hears the sound of movement. He pinches Shisui
in the side and relishes in the hiss of breath that escapes the older teen. That’ll show him for calling
Natsume cute. Shisui jostles him in return, forcing him to finally raise his head from the teen’s
shoulder. He scowls at the sunny expression Shisui gifts him with.

It’s a little chilly for ice cream, but Natsume takes his frozen treat without complaint. He’s never
had ice cream before and he didn’t even have to pay for it, so he’s not looking a gift horse in the
mouth. Once again, his gut twists guiltily at experiencing something like this without his brother
— but it’s...fun. Doing things on his own. Having his own experiences. Naruto is too loud and
eager to pull off the Uchiha personality. Even Shisui, who is kinder and more open than any of the
Uchiha members Natsume has passed on the street, has a regal sort of quiet to him at times. The
teen is also one of the most expressive Uchiha Natsume has ever seen, which says a bit about the
rest of them.

They leave the store and walk down the street once more, Shisui’s gait leisurely. He’s obviously in
no rush, seemingly content with his ice cream in one hand and Natsume in the other.

“Put me down.”

“Hn? Did you say something?” Shisui replies, a disarming look on his face and a spot of ice cream
on his bottom lip.

Natsume frowns — he does not pout — and eats his own. Vanilla is nothing special, but it’s sweet
and addicting in the way forbidden snacks are. Because of the weather it doesn’t melt quickly at
all, keeping his fingers safe from becoming sticky. Despite the combination, he himself doesn’t get
very cold. Shisui is like a space heater — must be all that Uchiha fire.

“How do you feel about shinobi, Natsume-chan?”

He looks up at the teen’s face, finding that dark gaze on him. Intent. “I don’t know. They exist.”
There’s isn’t much else to it, honestly. Natsume doesn’t have any good emotions attached to it.
“I’m gonna become one. Not much ‘t say about it, really.”

Shisui hums around another mouthful of ice cream, expertly avoiding people as they walk. “What
would you be, if not a shinobi?”

Natsume blinks. Maybe a long time ago he thought about it — back before he knew what needed to
be done to care for him and his brother. Those inane, useless thoughts and ideas have long since
been forgotten. “I don’t know. I don’t think about it.”

“No?” Shisui says, eyebrows rising like he’s surprised. “Really? You’ve never thought of being
anything but a shinobi?”

“What would the point be?” He replies sharply, the waffle cone creaking under the tightening grip
of his fingers. “I’m an orphan with above average competence, intelligence and maturity. The
Hokage came to my door to inquire about my brother and I’s future plans. The shinobi life pays
well, and I’m apparently good at it.” Bright, brilliant blue eyes stare into the unfathomable dark of
Shisui’s, “Maybe you really think Konoha can be the place you dream of, but I’m not so sure
anyone else is on the same page. Seems to me like they’re all pretty eager t’ throw a kid to the
wolves if it means addin’ to their ranks.”

Shisui smiles, but it’s a pale imitation of his usual one. “I know,” he says, “But I still have to try.”

They finish their ice cream and Shisui drops him at the entrance to the park. The henge fades away
in a puff of smoke, and Natsume is himself again. Shisui ruffles his red hair and grins down at him.
They’re not in the shadows or hiding away in the trees — it feels odd, just being Natsume and
Shisui in the open. He frowns again and bats away the teen’s hand.

“Don’t touch me with those sticky fingers,” he complains.

Shisui only laughs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “One day, tensai-chan…”

It’s silent for a beat too long.

“What?” he probes.

The Uchiha exhales, gaze turned away towards something Natsume can’t see. “I dream of a
Konoha that Natsume can smile in.”

Then he disappears in a swirl of dead, soggy leaves.

What a ridiculous dream, Natsume thinks, hands trembling by his sides. He enters the park and
seeks out his little brother’s familiar wild, golden hair, wiping the last traces of vanilla from his
lips.

Natsume puts every student that faces him in the dirt. Even Naruto puts up a little more of a fight,
but his progress pales in comparison and he gets agitated too easily. The blond is quick to fall into
uncoordinated brute force strikes. Natsume lets taunts wash over him, lets them simmer in his gut
and uses that rage to respond with sure, quick strikes to lay his opponent on their ass. He’s better
than everyone in class and that’s not him being narcissistic. It’s a fact.

And everyone hates him for it — which definitely lets him know that it’s true.

Uzumaki Natsume is five years old and he’s better than every six or seven year old in the
Academy. He’s probably better than students in the second and third years, too.

Students like to crowd around his seat whenever the teachers look away, spitting vitriol and
childish taunts. As if he cares. It affects Naruto more than Natsume, who has long since given up
wanting the attention of anyone in this stupid Academy.

“Nobody wants you here!”

“Back off!” Naruto yells, waving his little fists, “You can’t say that!”

“I just did.” A little brat says, one with a plain face and brown hair. That Shoichi kid isn’t far
behind, personally affronted because he’s never been able to beat Natsume at sparring. (None of
them have.)

Shoichi smirks cruelly, “Why don’t you run off to kunoichi classes?”

“Why,” Natsume replies without inflection, focusing more on the book in his hands, “Do ya think
I’m pretty or something?”

There’s some spluttering, and then a hand slams down on the table. “It’s because you look like a
stupid, weak girl and your hair is ugly!”

Naruto lets out a scream and launches across the desk, his knuckles making full-on contact with
Shoichi’s nose. “NACCHAN’S HAIR IS PRETTIER THAN YOURS, YA LIMP SEAWEED
HEAD!”

Natsume snaps his book shut and scowls, pulling Naruto back by the collar before the brawl can
get worse. He blocks Shoichi’s fist with the other hand, gripping tight and glowering full force into
the other boy’s angry face. “So,” he says loudly, “You think being girly is the same thing as being
weak? You think girls are weak? Is that it?”

From the corner of his eye, he can see the girls in the class start to shift. Shoichi pales when he
notices the scowls directed at him.

“Yeah, what did you mean by that!” One of the girls exclaims, her black hair tied in a bun.

“You think we’re weak, Shoichi?” Another yells, her finger pointed at the boy threateningly.
“Uma-chan beat you sparring last week!”

Shoichi flushes, “I didn’t—”

It’s a sufficient enough distraction that the group of boys around their table get dragged away into
an argument with a majority of the girls in class. Natsume hugs Naruto to his side, patting the boy’s
sunshine hair.

“He shouldn’t have said that, ya know.” Naruto insists grouchily, cheeks puffed in a pout.

“I don’t let it bother me.”

Naruto huffs, “Well that guy really is blind. Your hair is super pretty, Nacchan!”

It’s odd, that’s what it is. No one else has hair like Natsume, not that he’s seen. The vibrant, eye-
catching crimson makes him easy to spot in a crowd. Even Naruto fits in better! Plenty of blonds in
Konoha. There were even those who were strawberry blond, their hair edging into orange hues, or
those with auburn, reddish browns — but none with hair like his. It marked him as an outsider. He
knows it does.

Sometimes he wonders if it’s him that Konoha hates, and his brother is just being strung along by
association. Would it be better if I wasn’t here at all? He takes care not to voice those thoughts.
Naruto would most certainly throw a fit.

He smiles at his brother and lets none of his dark thoughts show on his face. “Thank you, Naruto.”

Maito Gai is about twenty years old, with a bone structure that makes that difficult to guess. His
cheekbones are sharp enough to blunt steel and his hair is both cut in a ridiculous style and shiny
enough to look like a wig. Natsume isn’t entirely sure that it’s not, frankly. The image is tied
together by the man’s eye-searing green jumpsuit and huge eyebrows. He is, quite honestly, the
most interesting and insane person Natsume has ever seen in his life.

When Shisui points him out, Natsume thinks he’s lying.

“No,” the Uchiha mutters, a grin on his lips, “I’m serious. That’s him.”

“The taijutsu master?”

“The taijutsu master.”

Natsume furrows his brow. “You’re lying.”

Shisui shakes his head, “I really, really mean it. That’s him. Maito Gai. Cross my heart and
everything.”

The training field looks demolished, the green-clad man stretching exuberantly in the center of all
the destruction. He looks like he’s barely started to sweat. The raw power is impressive. The man
spots them pretty easily when they approach, a hand waving in their direction. It’s followed by a
bright, sparkling smile.

“Hello, my young friends!”

Shisui waves back, “Hello, Gai-san!”

Natsume purses his lips and doesn’t wave, just follows Shisui as the older boy wanders closer. A
hand on his shoulder pushes him forward, and he finds himself on the receiving end of Gai’s full
attention.

“I need your help, Gai-san. Natsume-chan here has learned all the beginner’s kata for a particular
style. There’s nothing else on it in the Konoha archives, so we were hoping you could help tie it
together into something great.” Shisui explains.

“Oh?” Gai beams, “How interesting! It brings me great joy to see youthful students so dedicated to
improving themselves! I would love to offer whatever help I can — as a fellow Konoha shinobi,
it’s the least I can do!” The man throws his head back and laughs boisterously, a series of ha ha
ha!’s that makes Natsume think of a cartoon character.

“It’s nice to meet you.” He mutters, dipping his head slightly. Shisui has been helping him improve
his speech and manners. “I’m Uzumaki Natsume. Your help is appreciated.”

Gai jerks a thumb into his own chest, puffing with pride — or just sheer energy. “I am Konoha’s
Green Beast — Maito Gai! The pleasure is all mine! Now, young Natsume, show me what you’ve
got!”

He runs through the kata with careful precision, one after the other. The fluid, dance-like
movements come naturally to him now. It’s soothing, almost. Everything goes smoothly and he
doesn’t make a fool out of himself in front of the two men. He’s used to having eyes on him. This
is nothing.

“HM...HM...” Even Gai’s hums are energetic and mildly aggressive, his hand on his chin and the
other propped on his hip. “Speed based, I see! What a crafty style! I see, I see, I SEE!”

Natsume blinks and takes a step back when Gai throws his arms up, the image of fire blooming
around him.

“I’M GETTING ALL FIRED UP! YES, I CAN SEE IT ALL NOW!” Gai poses dramatically, one
finger pointed directly at Natsume’s stunned face. “Give me two weeks, NO! A week! If I don’t
complete it then, I’ll run around Konoha 1,000 times! I promise you, young Natsume, I’ll craft a
finished style for you!”

“....sounds good.” He mutters, more than a little amazed that someone like this is a shinobi. A
jounin at that, who’s probably infinitely more powerful than Natsume is right now. And yet the
man has more energy than Naruto. “Thanks for doing this, Maito-san.”

“No, no, no,” The bowl cut gleams with every shake of the man’s head, “I insist, call me Gai! We
are comrades, after all!”

Shisui throws him an unsubtle thumbs up.

“Uh,” Natsume says, “Okay?”

“Come,” Gai gestures, settling into a stance Natsume doesn’t recognize, “Let us partake in a
youthful spar so I may further analyze your moves!”

Needless to say, he gets his ass beat. Soundly.

Chapter End Notes

gai: *exists*
natsume: what in the fresh hell is that
find me on tumblr!
 VOL. 1, ARC I. (tastes like iron)
Chapter Notes

so i made a tumblr !

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Spring is wet and warm, the air muggy but not stifling, like it would be in a Konoha summer.
Natsume and Naruto take to the streets, clad in ratty shorts and t-shirts. They’re probably going to
hit a growth spurt soon. Children grow like weeds, and they are no different. It’s not that he doesn’t
want to get taller, it’s just that….clothes are expensive. Not only that, but finding a place that will
let them in long enough to buy clothes is almost impossible. At this point their wardrobes are
entirely secondhand, near falling apart at the seams. Patchwork squares are sewn into the elbows
of half his long-sleeves!

Naruto grips his hand as they run, dirt and dust kicked up with every step. Past the stores, until the
streets begin to thin and greenery blooms more heavily across the landscape. It smells like flowers
and grass — like the beginning of spring. A slim river cuts its way through the terrain, the water
moving at a slow pace and glinting in the sun. A wooden bridge allows for passage over it; sturdy,
but the red paint peeling. Natsume runs a hand over the guard rail and flicks flakes from his
fingers.

“Dun da dun dun!” Naruto sings, their run slowed to a walk. He moves with big robotic steps,
swinging their joined hands. “Nacchan, let’s play ninja.”

“...do we have to?”

“Yeah!” Naruto exclaims, smile wobbling, “You haven’t played in forever!”

Natsume furrows his brow. He’s certain he played with Naruto just the other day. Or was that last
week? It’s hard to tell, the days blur together with all the training he’s putting his body through.
“Really?”

“You keep goin’ off and training!” The blond says.

“I thought training was fine?” He replies, “What happened to being the strongest shinobi?”

Naruto rubs the back of his head with his free hand and grumbles. “I mean, even super strong
ninja’s should have fun, ya know? And ya never play with me and the others, you always go off on
your own!”

“I don’t have time, Naruto.” And he really doesn’t. “Or do you want to cook and do laundry and
learn to budget—”

“Ugh, that stuff is borin’, ya know!”

Natsume levels a deeply unimpressed look at his brother, “And yet someone has to do it.”

Naruto doesn’t look too happy about that answer, but he drops it for now. Their hands stay clasped
together, so it’s not as if either of them are particularly mad about the conversation. It’s one that’s
been happening more and more frequently. Naruto is a child, so of course he wants to spend time
with the one person who gives him the time of day. He doesn’t yet understand the gravity of what
Natsume does for him, but he does know that it’s all necessary. Their hardships are shared, after
all. Naruto knows what’s happening is unfair to both of them. He’s just not mature enough to
rationalize it.

The path to the park is lined with flowering camellia bushes, rich with budding white, red and pink
hues. They tower over their short frames, wild with uninhibited growth; dark, oblong leaves are still
dewy from last night’s rain. He runs a hand over baby soft petals as they pass, careful not to pluck.
When the packed dirt gives way to sand and mulch, Natsume knows they’ve reached the park.
There’s a few kids already there, some huddled around the sandbox and two others shoving each
other at the top of the slide.

Natsume immediately goes over to the swings, while Naruto goes off to see what the kids by the
sandbox are doing. He really doesn’t know why his little brother pushes himself to interact with
other kids every single time. That desperation for company is foriegn to Natsume, who only
associates company with fear and hate. But Naruto is nothing if not persistent, refusing to fall into
the same pessimistic view as Natsume.

Some part of him is glad, actually. Naruto should always be sunny and smiling. If Naruto was more
like him, Natsume wouldn’t know what to do. The very thought just...doesn’t feel right.

The swing is sun-warm and bleached from exposure. It creaks under his weight, aged but not weak
enough yet to send him tumbling to the ground. He kicks back and forth lazily, staring out across
the park with disinterested eyes. He could be reading right now. Or training. Or even playing ninja
like Naruto asked, since he came out here to spend time with his spitfire of a brother. Yet when
they reached the park, they’d separated like it was natural.

Like even as Naruto asks, he already expects a negative response. Natsume is everything to Naruto
except a playmate, like he should be. Instead he’s a guardian, a caretaker, the person who teaches
Naruto to cook and clean and brush his teeth—but never the person to let him sneak sweets, stay
up late or play games with. Natsume is so busy trying to take care of them, he’s not even able to be
Naruto’s friend.

Natsume tilts his head back as he swings, the wind whistling in his ears. Loose red hair spins
around his head, and he stares at the cloudless expanse of azure sky above him.

I wonder what Shisui is up to.

A commotion draws his attention. Glancing back to the group of kids, he sees them ostracizing one
—and it’s not Naruto. That fact alone makes him pause a bit too long. He slows his swinging.

The children start throwing handfuls of sand, mulch and rocks at the lone kid. Natsume drags his
feet along the ground to stop his momentum short. The boy, and it is a boy, looks about four or so
years older. His arms are up to protect his face, which portrays an expression of humiliation and
fear—it’s the kind of look that never belongs on a child’s face. It’s not Natsume’s business. It’s
not. It’s not.

Naruto glances around the group unsurely, looking torn. An older girl hands him a rock. The blond
looks down at it like he’s never seen one in his life, then up at the boy who’s still frozen, cowering.
Natsume strides forward, feeling something bubble in his gut, iron hot and freezing all at once.

“—just do it,” he hears one of the kids say, “And we’ll play with you. He deserves it! C’mon, don’t
you wanna hang out with us?”
Naruto looks down at the rock in his hand again.

“What the hell is happening here.” Natsume interrupts, demanding rather than asking. Like hell
he’ll even let his brother consider doing such a thing.

The kids—three of them, a girl with black hair, two boys with brown—startle, not having heard his
quiet footsteps. They’re all taller and older, but whatever expression he’s wearing makes them
cringe away.

Naruto drops the rock.

“None of your business.” The girl mutters, regaining her confidence. “We’re not doin’ anything
wrong.”

Natsume raises his eyebrows. “It looks like you’re being a piece of shit, actually.”

The shorter of the boys gasps at his language.

“He said a bad word!”

“You—” The other boy gapes, his eyes dark blue and affronted, “You shouldn’t say that to us!”

“And you shouldn’t throw rocks at people, yet here you are.”

“Urara deserves it!” The girl exclaims, “My papa says people like him are wrong! He’s not made
right!”

“My tou-chan says the only way to fix freaks like him is to beat it out of ‘em.” The short boy
chimes in.

Beside him, Naruto’s look of confusion only grows. Despite looking completely out of his depth,
he has the sense to step away from the group.

“And what,” Natsume begins, trying very, very hard to stay calm, “ exactly does that mean?”

The girl lowers her voice, like she’s spilling a secret, “Urara likes boys.”

Natsume looks at the boy—Urara—then back to the three bullies. He lets out a sigh. “And I
actually thought it was a nice day.” He mutters. Then he promptly breaks the girl’s nose.

She screams when the cartilage gives under his hit, blood streaming down her chin in seconds. Her
hands come up reflexively and she starts to sob in earnest.

“Ayumi!” Blue Eyes yells, leaping to her defense. At their slow movements, Natsume can see that
the three of them are civilians, which is probably why they’re ignorant as shit. He stomps on the
first boy’s foot and drives an elbow into his side, sending the now-wheezing boy into the sand and
gravel. Naruto headbutts the last one in the chin, and when he’s shoved away Natsume is there to
take his place, driving his fingers into the last boy’s solar plexus. He drops like a stone with a
violent gag and Natsume doesn’t even care enough to show restraint—he backhands the brat into
the dirt.

He’s come a long way from being too weak to face three older kids at once.

“Hey.” He says, not looking at the mess he just made. Urara blinks in reply, mouth agape. The kid
can’t be older than ten, far too young to be concerned about sexuality. There’s no doubt that some
people just know, even as a child—but whether or not Urara is truly gay doesn’t matter.
Homophobia isn’t tolerated. Not by Natsume, and if he has his way, not by Naruto either. The three
children scurry away. He doesn’t even think to watch.

“Y-You...why’d you do that?” Urara asks shakily. He looks like every other run-of-the-mill
Konoha native, tanned skin, brown hair and dark eyes. Baby fat still clings to his cheeks, and the
shinobi sandals paired with the flash of fishnet mesh by his neck tells Natsume that this kid is an
Academy student.

“Because who you love is nobody's business but your own.” He puts his hands on his hips and
cocks an eyebrow. “Why’d you let them do it anyway? You’re an Academy student, aren’t you?
These jerkwads are civilians. You could’a handled them, easy.”

“Wha—” Naruto points a finger at Urara, “You’re in the Academy, too?”

Urara swallows and sniffs heavily. “Yeah. Well. I dunno.”

Natsume eyes the way the boy is still shaking, dark eyes wet and anguished. He looks two seconds
from crumbling like a paper bag. It’s none of Natsume’s business. He keeps telling himself that. It
doesn’t matter to him. This kid doesn’t matter to him. Only Naruto does. Still, he finds himself
replying anyway. “They aren’t right. There isn’t anything wrong with you and if anyone needs a
beating, it’s them.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Naruto jumps up and down. “Hey, you should play with us! We can be your friends!
It doesn’t matter at all if ya like boys, ya know!”

Urara’s expression flickers, wavering between emotions Natsume can’t pinpoint. One of them
looks vaguely like guilt. “I can’t,” he says slowly, “My parents told me not to hang out with you
two.”

Naruto stills, his smile turning plastic. “Oh,” he laughs, rubbing the back of his head. It sounds
hollow, “That’s okay!”

Natsume looks away. He hadn’t been expecting anything from this interaction to begin with. Urara
wavers, looking from Naruto’s dimming smile to Natsume’s bloody knuckles.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, hushed and under his breath like he’s afraid of someone hearing. “...and
thanks.”

Naruto grins again, a little more genuine. He nevers asks for thanks. “It’s no problem, ya know!”

He keeps smiling even as Urara walks away, picking up speed as he goes. They stand alone in the
park, the sun beating down on their heads. Naruto’s happiness begins to fade a little, but he seems
pleased.

“I don’t get what happened,” he admits, eyes squinting, “But I guess we did good?”

Natsume huffs a laugh. Typical. “If you ever see someone bullying another person for who they
love, hit ‘em. ”

“You betcha!” Naruto exclaims, “I’ll give ‘em the Uzumaki Naruto beat-down, ya know! But
why’d they think it’s weird?”

Natsume contemplates the question. He’s not completely sure why. He’s also not sure why he
knows it’s wrong to treat someone like that. It’s just another remnant of knowledge from his
incomplete memories. “Because they’re idiots. Who someone else loves has nothing to do with
you, so for them to make it their business is both pointless, ignorant and oppressive.”

His little brother nods, humming all the while. “I see, I see. Hey, what does imgorant mean?”

“Ignorant.” He corrects, “And it’s just a fancy word for stupid.”

Naruto nods again. “Why not just call them stupid?”

“I wanted them to feel dumb.” Natsume replies without pause, stretching his arms above his head.
It’s not a word some civilian children would really grasp at their age. “Really drives the insult
home when they can’t even understand it.”

“Hah! You sure showed them!” Naruto crows, laughing loudly with his head thrown back. He’s
completely ignoring the fact that he himself didn’t know the word either.

When thinking realistically, Natsume knows he outshines his peers in every way that matters. He’s
not sure how the Academy really works in terms of early graduation or skipping grades, but he’s
sure at this point in time he could easily ace any exam they put in front of him, and he’s already
wiping the floor with his entire class without breaking a sweat. The only time he feels pushed is
when he spars with Shisui or Gai-san.

Gai, in particular, is a whole new can of worms Natsume hasn’t yet decided he wants to continue
pursuing. The man is an invaluable resource, but his can-do attitude and loud demeanor grates on
Natsume’s nerves more often than not. Even with their contrasting personalities, Natsume is
actually hard pressed to sincerely dislike the green-clad man. Gai just has a way of slipping under
your skin.

It’s a little infuriating.

“LET US PICK UP THE PACE, YOUNG NATSUME!” The Green Beast himself yells,
cartwheeling by at lightning speed. Natsume blinks at the scene with deadpan eyes. This is nothing
compared to last week, when Gai did the worm across the entire training field forty times.

He curses Shisui’s name in his head and starts cartwheeling. As ridiculous as it feels, it’s good
movement practice—the Tsunami style is completely based on fluid, flexible movements after all.
He needs to learn how to twist his body in every manner it possibly can. Arms, legs, torso—
whatever can react must react. The next stage is dodging blunt kunai while only cartwheeling or
flipping.

Natsume is pretty sure Gai is insane.

But he’s a good teacher, and that’s exactly what keeps Natsume coming back when Gai specifies
the next meeting time. His bruises have bruises and his muscles still ache in the mornings after, but
he’s never felt more alive than when he’s twisting and dancing, heart racing and sweat flying with
every spin. When he thinks about how helpless he feels walking into stores, pinned under the
weight of stares and dark words—of water, and child-sized fingers—it only serves to push him to
be faster, stronger, better.

Gai shows him every movement, then beats it into his body. The man is a kinetic learner, whereas
Natsume has always been one for the books. But he needs to do this, so he does. After an hour of
the weird training exercises, when Natsume’s muscles feel like jelly and his red hair is dark with
sweat, Gai finally lets him have a break.

He catches the bottle of water that’s thrown at him, guzzling it down eagerly. The spring heat has
ramped up over the past few days, and staying hydrated has never been more important.

“You’ve been doing remarkable well, Natsume!” Gai praises, hands on his hips. He doesn’t look
like he’s sweating at all. Natsume wonders what exactly makes Gai keep coming back. What
makes him want to train a five year old without asking questions? No one can be that nice, can
they? Gai is no Shisui.

But Gai is something.

“Thanks.” Natsume replies, for lack of anything else. He still feels like he’s not doing enough. The
faster he can improve, the better. “It’s not good enough yet, though.”

“It will come with practice,” Gai insists, “You already shine brightly for one so young.”

Natsume crushes the empty water bottle in his fist, “It’s not enough yet.” He repeats. “I need to be
faster.”

For a moment, Gai stares at him like he’s seeing someone else. The look disappears a second later,
and Gai’s blinding grin returns. “WHAT YOUTHFUL ENERGY! Keep that determination burning
brightly, and you will reach your goals in no time at all!”

“Yeah, okay.”

“GAH! What a hip and cool response!”

At the end of the first Academy year, their class is given a test. Natsume passes with flying colors.
He finished the written test a half-hour before everyone else, then spends the rest of the time
staring out the window, all the while ignoring Takano-sensei’s stare. The man has been paying
more attention to Natsume lately, and he can’t tell if it’s good or bad. He’s not enjoying it, no
matter which it ends up being. It feels too much like he’s being scrutinized.

After class, Takano-sensei pulls him aside.

Naruto hovers by the door, looking confused and wary in equal measures. Even if they both get
shit from teachers and students alike, it’s usually Naruto who draws trouble to himself. The blond
has been reprimanded more times than Natsume cares to count, especially now that he’s started to
delve into pranking. It’s a bit of an expensive hobby, but Naruto has talent. The kind of talent that
can translate to shinobi skills—like trapping or sabotage. So Natsume puts a little bit aside every
month to fuel Naruto’s fun. It’s not like it’s actually hurting anyone. (Not that they wouldn’t
deserve it.)

Natsume tilts his head at his brother. After a moment, Naruto nods in response and leaves. He’ll
probably wait on the damn swing.

“Uzumaki,” Takano-sensei begins, always detached, always using everyone else’s first name, “It’s
been brought to my attention that you’re not benefitting from the current curriculum.”
Natsume doesn’t respond. That much should be obvious.

“You’re going to participate in a separate test for class placement.” The chunin continues, and the
way he phrases it makes Natsume think that it’s not a suggestion—nor is it being offered as an
option. He’s being ordered. Takano-sensei doesn’t look too enthused either, still unable to really
meet Natsume’s eyes. The man only stares when Natsume isn’t looking.

“When?”

“Now.” And he walks away, expecting Natsume to follow.

Natsume grits his teeth and looks down the hall, towards the door leading to the front yard. Naruto
is waiting, and it doesn’t look like Natsume is going to get the chance to tell his brother about the
change in plans. What an asshole, Natsume thinks to himself, glaring at Takano-sensei’s back as he
moves to follow.

They walk in silence to the other side of the building, both their footsteps silent through the halls.
He’s led out the back door, to the training grounds where they usually hold taijutsu spars. There’s
another chunin there, one that Natsume doesn’t recognize. He’s got dirty blond hair and purple
eyes. He looks at Natsume like he’s gum under his shoe. It immediately makes him tense, skin
prickling.

“Your written test scores make your need for advancement obvious,” Takano-sensei drones, “We
just need to test your aim and your taijutsu skills.”

For now, Takano-sensei ignores the blond man, so Natsume forces himself to do the same. He’s
given a handful of shuriken to throw, and a target to throw them at. While his scores are better than
the other kids in his class, he’s not entirely the best at it. His aim is fine, yes, but it’s not yet
perfect. And Natsume is pretty sure he’s a perfectionist, because he’s never happy with his skills.
Ever.

He nails the bullseye from three different angles, at three different distances. Kunai are weightier,
so he takes a second to adjust when he’s handed those next. He always has the desire to use them as
hand-held knives rather than throw them. Every throw hits around the center, but there’s no doubt
in his mind that his aim with the smaller, lighter shuriken is better.

“Do not mold chakra.” Is all the warning Takano-sensei gives, before jumping right into the next
stage. “Saru.”

Hand seals. That’s advanced material, the kind of thing they don’t teach until second and third
year. There’s no reason for Natsume to know it—nor is there any reason Takano-sensei would
expect him to know it.

Natsume forms the seal. The section of the Shinobi Library open for Academy students has all the
information on hand seals. It’s not hidden in the archives or sealed away—it’s hand seals, every
shinobi worth their salt already knows them all. So it’s not hidden or even coveted information. It’s
left out in the open for Academy students to utilize and practice.

His fingers still feel a bit clumsy, the forms not completely natural or instinctual just yet. He’s been
meaning to ask Shisui about improving his hand dexterity. Hopefully how quick he can do them
won’t matter to Takano-sensei, not when Natsume shouldn’t know them at all.

“Tatsu. Ne. Tori. Mi. Ushi. Uma. Tora. Inu. I. Hitsuji. U.”

Natsume carefully does each sign as Takano-sensei says them, stumbling over Tori and U, but still
managing to do them. U isn’t terribly difficult, but the placement of fingers always confuses
Natsume when he has to do it quickly.

Takano-sensei doesn’t offer any praise or derision, just raises an eyebrow. “Can you mold chakra?”

“Not well.” He admits. Shisui had him do basic exercises to get a feel of it. The Academy didn’t
teach chakra control until third year, to give the children’s chakra systems time to develop. Clan
kids were another matter, they were trained to use chakra the second they could walk. It’s just
another reason civilian kids fall behind. Three civilian-born kids already dropped out of Natsume
and Naruto’s class.

It’s been difficult for Natsume to grasp. He keeps aiming for a trickle and getting an ocean.
Takano-sensei just nods, as if this is to be expected.

“Get in the ring.”

Natsume eyes the blond man, who’s looking more and more like his upcoming opponent. He steps
into the ring, wary and not at all trusting the darkness still present in the man’s face. Something
about this situation doesn’t feel right. Even if Takano-sensei doesn’t pay attention to him or Naruto
in class, he’s never outright malicious, and he doesn’t try to sabotage them in any other way aside
from lack of attention. Bringing Natsume out back to have him murdered doesn’t seem like
something the man would do. Probably.

“You’re going to spar with Chuuya so we can get an accurate measure of your abilities.”

Chuuya stands across from Natsume without expression, the dark look wiped from his face now
that Takano-sensei is directing his attention towards them. Natsume does his best to clear his own
face of anything that could possibly give away his discomfort. They stand at opposite sides of the
ring, Takano-sensei to the side.

He raises an arm. “Begin!”

Natsume moves. He’s been practicing with two jounin, and Chuuya appears to be just a chunin.
There should be a noted difference in skill—how exactly that difference translates in comparison to
his skills is what’s going to make or break this mock battle. He slides forward as if gliding, arms
darting out like lightning strikes. His torso moves with each jab, twisting his body to create less
space open for retaliation. Right off the bat, it’s fast. He puts his all into it immediately, and it
pushes the chunin to take up the defensive.

Chuuya’s arms come up to block the strikes, his speed certainly beyond anyone else Natsume has
faced while at the Academy—Gai and Shisui aside, and those two fight at a drastically lowered
level so as not to completely overwhelm him.

The chunin swipes with a leg, forcing Natsume out of his space. He follows up with a punch, and
Natsume ducks to the side. The power behind the jab creates a burst of air strong enough to ruffle
his hair. He narrows his eyes, that feeling of unease growing. Natsume steps, twirls and kicks up a
leg just high enough for the heel to be level with Chuuya’s knee cap. The move is dodged, and
when Chuuya makes a grab in return, Natsume launches in the air and spins over the man’s arm.
His feet kick dangerously close to the man’s face, making him draw back reflexively.

Natsume still isn’t strong enough to take a fully grown adult. It’s just not possible. He doesn’t have
the muscles for it, nor does he have the height. His reach is miniscule because of his stature, and it
forces him to get close to make hits, which leaves him vulnerable to attacks. Natsume viciously
kicks off of Chuuya’s blocking forearms and flips back to land on his feet. Fighting in the air is
even riskier because it limits his ability to dodge.

A sword would be useful right now. Or a jutsu arsenal.

He knows his weaknesses. They’ll be solved with time—and puberty—but since it doesn’t appear
as if he’ll be able to wait, it would be best to find whatever he can to fill the gaps. Hopefully Shisui
will make good on his promise to teach Natsume a few tricks involving kenjutsu.

Be fast.

He lunges forward again, not allowing himself or Chuuya a reprieve. The longer he fights, the
more dangerous it gets for him. Natsume dodges three more punches aimed at his sternum, then
backflips out of the way of a knee. Chuuya is relentless and so much bigger, his limbs longer and
arguably more dangerous. Natsume has to swerve and fling himself up to avoid another low sweep.
He plants his feet on Chuuya’s lunging arms and uses them as a springboard. The momentum
sends the man’s arms down and his torso forward, making it easy for Natsume’s knee to graze
Chuuya’s face.

Chuuya looks pissed at the near hit, only just managing to dodge out of the way. Natsume tries not
to smirk. The fight isn’t over yet. When he lands behind Chuuya, they both spin around and engage
in a series of punches and kicks, all met with Natsume’s swerving, graceful dodges and Chuuya’s
heavy blocks.

He plants his foot in the ground and ducks under a fist, then grasps the overhead arm at the wrist.
He’s not strong enough to toss the man. With the knuckles of his other hand, he makes a sharp jab
directly into Chuuya’s extended elbow.

A grunt is all the man lets out to show the pain, and Natsume is forced to leap back once more
when a dizzyingly strong hit is launched in his direction. His heart pounds in his chest, a mix of
adrenaline and fear. He knows he doesn’t want to get hit by Chuuya, just like he knows that he
can’t go on for much longer than this. Though their speed and reaction time seems pretty on par,
Natsume can’t tell if the man is holding back—and Chuuya is undoubtedly stronger in the physical
sense.

They trade a few more blows, Natsume’s footwork light and fluid while Chuuya is an iron wall.
Wisps of crimson dance in and out of his vision as his quick movements make his hair spin, like a
bloody fan. Dodge, dodge, strike, parry. Chuuya’s fist clips Natsume’s shoulder and it sends him
off course. He follows with the movement even as starbursts of pain explode across his vision. He
thinks he might be getting slower. How long have they been sparring, anyway? He doesn’t dare
look away to meet Takano-sensei’s eye, or even check if the man is still there. If he’s distracted,
even for a second, he’ll be defeated.

Natsume breathes through the pain, his shoulder throbbing with his rapid pulse. He tries to twist on
his feet once more, but Chuuya anticipates the movement and his leg slams into Natsume’s side
with full force. The blow takes every bit of oxygen from Natsume’s lungs.

The force sends him spinning away like a limp ragdoll, his heartbeat in his throat and the sound of
something cracking repeating over and over in his head. The wind whistles through his ears and he
hits the dirt hard enough to see spots. The pain is immense.

He thinks he might be in shock, because his entire body feels as if there are pins and needles
jamming into his skin and sound hasn’t yet come back to him yet. The hard ground is sloped and
cracked beneath him, cracked like his chest feels, as the pain slips from icy to molten hot. He
wheezes against the dirt. He tries to shift and the spike of absolute agony makes his vision white
out. Sweat beads across his flesh instantly, soaking the back of his shirt.

With all the willpower in the world, he manages not to vomit. The very movement would have
knocked him out immediately.

“—the fuck do you think this is?”

Oh, he thinks so himself, the volume’s back on.

“You weren’t supposed to go so hard on him!” One voice hisses. That’s Takano-sensei, Natsume
recognizes it. The man’s deep voice shifts into something more professional in the next sentence.
“It wasn’t supposed to get out of hand.”

“You shouldn’t have been doing this without another teacher’s supervision to begin with!” Another
voice hisses, and Natsume has never heard this one. “I’m going to fucking eat you alive. You even
look at this kid again, and I’ll let T&I use your head as a playground! Do you fucking hear me —”

He spits out a glob of iron and pain. Breathing feels impossible, all he can manage is short, gasping
wheezes. Blearily, he makes out three shapes. A few blinks clears his vision. Takano-sensei and
Chuuya have been joined by another man.

“Kid, stay awake.”

Natsume blinks again. The new man is standing over him, senbon hanging loosely from his lips.
Konoha-typical brown hair reaches his chin, and dark eyes are filled with more worry than
Natsume has ever seen directed at him before. He can barely breathe, so there’s no chance he can
even reply.

The new shinobi picks him up.

Natsume feels a scream crawl up his throat at the subtle jostling. The pain pulses throughout his
whole body, black spots dancing at the edge of his vision. Blood slips from the corner of his lips,
metallic and hot. They disappear in a swirl of leaves.

“Kid, you can’t fall asleep.”

The world blurs into hues of white and gray. Voices spin around his head like liquid, like he’s
underwater and the words are bubbles he’s uselessly trying to grasp with his hands.

“I don’t know if we can take him…”

“What?”

“It’s just...you know, we’re very busy. I’m sure he’ll heal.”

“Say that one more time, nice and slow so I know you aren’t being an idiot.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not excused. Heal him or I’m going to ruin your fucking life.”
Natsume opens his eyes. He doesn’t know when he closed them. Dark eyes peer down at him. The
ceiling is white. Orange sunlight makes the man’s rich brown hair glow auburn. A set of hands
belonging to a pale, trembling woman hover over his chest, glowing green.

“N...a...S..i..”

The man leans forward, “Don’t try to speak just yet.”

Natsume shakes his head. He feels fuzzy, caught between numbness and agony. But he hasn’t
forgotten. He can’t forget. There’s something more important than his pain. Something still
waiting in the slowing fading light, sat alone on an old wooden swing. Someone. “Na.r…”

“It’s okay.” The man replies, soft in a way Natsume has never heard. “Your Uchiha has your
brother.”

Natsume shuts his eyes tight. It’s okay. The words sound so strange.

The pain begins to lessen. His head becomes clearer, and the scent of rubbing alcohol and extreme
germ-killer fills his nose, practically singeing it. Exhaustion pulls at him as his recovery becomes
more apparent.

“Who…?”

The man’s senbon dips as pale, thin lips twist into a frown. A weight settles on his shoulders, one
Natsume cannot see or hope to guess at. It pulls the man’s brow low, twists those dark eyes into
pools of poorly hidden regret. “Shiranui Genma.”

Natsume turns his gaze to the white ceiling. Outside, the sun is almost entirely set. He isn’t sure
what he’s feeling right now. Numbness, mostly. It hasn’t all quite hit him just yet. Emotional pain,
and the strain of the body after exercise is one thing—even his near drowning—none of that
compared to the pain he’d just felt. The lost, terrorized feeling that had gripped him when he’d felt
his ribs snap and his breathing become encumbered.

He squeezes his eyes shut again, and feels phantom hands pushing him below the surface. He
opens them and tastes blood on his lips, the same blood that had threatened to drown him on dry
land.

“You’re not going back to Takano’s class.” Genma says.

The woman stops healing. The glow around her hands fades away, and Natsume takes in a breath.
He still feels sore, tired and achy, but he can breathe. That knife-like pain is gone. He rubs at his
sweaty forehead and feels disgusting. The woman leaves without a backward glance, her hands still
shaking. Genma doesn’t even look at her.

“Why?” Natsume replies. “I still need to graduate.”

“You will. Sooner, rather than later. Despite the injury, according to Takano your performance
easily places you at genin level. Your lacking chakra skill is all that’s holding you back from being
handed a hitai-ate and shoved into the field.”

“Have you been watching me?”

Genma’s lips quirk. He doesn’t answer that. “You’ve got a year. Maybe less.”

“Then what?”
 “Then I’ll take care of it.”

Natsume isn’t sure what to make of that. He can’t pick out anything important from Genma’s face
or lax posture. No one takes care of it. Natsume is the one who shoulders all that responsibility. He
doesn’t know what to think when hearing words like that come out of an adult’s mouth.

No one takes care of me.

“I want to leave.” He demands, looking away from eyes he can’t read. “Where’s Naruto and
Shisui?”

“You should stay the night, just in case.”

Natsume grips the white sheets under his hands. “No. Where’s Naruto and Shisui?”

Genma lets out a sigh, the glint of his senbon visible from the corner of Natsume’s eye. The man
leans over and heaves Natsume out of the bed, arms hooked under his back and knees.

He bristles like a cat, “What are you—”

They disappear. Wind slides across his bare flesh. They’re bounding across rooftops, Genma’s
steps silent and the glow of the moon deepening the shadows of his face. The senbon glows
sharply under the white light.

Natsume is silent all the way home.

Chapter End Notes

GENMA GENMA GENMA GENMA GENMA GENMA GENMA GENMA

GENMA GENMA GENMA GENMA GENMA GENMA GENMA GENMA
GENMA GENMA
find me on tumblr!
 VOL. 1, ARC I. (tastes like defeat)
Chapter Notes

tw: child sexual assault mention / situation, no explicit details. if u want to skip it
entirely, "another soft cry" to "what's going on here?"

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Naruto is still awake when he gets home. He can tell because the lights are all on, and he’s drilled
it into Naruto’s head to turn the damn lights off far too many times for the kid to forget now.
Genma sets him down in front of the door, one hand remaining on his shoulder. It’s an odd, heavy
weight. Natsume isn’t sure if it’s supposed to comfort him or make his skin crawl at being touched
—and he, quite frankly, can’t tell the difference anyway.

Inside, Shisui is at the kitchen table with Naruto, easily distracting the boy with a spread of
coloring sheets and playful banter. Both of them look up when the door opens, though Naruto looks
visibly more surprised at their arrival than the Uchiha.

“Nacchan!” Naruto gasps, kicking back from the table and leaping forward into Natsume’s arms.
He feels something in his chest loosen when he feels his brother in his grasp. Relief?

He tightens his arms and feels the thud of Naruto’s heartbeat against his ribcage. Blond hair jabs
him in the cheek, little hands fist in the back of his shirt.

“You were gone for so long!” Naruto exclaims, his voice loud in Natsume’s ear.

He pulls back from the hug, and their arms fall but don’t entirely retract, leaving them to hold each
other’s hands in a loose grip. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “Sorry about that. Just a training accident.”

Naruto frowns, and over the blond’s shoulder Shisui frowns as well, though his is marginally less
cute and far more menacing. “Shicchan said that. But you’re ok now, right?”

“I’m fine now.” Natsume says, and then, “Shicchan?”

“Isn’t it cute?” Shisui says, his grin all teeth. “We match, Nacchan.”

Natsume proceeds to ignore whatever just happened entirely. “Have you been here the whole
time?”

“Yeah.” Shisui replies, his hand dropping down on Naruto’s head to ruffle the blond spikes. “We
hung out a bit!”

Genma shuffles behind him, and Natsume turns to glance at the man. The jounin nods at Shisui.
“I’ve got to go. You alright?”

“Of course,” Shisui says, and Natsume feels like they’re talking about something else.

Genma glances down at him and Naruto, umber gaze flicking between the two of them. His eyes
linger on their hair, oddly enough. “Watch out for each other.” He tells them.
“I already do.” Natsume mutters.

“Obviously!” Naruto chimes happily.

The senbon dips as Genma offers a smile, his hand twitching as his side like he wants to ruffle their
hair. He doesn’t. He steps out and closes the front door behind him, leaving Natsume just as
confused as before. Maybe even more so.

For one, now that he’s not dying, he can’t think of a reason why a jounin would be around the
Academy to begin with. Then again—the Hokage’s Office is right there, literally shadowing the
entire Academy. Maybe Natsume is just overthinking this… Not that it’s odd of him to do so, with
the way everything is. Suspicion keeps him and Naruto safe. Trust no one, and no one will ever
hurt you.

“Hungry?” Shisui asks, steering Natsume towards the kitchen. “I made dinner!”

“You made dinner?”

“Where is your faith in me, tensai-chan?”

Naruto races back to the kitchen table, pulling himself up on the chair he’d previously been sitting
in. He smacks his palm eagerly against the table. “Look at what I drew, Nacchan! This one is me
and you, and this one is me as Hokage and you as the super top secret shadow commander! And
this last one is me, you ‘n Shicchan! I think he’s pretty cool, for a big kid.”

Natsume listens quietly, feeling more normal as his brother rambles on. He sits in the seat closest
to Naruto so he can peer at all the drawings. Shisui wanders over to the stove, presumably to fix
Natsume a plate (or bowl) of whatever he made. It’s weird—having someone else in their house.
Sitting at the table like actual kids and being served dinner. The soft sounds of someone else’s
footsteps, louder and heavier (and purposeful, because a shinobi like Shisui could be silent when
he wanted) than their own, mixed with the eager tone of Naruto’s voice and the clack of utensils.

Under the table, Natsume’s hands curl into fists. He keeps his eyes on Naruto’s drawings, but he’s
not sure he hears any of the words his brother is saying. The little caricatures of them are smiling—
loopy, sloppy lines engineered by a child. Painfully innocent and endearing, yet tragic, as the sheer
happiness Naruto is trying to convey for them in his drawings does not reflect their reality.

Naruto smiles, but he doesn’t smile like that. And Natsume never smiles.

Shisui places a steaming bowl of udon on the table. He’s never had it before—it smells good. The
teen sits down on the other side of Naruto, easily joining the conversation and steering some of the
attention off of Natsume, who feels grateful. He watches steam curl off of the broth.

Natsume doesn’t cry. He hasn’t cried since he became aware. The feeling lodges itself in his throat
and refuses to continue. So he doesn’t cry. He just lets that painful weight swell and swell and
swell. One day he will choke. One day he will crack. One day he will break.

That day is not today.

But, he thinks, perhaps the kind of crying he feels rattling in his chest would not be a bad crying.
Not now. No, it would probably be happy. He is worn and numb and aching, brittle as glass despite
his veneer of steel and diamond. The agony of loneliness and mistrust swirls like spun sugar, and
he swallows it by the fistful. Eager to poison rather than heal—all in the hopes that one day, it
won’t hurt so badly. He’ll build up a tolerance, he’ll become immune, he’ll be better.
Shisui laughs at something Naruto says, and the blond pouts, waving a menacing fist. There is
laughter in his sapphire gaze, clear as the cloudless sky.

Yes, tonight, as he hurts—he is happy.

Naruto curls against him on their rickety bed, fingers curled around his shirt. They don’t sleep yet,
though Natsume wants nothing more and Naruto’s eyes keep sliding shut.

“Ya never told me about Shicchan…” The blond attempts to whisper. “Is he who ya train with?”

Natsume flickers his gaze to the second bed, the one they certainly didn’t have when he left this
morning. Shisui has his back to them, Uchiha symbol bold and stark in the light of the moon. He
thinks about lying. He doesn’t. “He’s my friend.”

Naruto is quiet for a moment. “Why didn’t ya tell me?”

Because he’s cruel? Because he wanted something for himself? Because, because, because.
Natsume isn’t entirely sure. “We didn’t start as friends. I didn’t...I don’t want friends. It was an
accident.”

A finger pokes his whiskered cheek. Naruto squints crystalline eyes, “Nacchan, I keep tellin’ ya it’s
ok to have friends. You’re so grumpy all the time!”

Natsume doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know how to, not in a way that makes sense.

They sit in silence for a few moments, the chirp of cicadas heard even through the closed window.
Natsume wonders if Naruto is jealous. If he’s sad or disappointed—

“Are you really okay?” His little brother whispers.

“Yes.” He lies, “I’m fine.”

Naruto blinks sleepily. Natsume never gets to know if his words are believed, because in the next
moment his little brother is out like a light, snoring softly. How unfair it is, that Naruto never hates
someone for having the happiness he himself doesn’t.

When Natsume looks past his brother, he sees that Shisui is now facing them, his dark eyes open.
It makes Natsume jerk, startled. Shisui’s eyes are impossibly black, appearing endless. Dangerous.
The teen’s lips quirk, his fingers resting against the sheets by his chest. They tap slowly into the
fabric. “So we’re friends?”

“Don’t make it weird.” Natsume whispers back, mindful of his brother. “It doesn’t mean
anything.”

“No,” Shisui replies carefully. Slowly. Like he’s talking to a spooked animal. His lips pull into a
smile that’s equal parts serene and panther-like, the softness of the curve not matching with the
amount of teeth flashing in the dim moonlight. Shisui is all smokey lines, pitch black eternities and
smooth, white planes. He looks like a devil, the kind that plies you with sweet promises from an
ambrosia heavy tongue.

There’s a murderer sleeping four feet away, sprawled like a big cat. All long limbs and wild curls,
lashes casting deep shadows over his cheekbones.

Shisui blinks and the spell is broken. “It means everything.”

Natsume’s heart thumbs unsteadily in his chest. He sleeps soundly that night.

There isn’t a huge break between the end of one Academy year and the beginning of the next. It’s
only about two weeks, and it’s so that the poor chunin dealing with the little shits can get the
paperwork ready for the next stage in the murder school curriculum. Natsume takes the chance to
spend time with Naruto and Shisui. Together.

It’s odd at first, because Natsume is used to holding them to separate standards. He has alone time
with Shisui and alone time with Naruto, and putting them together means making room for a third
person. Naruto has no trouble carrying the conversation with the Uchiha, who very easily identifies
as an extrovert as well. It’s not...awful. They can distract each other while Natsume walks beside
them, quiet. It’s almost a relief, actually, to not have to completely invest himself in the
conversation. He doesn’t have near enough social energy to keep up with either of them.

They don’t wander around Konoha together. They stay in secluded areas like the park, or one of
the many sprawling forests. Shisui will bring them snacks and Naruto will cling to his leg like a
limpet, desperate and glad that someone is paying attention to him.

Natsume can’t even bring himself to feel bothered that his time with Shisui is being intruded upon.
His brother’s smile is too bright, and Shisui treats both of them well.

“This is my cousin, Sasuke!” Shisui grins brightly, patting a struggling dark haired boy on the
head.

“I’m Natsu—”

“I’M NARUTO, YA KNOW!”

Sasuke is their age, with adorably chubby cheeks and androgynous features. His hair has a slight
blue tinge to it in the sun and sticks up in the back, like feathers. Like all Uchiha, he’s pale and his
eyes are as dark as the pits of hell.

Sasuke is a little whiny, a little spoiled—and clearly desperate for attention. He’s a bit like Naruto
in that way. But only a bit. That aside, they get along like a house on fire, both outspoken and
energetic and fully willing to drag Shisui, or even Sasuke’s brother Itachi, into playing with them.
Sasuke also, for about the first week of them meeting to play, thought that Natsume’s name was
just Natsu.

By then, it stuck. And Natsume isn’t overly worried about it. The only person who doesn’t call
him a nickname is Itachi, who very politely calls him Natsume-san. Itachi is…quiet and tired and
serious, but he’s clearly Shisui’s best friend. So Natsume does his best to remain just as polite back.
Even if Itachi isn’t as open around them, even if Itachi sometimes glances a little too sharply at
Shisui.

Natsume isn’t sure what to make of it. He doesn’t know if he’s imagining it or not. Maybe he’s
paranoid, or maybe Itachi really doesn’t like them. It’s weird. Everything is weird.
A few days before the second Academy year is due to start, he finds himself sitting at the base of a
tree. Sunlight dapples the ground, the chirps of songbirds echoing in the treetops—the heat has
picked up, and sweat beads along his forehead. Sasuke and Naruto are a few meters away, playing
in the sandbox. They’re at the same park where Natsume beat up those homophobic little brats.
Neither of them have seen the group since.

He feels tired, the heat making him sleepy. The taste of sweat-salt lingers on his tongue when he
licks his chapped lips. Bright vermillion strands cling to the damp back of his neck.

“Here.”

Natsume looks to the side to see Shisui standing there, a water bottle slick with condensation held
out in offering. He takes it, fingers immediately damp from the chilly liquid clinging to plastic.
Shisui sits beside him as he gulps down the water in a single go.

A hand pulls at a strand of his hair.

“Hey.” he grumbles, side-eying the teen.

Shisui smiles back winningly, pale fingers twirling the bright red locks. “Why do you hide away?
You have nothing to do but play, and you don’t even try.”

Natsume sighs quietly, watching the two other boys play. “I don’t feel like it.”

“You don’t feel like it, huh?” Shisui repeats quietly, tugging gently once more on the hair between
his fingers. “Sounds a bit lonely.”

“It’s not.” Natsume replies, tilting his head. Shisui’s fingers brush his cheek. “You’re still here.”

Midnight eyes blink, laser-focused. Shisui smiles again, then his other hand comes up and brushes
something into Natsume’s hair. He reaches up and feels the softness of flower petals. A camellia,
one plucked from the bushes lining the path to the park.

“Like I thought,” Shisui says, “White suits you.”

Natsume scoffs, folding his knees under his chin and pressing his smile into the fabric of his shorts.
“Don’t be stupid. It’s too...”

“Too what? It goes well with your hair!” Shisui exclaims.

“My hair?’ Natsume replies dryly, smacking Shisui’s hand away. “The same hair that marks me as
an outsider, you mean?”

“Don’t say that,” Shisui knocks his knee against Natsume’s. “I think it’s a beautiful color.”

Natsume hears a lot of things about his hair. Taunts from classmates, scoffs on the street—his
brother is the only one who ever compliments it. The red hair that marks him as an outsider, the
red hair that is all he has from his parents...whoever they are. He wants to be proud of it, and
maybe he is. It’s a lovely color, the kind that stands out, that draws eyes. He’s a beacon of fire and
blood in a sea of green.

“Be proud.”

He glances sharply over at Shisui, wondering not for the first time if the teen is some kind of
mindreader. “Now you really are being ridiculous.” He plucks the flower from his ear. “And this
flower is useless. White? The color of innocence? We both know this village will destroy every
last bit of that.”

Shisui can only grimace, the smile sitting awkwardly on his face. He takes the flower from
Natsume’s clenched fingers, smoothing over the creases. “It won’t be like that forever.”

“You’re an optimist.”

“You’re a pessimist.”

Natsume rolls his eyes. “What else would I be?”

“Natsume,” Shisui replies, tucking the flower back into Natsume’s hair. “Of the Uzumaki, with
hair like a red camellia.”

The stalk of the white camellia brushes his hair. Natsume can’t bring himself to adjust it, just lets
the weight sit, tangled in his hair. “Why are you so obsessed with this flower?”

“I just think it has a lot of great meanings. Every color. It’s too bad they won’t bloom for much
longer.”

Natsume glances out past the park, to where the flowering bushes are. They still look healthy and
whole to him, if a little less clustered with pretty blooms. They shift from reds to whites to pinks
indiscriminately. He doesn’t know what a camellia stands for, or what different meanings the
various colors hold. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He has no time for soft, delicate things like flowers.

“What do you mean?” He still finds himself asking. “We’re still mid-spring.”

Shisui tilts his head back against the trunk of the tree, sun spilling across his body through the gaps
in the leaves and branches like liquid gold. “Camellia’s are winter flowers. They don’t bloom in
the summer.”

When Natsume goes back to the Academy, he’s not placed in the same class as Naruto. He’s
directed to a new classroom and has to deal with the weight of his brother’s sad blue eyes on his
back, watching him walk further and further away. Even if Natsume hadn’t been moved up, they
likely wouldn’t have ended up together anyway. Naruto is repeating the year. He’d failed the final
test, which landed him in a class with a new bunch of kids. The only difference is that they were all
only a year older now instead of two.

Even though it’s unlikely, Natsume still hopes Naruto has a chance to get along with someone. To
make a friend—sure, his little brother has Sasuke, but Sasuke isn’t joining the academy until next
year, as per the norm for their age group.

He sits alone in a new classroom, with children aged twelve or almost twelve. He’s given no help
to catch up. The new sensei is a chunin woman with ( shocker ) light brown hair and greenish eyes
—the kind of green that reminds him of swamp water. She doesn’t really interact with him much,
but she doesn’t outright ignore him like Takano-sensei had. That doesn’t matter to him. At this
point, he doesn’t need the Academy. He still scores exceptionally high on all his tests, and finally
feels challenged during spars.
He grows and grows and grows, tearing through every barrier they set down in front of him. There
are no friends to be made, even though Shisui told him to play nice. Children ferment in jealousy
and spit fire and poison in his face, humiliated by the idea of a kid half their age and size beating
them.

Which he does.

“Here, try it with a bunch of leaves.”

Shisui sticks leaf after leaf on Natsume’s tan skin, obviously amused. For a while, the leaves
simply fall from his skin or burst into ash, the force of his chakra igniting the fragile foliage.

“You’re improving,” Shisui insists. “You just have a lot more chakra than most.”

Natsume purses his lips, breathing deeply. Getting aggravated does nothing to help with his already
shoddy control. “There’s no way I can form a bunshin with control like this.”

“Your henge is impeccable though,” Shisui replies, clapping him on the shoulder. It knocks all the
leaves from Natsume’s arms.

He scowls at the Uchiha.

“Oops.”

“The henge is easier because it requires more chakra.” He picks up the leaves and presses them
back to his skin. “Small details, subtle genjutsu for scents, shadows and glint of the sun off hair—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re a regular ol’ genius.” The Uchiha mutters, a smile peeking from the
corners of his mouth. His eyes go soft, and he rests a hand on Natsume’s head. “I’ll figure
something out for you, okay?”

Natsume looks back, wondering when he let the Uchiha climb so close to his heart. Because for all
his pessimism and terror of letting anyone in, he trusts Shisui. “Ok,” he replies. “Now let go of my
head, your obsession with my hair is starting to get really concerning.”

“I’m going to the library.” He announces, crouched in the entry of their apartment.

Naruto grunts from his position on the couch, struggling with some of the homework once again.
“Kay.”

Natsume has no doubt that the second he leaves, Naruto will immediately stop trying to work and
head right to the park. Despite this, he slips his sandals on and heads out into Konoha. It’s still mid-
morning, on the one day of the week they don’t have classes. The streets are bustling with
shoppers and pedestrians, all of whom scowl at him as he passes. Ugly sneers wrinkle mouths,
brows draw low over eyes—he’s accustomed to it by now.

The day is flat and gray, clouds covering every inch of the summer sky. It’ll rain in a few hours by
the looks of it. In the darkest parts, orange flashes of heat lightning brighten the clouds for split-
second intervals. He cuts through an alley, hopping over a few stray boards and holding his breath
as he passes a dumpster. Halfway through, he hears a noise that sounds a bit like a cry. It stops him
short. A few steps back is a door, one that probably leads into the back of a store and serves as a
convenient way to remove trash.

Another soft cry.

Natsume silently presses close to the door, the wood cool beneath his cheek.

“...op...lea…”

He frowns. There’s no reason for him to be concerned. It’s none of his business what’s going on
behind the door—it might not be anything bad. He takes a step back.

It doesn’t explain the odd feeling in his gut. He knows there are people behind this door. Knows it
like he knows the garbage behind him is definitely housing spoiled milk. It eats at him, the weird,
terrible feeling.

He puts his hand on the knob and carefully, quietly cracks the door open. It’s not locked, which is
a mistake all on its own. When he hovers by the crack, he sees a dim room filled with shelves and
cabinets. What looks like unstocked produce and store items fill the space. It’s undoubtedly the
backroom of a convenience store or restaurant.

“Stop, stop, stop—” Is repeated in a frail, defeated voice. It sounds like a little girl.

Natsume’s eyes adjust and he sees a man on the ground, hovering over a small body. Their clothes
are in disarray, and the little girl’s face twists the side, her tear tracks glinting in the faint light.

He sees red.

Without a sound, he’s inside. His hand latches onto the man’s haori, and it obviously startles the
piece of shit. He’s an older, balding man with a poorly kept beard and silver eyes. His face pales
when he turns to see Natsume.

“W-What—”

Natsume punches him right between the eyes. It sends the man reeling back, and he has no time to
prepare for the next volley of attacks Natsume unleashes. A nose breaks, a cheekbone gives under
his fist, an orbital bone cracks. The man topples to the side and off the girl with a wet yell. His
flailing arms are dodged. Natsume plants a foot against his solar plexus, then follows it up by
grabbing a retaliating arm, twisting it sharply and snapping it against his hip. The elbow bends at
an angle it’s certainly not supposed to, and bones eject from the man’s skin in a spurt of blood.

A scream of agony fills the air, but no mercy blooms in Natsume’s heart. He reels his foot back and
slams it into the man’s bloody, broken face. It sends his head sharply into the floor with a crack,
and the man goes limp.

Natsume steps away from the body and turns to the girl. She sits on the ground, shivering. Her hair
is dark purple and sticking to her sweaty face, her brown eyes bloodshot and teary. Snot slips down
her chin and a bruise is blooming across her pale cheekbone. Her kimono is open, spilling down
her frail arms. She doesn’t move when he approaches, staring with blank eyes at the unconscious,
bloody man just a few feet away.

Natsume closes her kimono and reties it. She looks at him, hands shaking and lips moving but
unable to form words.

“What’s going on in here?”

The girl startles, and Natsume whirls around with an arm out to block her weak frame. He’d left the
back door open in his rage, and now a man stands there, his body backlit by cloudy gray. Pale skin,
dark hair and a chunin vest with a police patch—it’s an Uchiha. For a moment, nobody says
anything, and the Uchiha scans the room. His face tightens.

“You should get out of here.”

Natsume narrows his eyes. “Why.”

“Because you’re not particularly well liked, and I don’t need you complicating this case.”

“But there will be a case?” He pushes. He doesn’t care that he doesn’t know this girl. No child
deserves that, and the man in a bloody pile should rot in jail. Or die. Did Konoha have the death
penalty? They must, being a military state.

Uchiha sighs, “Yes.”

Bile sits heavy in the back of his throat. He can’t even imagine what the girl behind him is feeling.
Had he not stopped, or chosen to keep walking, he’s not sure if he’d ever be able to forgive
himself. Tightening his hands into fists, he nods robotically.

When he takes a step forward, a hand tangles in his shirt.

“Wait!” The girl croaks, “W-What’s your name?”

He puts a hand over hers, gently removing it from his ratty tee. “Uzumaki Natsume.”

“I-I’m—”

“Kid,” The Uchiha interrupts, standing over the bloody man, “In a few seconds there’s gonna be a
whole crowd.”

“You’re really just letting me go?”

“No one in the Uchiha Clan would dream of touching you. Now scram.”

Natsume gives the girl a quick glance, then bolts from the room to return to the alley, those words
ringing in his ears. He doesn’t know what excuse the Uchiha will give, or if the man will even tell
the truth about what happened. All he does know is that he doesn’t want to be in a room full of
shinobi that don’t like the look of him.

He bursts from the alley onto the main street, dodging a few people as he continues to sprint.
People yell out profanities or reprimands but he ignores them all. It seems incredibly lucky that an
Uchiha Police Officer was close enough to hear—then again, he had left the door open, and the
piece of trash he’d been beating the stuffing out of had screamed quite a bit. At the steps to the
library, he finally comes to a halt. He’s not even winded, but his head still feels dizzy and his
stomach rolls.

When he glances down at himself, he sees that his shirt is splattered with splotches of blood. His
fists are stained with it, rusty flakes spiralling to the ground when he tries to wipe them. A quick
henge takes care of his unkempt appearance, but suddenly he has little desire to go into the library.
He can barely remember why he’d wanted to come to begin with.

Something about chakra exercises?

 He wanders into the building without much thought, the situation slowly hitting him. In the
moment, it’d happened so fast—too fast, almost. It seems like just a second ago he was pressing his
ear to the door, and now he has a man’s blood on his hands. It’s gross. Vile.

Violent.

He curses the shinobi lifestyle but finds himself right at home in the heart-pounding state of
adrenaline that comes with a fight. The steady climb to power feels like he’s spitting in Konoha’s
face. Look at me. Look how far I can go. And I didn’t need you at all.

The rows of books tower over him, and he walks right to the section about chakra. There’s hundred
of books to parse through, many just variations of the same exact advice. It’s hard to weed through
the bulk of it to find interesting tidbits. Not much of it helps with his issue of just plain having too
much chakra. There’s more books on the opposite—how to improve your chakra stores.

He stares blankly at the spines of whichever books meet his eye level. His brain hurts. There’s no
guilt, because the man deserved all that and more, but it’s the ease in which he slipped into
violence that...prickles. What exactly is he turning into? Or maybe he’s been this way the whole
time. He has, hasn’t he? Vindictive, cutting, quick to fire back at just a step further.

I had to be. I have to be.

He presses his forehead to the shelf and wonders just who exactly is winning this silent war. Him?
Or Konoha?

Chapter End Notes

can we talk about shisui . . .

find me on tumblr!
 VOL. 1, ARC I. (tender heart)
Chapter Notes

a bit timeskippy ya feel ? ?

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Their birthday is warm. Not in the usual sense, because it’s October and the air is more frigid than
it had been last week. But warm in the way hugs are, in the way the gooey center of a cookie is
when it’s right out of the oven. It starts with Shisui appearing in their house in the early hours of
the morning, making an astounding amount of breakfast food. It leaves them with leftovers to store
away in the fridge. Naruto tangles his fingers in Shisui’s shirt and pretends he’s not on the verge of
tears, pretends he’s not scared of moving even one inch away from the teen’s side.

“I’m not going anywhere!” Shisui laughs, but he indulges Naruto, swinging the boy up in the air
like he weighs nothing at all. Their silhouette and the ringing laughter spilling from Naruto’s
mouth makes Natsume’s chest hurt. It’s just a dull ache, however, like a bruise. Tender. He thinks
love must be like that. Tender and painful, like purple to green to yellow galaxies under the skin.

Natsume loves Naruto. Loves him more than anything else in the world because even if Natsume
has nothing at all, he has Naruto. Always. His little brother’s sticky hands and kicking feet, his
cover-hog nature and loud snores. The bright, matching blue eyes and starshine hair, his blood on
fire—must be, because Naruto is the sun and he burns brighter and brighter every day. Demanding
attention in any form he can get it, leaving trails of wrath and laughter in his wake.

Natsume takes the bento Shisui prepares, and the weight feels foreign. Even though he’s walked
everyday with a bento under his arm. Even though he cooks all the time. But that’s just it— he
didn’t cook this. New hands crafted whatever’s within, new hands with new emotions and new
intent. It makes him nervous. Makes him a little sick to his stomach.

He’s never eaten food prepared by someone else. Not unless you count the orphanage and their
bulk meals.

He’s never eaten food prepared by someone else specifically for him. On his birthday of all days.
Shisui never intended for it to be a gift, but it feels like one all the same.

And later, when Naruto is running around with Sasuke—smiling on his birthday, laughing on his
birthday, not alone in the house with Natsume on his birthday —Shisui gives Natsume another gift.
A training bokken.

He wraps his cold fingers around the heavy wood, marveling at the craftsmanship, at the fact that
it comes in a child size. One in a line of many for all of Konoha’s little child soldiers. Shisui smiles
like nothing is wrong, eyes sparkling like he’s done Natsume a favor. He puts a blunt weapon in a
six year old’s hands and the image seems natural.

Natsume doesn’t look at him for too long. He stares at the shine of the sanded, polished bokken. In
the end it’s nothing but a glorified stick. A strip of wood. He’s the real weapon, the one with hands
to drench in blood. Shisui is teaching him how to be a weapon, and expects Natsume to be
grateful.
“What do you think?” The Uchiha asks, “Doesn’t feel too unbalanced, does it?”

“It’s perfect.” Natsume replies, and means it. “...thanks.”

Shisui looks pleased. “I’ll teach you a few tricks. But you can’t hold a real one until I’ve approved
you. Alright?”

“Alright. I look forward to it.”

He means that, too.

Shisui gets Naruto a plush toad. It’s bulbous and neon orange and Naruto refuses to let go of it for
about four hours after the fact. It becomes a bedtime staple.

(“His name is Froggy-san, Nacchan!”

“I’m pretty sure that’s a toad.”

“What’s the difference?”)

Gai gets him training weights, the beginner kind. Also child-sized. He grins his usual megawatt
grin, teeth sparkling and waves crashing. Natsume takes the weights and wonders how the man
smiles when stores sell things to strengthen the muscles of children not even a decade old. Wonders
how a man with a heart of gold can live so incredibly, entirely, completely in the moment that he
doesn’t question or think of the consequences.

Natsume doesn’t blame him.

Gai lives and breathes the same Konoha propaganda as Shisui, has given his life and time, his
blood and sweat and tears to it. The man would die in a heartbeat for a village that only concerns
itself with churning out replacement bodies.

(Die if you must, but die for the village. There will be someone to fill your shoes.)

Gai covers himself in bruises and scrapes until he grows newer, tougher layers of skin and emerges
as an entirely new person. He doesn’t blink when he bleeds, never wavers when his skin is purple
or red.

Natsume lets the man beat him into the dirt, spits his blood and sweat into the soil. But never his
tears. He needs to be strong like Gai, strong enough to weather any pain. The next time a bone
shatters under the force of another, he wants to be able to get up. He needs to be able to get up.
He hasn’t seen Shiranui Genma since that time.

He tries not to think about it.

Natsume finds he’s starting to like winters. The cold is a pain in the mornings, but a blessing when
he’s hot and sweaty after a long afternoon of training. His skin is damp and steaming under his
collar, his breath fogs the air before him.

Training with Shisui is harder now with the bokken, and Natsume’s arms ache more than they ever
have before. He’s been pushing himself harder and harder, feeling some odd terror in his gut—
some odd, lingering expectation that his time is running out. Time with Naruto, time as an
Academy Student, time before he’s sent out to spill blood into Konoha soil and feed the crop.

At his age, Shisui was already out in the field, knee deep in gore and sharingan spinning,
memorizing, murdering. The Uchiha had a clan at his back though, a training regime that began the
second he could walk. Natsume didn’t have that. He’s considered a ‘late bloomer’ in prodigy
terms, if only because his access to resources had been stunted.

Natsume wonders exactly how many civilian-born or clanless shinobi that can be coined as
prodigies are still left in the dust because of the drastic gap in education. He can’t bring himself to
dwell on it—because they just might be the lucky ones. Overlooked and allowed to escape the
shinobi lifestyle. Allowed to put their genius minds to work in a field they’ve chosen for
themselves.

(Or they might be the unlucky ones, drafted into service with promises of grandeur and success
while they’re young enough to be naive and trusting. Pulled from the street and killed too young,
far too young, because genius or not, the difference between them and clan kids is far too wide a
gap. They’re playing catch-up with half a deck, while clans give their kids all the cards they’ll ever
need.)

Sometimes Natsume wonders exactly what drew Shisui to him—if it really was just the connection
of prodigy that dangles between them. Suspicions dance at the edge of his thoughts in the early
hours of the morning when he’s just waking or when he can’t fall asleep. He never grasps them
fully, always lets them slip through his hands like the soft shadows brought on by a dewy, blurry
sunrise. He doesn’t want to think about it.

Shisui smiles at him, helps him, isn’t afraid to ruffle his hair or swing Naruto up on his hip. He
laughs and teases and cooks and remembers their birthday. Natsume doesn’t care anymore if Shisui
had a different reason to approach him back then, when he was four years old and working himself
too hard in the explosive heat of a Konoha summer, alone and alone and alone—

He’s grateful.

Because when Shisui is around, Natsume isn’t the parent, isn’t just the older brother. He’s a kid,
and for the first time he can relax. Just a little. Just for a moment. Then he goes right back to being
in charge and raising Naruto.

(For a moment, he’s allowed to be a little brother.)

“Again!” Shisui calls, setting himself back into position. He’s got one arm behind his back as a
handicap, a bokken of his own held out with the other.

Natsume meets him blow for blow, dancing with every swing and light-footed step. They’re two
blurs, moving at a speed far beyond the norm for a mere genin. The thunderous clack of their
bokkens colliding shatters the stillness, again and again and again. Every hit that Natsume takes
bruises his flesh, red upon purple upon yellowing and faded.

The speed is exhilarating. Their sparring makes his heart pound, makes his blood sing—violence
and sheer energy thrumming through his veins. The sharp bite of iron coats his tongue, from
exertion or a split lip, he can’t tell. The adrenaline blocks out all pain, pushes him to react, to keep
fighting, to win.

“Aim low,” Shisui instructs, “Slice tendons in the leg. Carve out a kneecap. Cut off the toes.”

He teaches Natsume how to fight dirty. He teaches Natsume how to survive in a world where his
enemies will be bigger and taller for years to come. Natsume is made to study anatomy scrolls and
memorize where the best places to cut are.

“Femoral artery,” Shisui drags a finger over his own thigh. His grin sharpens like a kunai, “Groin.
Best area to aim for to get someone to retreat faster than you can say Castration!”

Natsume learns where to cut when he wants to kill, where to cut when he wants them to bleed,
where to cut when he wants to torture. An artery will bleed out a person in seconds to minutes,
major organs can be struck or avoided depending on trajectory.

He goes to sleep at night with Naruto snuffling in his ear and dreams of blood spurting from
faceless bodies.

“Are you happy?” Gai asks, reeking of sweat and unapologetically brimming with energy.

The sun is too bright and Natsume’s feet feel numb from the cold, slush soaking his shoes. He
doesn’t like looking at Gai too long. It feels painful, almost. “Why do you ask?”

“Your drive is impressive—as is your intent to succeed no matter the odds.” The jounin replies, “I
see bits of myself in you! Why, back when I was just a tyke who could only do five hundred push-
ups—”

“Gai-san.”

“Ah! There go my youthful thoughts, distracting me again!” Gai curses, clenching his fist like he’s
made a grave error. The man points an expressive finger at Natsume, “WHAT I MEANT TO SAY
WAS—there is much fire within you, young Natsume, but at times I do wonder; which direction is
your blazing spirit headed? What is your dream?”

Natsume tilts his head, carmine locks spilling across his sweaty, chilled cheek. “What does a dream
have to do with happiness?”

He swipes a hand across his running nose and watches a bird soar across the wide expanse of
cloudless, cerulean sky. Both Gai and Shisui are idealistic, believing in dreams and bright futures.
Natsume doesn’t like to dwell on dreams because he doesn’t have one and can’t afford to. His
future is not his own, it’s whatever Konoha decides to make of him. What’s the use of dreams
when you have a life like that? It’s better to focus on the here and now.

Naruto. (That’s Natsume’s future.)

Gai crouches beside him in the slush, gleaming and far brighter than the sun Natsume squints
against. “Why, everything! When a dream is achieved, that’s when we are happiest.”

(I dream of a Konoha where Natsume can smile.)

“We’re shinobi, Gai-san.” Well, Natsume is almost a shinobi. Semantics. “We fight and we die.
Dreams are for people with plans to die of old age.”

Gai smiles even wider, and Natsume pretends he can’t see it. “Dreams, my friend, are for everyone.
We may be shinobi, but perhaps that is why we of all people must live as if we will die of old age.
Dream of a great future, Natsume! For then we have hope in our present, inspiring us to keep
moving forward even when the odds are stacked against us!”

Shinobi are those who — “Endure.” Natsume whispers.

Gai nods eagerly, smacking Natsume none too gently on the shoulder. “ENDURE! SO YOU MAY
SEE THE NEXT DAY!”

What a load of garbage, Natsume thinks, shoulder smarting and feet sliding in the unstable mush
of wet, melting snow. What a load of military-grade propaganda.

He’s not proud to be a shinobi. He’s not running full tilt towards some bright, shiny goal. He’s not
even interested in serving his country for his pride or his people. All he wants is to protect Naruto,
and to earn enough money so he never has to worry again. If he’s strong, no one can spit on him.
No one can push him around or call him names or pretend he doesn’t exist. If he’s strong, they’ll
have to pay attention to him, they’ll have to watch him—he doesn’t even care if it’s out of fear.

Gai is eager and sunny and full of impossibilities. He’s not good at hiding his emotions—likely
doesn’t dare try. Sometimes he looks at Natsume like he’s not even there. Instead he’s seeing
someone else, a shadowy figure that Natsume can’t even begin to guess at. He’s not sure he wants
to. He just wants Gai to see him. Uzumaki Natsume, in the flesh.

Even when people are looking, they’re not really looking.

Only Shisui sees him—only Shisui meets his eyes and doesn’t replace Natsume with another. Man
or monster or whatever—he’s only ever been Natsume, why can’t they see that?

(Whoever that truly is.)

“Are you happy?” Gai repeats, too big for his skin, for this world, for death and darkness and
pessimism.

“I don’t know.” Natsume replies honestly. He doesn’t feel much these days at all.

The day after a fierce snow storm, Naruto comes back from playing without his scarf and with
bruises peppering his skin. He grins with all his baby teeth and throws a hand behind his head
sheepishly.

“Who did this to you.” Natsume asks, low and quiet and without expression. It doesn’t sound much
like a question.

“Just some bullies, ya know!” Naruto exclaims, his tanned fingers twining with Natsume’s own,
like he can soothe the beast that is his brother with the slightest touch. “They weren’t bullyin’ me,
though! Some girl with weird eyes. I taught ‘em a lesson they won’t forget.” He sniffs, “They just
got a few hits in, but I had ‘em running, ya know!”

“Did you?” So he’s a little skeptical. Sue him. Naruto is known to embellish things, fights
especially. “And don’t call her eyes weird. That’s what a bully would do. Say unique or cool.”

“Yeah, yeah! I totally did!” The blond nods rapidly, shaking half-melted snow from his hair and
onto the floor. “Oh, okay. I mean, they were pretty cool! Kinda familiar actually... Her name’s
Hinata, though! She said she had somethin’ of yours.”

Natsume squints, wondering why the name sounds vaguely familiar. He can’t quite grasp the
memory, however. “Did she mention what?”

Naruto hums, brow furrowed. “A scarf?”

“A scarf.” Natsume repeats carefully. A distant, blurry memory forms—snow falling, the moon
high in the sky, the cold biting his toes and fingers and Naruto racing hand in hand with a little girl.
Her features have faded with time. “Oh, the girl with the angry dad. I thought Hinata sounded
familiar.”

For a moment, Naruto’s face scrunches intensely. Clearly signifying intense thought. Then it
brightens, like a lightbulb flashing in his brain. “Oh! I think I remember! Mean dad girl! She lived
in that big, rich people house!”

It’s probably been about two years since then. Natsume is surprised that Naruto actually does
remember anything—he’s even more surprised that the girl, Hinata, does as well. And still has his
scarf. He didn’t think either of them left a big enough impression on her.

Unless she isn’t shown kindness often, much like them. Thinking of the fuzzy images of an angry
father make him inclined to agree with that train of thought.

“I said we’d meet her in the park tomorrow.” Naruto says, shaking the last of the snow from his
hair. They’ll have to mop it from the floor.

Natsume sighs, “I guess.”

Hinata is pale, skin almost as white as the snow that surrounds them. She’s dressed in fine, thick
clothes that are very telling of her financial status. Her hair is a pretty shade of dark indigo, short
enough to brush her rosy cheeks. Like Naruto said—her eyes are different. Lavender, light enough
to almost make her eyes look like pools of milk, and without any visible pupil.

She bows to him and presents a scarf he’d long forgotten about.
“Thanks,” he says awkwardly, wrapping it around his neck for lack of anything better to do. “I’m
Uzumaki Natsume, by the way.”

“Hyuuga Hinata.” Is her quiet, stuttering reply. She wrings her hands nervously.

“Hey, Hinata-chan!” Naruto holds out his own hand, “Wanna play with us?”

Hinata swallows, her cheeks burning brightly. She seems to shake, whether from cold or from
nerves. “Okay.” She says, and takes Naruto’s hand.

He brightens, azure gaze shimmering, lips parting in wondrous glee. His hand tightens briefly
around hers, his glove ratty and falling apart, hers intricately stitched and expensive. They couldn’t
be more different.

She looks at Naruto like he holds all the stars in the sky. It makes something in Natsume settle, the
suspicion receding slightly. Enough for him to see the two for what they really are—two children
playing in the snow.

“Nacchan!” Naruto calls, smiling with blistering heat. The sun where Hinata is the moon at his
side, all soft light and timid happiness.

For once, he doesn’t run away and go off alone to read or train. He joins them in the snow, newly
returned scarf warm and heavy around his shoulders, small tears clumsily stitched with care by a
child’s fingers.

He buries the faint curve of his lips in the fabric and lobs a glob of snow at Naruto’s head, nailing
his brother. A war cry is sounded in return, and soon snowballs fly between the three of them—
faster and harder than those of civilian children.

It’s….fun.

Naruto and Sasuke turn everything into a competition. Everything. Including trying to get their
older brothers to play with them. Shisui, as honorary big brother, is perfectly eager and happy to do
so, glancing smugly in Itachi’s direction when Naruto hangs off him like a monkey.

Itachi, who emotes about as much as a rock when it comes to anything aside from Sasuke, is not
impressed. But he doesn’t seem impressed by much to begin with whenever Natsume and Naruto
are around. Natsume is trying hard not to take it personally.

Trying.

Itachi isn’t cruel. He’s just quiet and overly wary. He’s kind in a detached way, like he’s going
through the motions rather than putting much thought or intent behind it. Natsume wonders if he’ll
end up like Itachi one day. Unable to grasp emotion normally because of childhood trauma brought
on by being a soldier at five. (Because that has to be it, right?)

He looks tired a lot. There are stress lines gouging deep furrows under his eyes—the kind of stress
lines no eleven year old should have. His eyes are just as dark as Shisui’s, but not near as kind. At
least, not when directed at Natsume. It’s easy to see that Itachi doesn’t know what to make of him.
It’s like they’re balancing on an invisible string.
Waiting.

For what, Natsume doesn’t yet know.

“He doesn’t like me.” He grumbles one day, when it’s just the four of them and no Itachi.

Shisui blinks, crouched in the snow beside him and watching Sasuke and Naruto try to shove each
other into snow banks with unfocused eyes. “Hm? Itachi?”

Natsume doesn’t reply, just crosses his arms and lets out a gusty breath.

Shisui’s attention sharpens, “Why do you say that?”

“Don’t play stupid.”

The Uchiha huffs. “Yeah, okay, so he’s not the friendliest. Doesn’t mean he hates you. He’s just
got a lot on his mind recently.”

Anyone with working eyes could see that. Natsume keeps his gaze on his little brother, focusing on
the foxy grin and sound of childish laughter. “He looks at me differently.”

Shisui’s hand wraps around his arm, fingers pressed into the plush fabric of Natsume’s winter
jacket. Obsidian eyes blaze like hot coals, “Never like that. He doesn’t look at you like that. He
doesn’t think you’re a monster, Natsume.”

Natsume scowls. “That’s not what I mean. You know what I mean!”

Dark lashes flutter over cold-flushed cheekbones. A monster recedes back under pale skin. The
panther slinks back into the shadows. Shisui smiles disarmingly, “You know, you’re too much
alike.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m not!” Shisui laughs, “Really. You’re too much alike. It worries him.”

That’s not reassuring. Or much of an answer. Natsume assumes it has something to do with the
fact that they’re both considered geniuses. Prodigies. The perfect little child soldiers willing to
throw it all away for their little brothers.

“Why?”

Shisui turns his eyes back to Naruto and Sasuke, gaze soft as he observes the childish innocence in
their chubby features. “I don’t know.” He lies.

In the spring, Natsume graduates.

“I failed on purpose,” Naruto whispers to him in the quiet of the night.

Natsume pretends he didn’t know. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Naruto continues, his cornflower blue eyes wide and soft, the outline of his face fuzzy in
the moonlight. “I wanted to be in the same class as Hinata-chan and Sasuke, ya know.”

“That’s good,” he replies, the blankets tangled in his fists. “Then you’ll have friends.”

“...what about you? Will you have Shicchan?”

Natsume smiles softly, endeared, “I’ll be fine.”

His classmates leave the room in groups of three. Some are eager, sweaty-palmed and jumping out
of their skin; others are stricken with nerves, shaking and fidgety. They look like children, bright-
eyed and still round with baby fat.

Natsume sits alone, smaller and younger and missing four baby teeth. He’s the odd one out here,
the one child not placed on a three man squad. His name hadn’t been called. But he passed. He did.
To celebrate, last night Shisui cooked them all dinner. Naruto switched between quiet with jealousy
and loud with excitement, his moods cooled by Shisui’s easy interfering. The teen even gifted
Natsume with new clothes, the kind truly meant for shinobi.

Black, knee-length shorts with secret pockets in the linings. Mesh leggings to wear underneath, and
a mesh long-sleeve to wear under a blue, short-sleeve hoodie. The weights Gai gifted him are still
strapped around his shins and forearms, also serving as arm and leg guards. He barely takes them
off these days; when he does, it feels like he’s so light he could float away. He’d even been gifted a
brand new kunai pouch, and shinobi-grade sandals that actually fit. All well-made. All more
expensive than Natsume could afford. Him and Naruto don’t have the money to support both of
them and buy shinobi gear. If Natsume were a crier, he would have burst into tears after receiving
the gifts.

So now he’s waiting here. Suffering the laughter and side-eyes of bratty twelve year olds because
he doesn’t have a team. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t have a team. He has a hitai-ate tied around
his left bicep. He’s a shinobi of Konoha now, a Genin.

A genin.

Thinking about it too long makes his heart leap into his throat.

“Uzumaki.”

He looks up.

A slow, familiar grin greets him, senbon clicking against teeth. “You’re with me.”
Genma takes him out to a restaurant. Natsume hovers just behind the man, trepidation in his gut.
He’s prepared to be thrown out or confronted, but that never happens. Genma slinks into a booth
with a lazy sort of grace, one brow raised in expectation.

There’s nothing Natsume can really do but follow. He pushes himself up into the opposite booth,
feeling impossibly small as his chin hovers just two inches above the edge of the table. The
restaurant isn’t especially busy, but he’s already seen more than one customer send him a look—
some curious, others incensed. The atmosphere is surprisingly warm, not unlike what Natsume
assumes a true home is like. The tables are all Hashirama wood, the lighting bright and tinged with
gold. Pretty tapestries in reds and oranges hang around the walls, some emblazoned with a symbol
Natsume recognizes from his textbooks.

The Akimichi Clan.

Natsume has never been inside one of their restaurants before, never even tried to enter. He’s
always been too wary of shinobi-owned businesses, not trusting the power they held. Not after
Chuuya.

A waiter comes, heft on his frame and a roundness to his face that’s softened even further by the
kind smile he wears. Natsume doesn’t speak when the man greets them and leaves menus at the
table. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It doesn’t.

“It won’t bite.” Genma says, gesturing to the menu. His lips are curved like he’s amused, but his
eyes remain cautiously blank.

Natsume picks it up, frowning. “What do I call you? Sensei? Shishou? I assume you’ve been
tasked as my instructor and I’ve been entered into a formal apprenticeship.”

“Sensei is fine.” Genma replies, fingers tapping quietly against the menu. It remains face-down on
the table. He hasn’t looked at it once, which probably means he comes here often and already
knows what he’s planning on ordering. Perhaps he’d even spoken to the staff ahead of time about
Natsume’s presence.

He still remembers the angry, curt way Genma spoke during the incident. Even delirious with pain
and in shock, Natsume doesn’t think he ever heard anything clearer. Genma is odd. He’s not like
Gai, who spills youthful energy from every pore and saves cats from trees without prompting. He’s
older. Elusive. The type who enters Natsume’s life in flashes, never for long and never stating his
reason. Natsume doesn’t know a damn thing about him, aside from the fact that Genma’s willing
to threaten others for him.

A fact that is wildly concerning because Natsume doesn’t understand why. The only thought that
goes through his head is that Genma must want something. But what? Natsume has nothing to
offer. He’s a poor orphan with too much on his plate to play mind games.

“Shiranui-sensei.” Natsume tests, shaping the name very carefully on his tongue, “What exactly is
happening here?”

“We’re eating lunch.”

Natsume presses his lips into a flat line. “No, really?”

Genma smiles, senbon held still in his teeth. “Really, really, kid. You look like you could use a
good meal. And this is the perfect opportunity to get to know you.”
 Information gathering. Now they’re getting somewhere. “What do you need to know?”

“Suspicious little thing, aren’t you?” Genma mutters, one brow raised. He continues without
waiting for a response, “Likes, dislikes. Dreams of the future. That kind of thing. We’re going to be
working together for a bit, so it’s best that we learn to get along.”

Again with dreams and futures.

“I like training, reading, and my brother.” He begins, flicking his gaze to the side. It’s best to stick
with general, basic facts. He’ll acquiesce to Genma’s attempt at civility, but he’s not looking to
make friends with the man. “I dislike most of everything else. My dream is not so much a dream as
it is a practical goal. I want to provide for my brother and earn enough to support the both of us.”

“Admirable.” The jounin comments, voice contained. The senbon twitches. “Not very personal, I
noticed.”

“I don’t have time for frivolity.” Natsume mutters, heels clicking together softly. There’s a patron
that’s been staring his way for the past few minutes. It’s putting him on edge.

“Frivolity.” Genma repeats, soft and incredulous. An expression blooms across his face—almost
too quick to make out. Humor. Amusement. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.” He leans forward,
putting his elbows on the table and shifting his weight. The senbon slides from one side of his
mouth to the other, umber eyes half-lidded and heavy with sneaky, patient intent. Clever in a way
you never see until it’s too late. A yawning maw that threatens to snap shut; drawing him closer
and closer.

(This man is more dangerous than he appears.)

“So,” Genma begins, “What do you know about fuinjutsu?”

Chapter End Notes

find me on tumblr!
 VOL. 1, ARC I. (bruised heart)
Chapter Notes

RIP Chadwick Boseman.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

As a genin, he can purchase his own materials now. No more dull training kunai and shuriken, no
more restrictions in shinobi stores. The hitai-ate around his bicep is the equivalent of a license—to
kill. It also lets him in bars, shady parts of town, and the frontlines of a battlefield. Right now he
needs to fully stock up with brand new materials, both standard packs and customized items to
further his specific training intentions. Konoha is vast and sprawling, far larger than most people
from outside the village ever realize. Miles and miles and miles wide, hosting well over forty
training grounds, at least twelve clan compounds, over sixty massive neighborhoods—spotted with
forests, waterfalls, fields. There were about ten shinobi supply stores scattered around, the closest
one being about five miles from their apartment.

Living in a civilian sector really sucked.

First order of business when he saves up enough money? Moving to a shinobi district. It would
mean better accommodations—better locks, trapping opportunities, soundproof walls, privacy seals
—and best of all, no civilians.

Back to the materials.

The shop is discreet and nondescript, there’s no real signage aside from a family name. He’s never
been here before. The standard kunai and shuriken he’s been using to train are the same ones he
received at the start of his tenure at the Academy. Those were provided by the State, anything
more was up to you to purchase, and no replacements were offered. If you lost or broke them, you
had to buy new ones on your own.

He slips inside. There’s no bell to signal his arrival. The interior is far larger than expected, the
storefront deceptive. There’s a counter over to the right, a man seated behind it and leaning back
against the wall with a paper in hand. He seems absorbed in reading, not even glancing up at
Natsume’s near-silent entrance. There are racks along every wall, displaying a variety of weapons
from smallest to largest the further into the store you go. Rows and rows of shelves are spread
symmetrically across the floor, large and sturdy and clearly made of Konoha wood. Each one is
heavy with materials, from boxes of miscellaneous items to piles of scrolls to kunai pouches in
three different shades of beige. The floor—scuffed, mismatched wood—is a minefield of stacked
books and baskets of shinobi-grade gloves, shoes, or nail polishes at every turn.

Natsume has a list of what he needs, as told by Genma. The jounin had been very serious about it,
and Natume can appreciate his new sensei’s intent to properly educate.

Genma’s slow drawl echoes in his ears. Skipping so many years means you miss a lot of the little
things, Natsume. And those little things can be what makes or breaks you in the field.

It smells like the musk of books and the sharpness of metal, like tree sap and leather. He wanders
through the aisles, still small enough to walk right under the hanging nets and baskets heavy with
scrolls, backpacks, and bags of caltraps, gunpowder or poison.

The thing about being a shinobi—it’s more expensive than one might think. Especially at the start,
or if you’re stuck in the genin corps for a long time. D and C ranks don’t always cut it if you’re
trying to cover the cost of living and replenishing your arsenal. It was even worse for those who
had to provide for their family. Sure, a great deal of genin stick it out in the genin corps and hope
to be promoted to chunin for better opportunities, missions and benefits, but others turn in their
hitai-ate to return to civilian life for better paying jobs.

Konoha pays its shinobi well, as long as they rise up the ranks . The goal, after all, is to push more
and more to higher ranks and bolster their main forces.

Natsume isn’t sure the stipend he and Naruto are given is enough to cover the cost of all that he
needs. It’s probably why genin are given teams and D Ranks that don’t require materials or
survival packs—so they can earn enough money to buy all that they’ll need down the road. As an
apprentice, Natsume doesn’t get that chance. Natsume, as Genma had explained, will be subject to
training excursions and simulations. He’s receiving individual training, and while it’s meant to
further his abilities and speed along his education on a level befitting a prodigy, it also holds him
back in some ways. Fewer missions at the start equals small or nonexistent paychecks.

In his pocket is a wad of ryo. It burns against his thigh and leaves a conflicted feeling simmering in
his gut. The money is from Genma. A gift, the man had said. Natsume is prideful, but he’s not
stupid. If someone gives him money, he’s not going to turn it away.

He picks a dark gray travel pack off one of the shelves. As every shinobi has their own specialties
and quirks, there isn’t exactly a standard for what is and isn’t necessary. So he attaches a dark blue
bedroll to the pack, and throws in ninja wire and sensitivity seals for simple traps. For nail polish,
he settles on clear—though he’s tempted to pick up a bottle of matte black. A new set of shuriken
and kunai find their way in, as do basic camping and antidote kits, three more sets of mesh armor,
an ink set and horsehair brushes.

Blank Sealing paper is the last item on the list, but when he locates it between the towering aisles,
it’s all strung up in a net hanging from the ceiling. Even on his tiptoes, it’s out of his reach. If he
were taller—older—it wouldn’t be a problem. The scrolls hover over him mockingly. He scowls
up at them, cursing his own pride. There’s no way he’s going to even try asking the guy at the
counter for help. He’ll get these scrolls himself or he won’t get them at all—

A hand reaches into the net and plucks out a thick scroll. Woodpine and ginger fills the air, subtle
and thoughtless. Confident. Natsume leaps to the side almost instinctively. He hadn’t noticed the
man at all, which is either a testament to the man’s skill or a failure on Natsume’s end—or both.
Dark skin and even darker hair, the kind that grows thick and springy, sitting somewhere between
curly and spiky. It’s tied back in a high ponytail, giving Natsume a perfect view of sharp, coal
black eyes ringed with amber and three deep, wild scars cutting across the man’s face. They’re
eye-catching and pale against the brown of his skin—the injury had clearly been painful and
severe. Civilians might see it as unattractive, but it only adds to the rugged sort of handsomeness
the man possesses. Dark circles hang heavy under those piercing eyes, the faint lines of stress
putting his age at somewhere in his early thirties, if Natsume had to guess. Stubble grows dark
along a sharp jaw, flaring into a goatee beard at his chin.

Without a doubt, he must come from a Clan. The collection of features seems incredibly familiar.
Natsume can feel it in his bones.

The man is slouching, the scroll held leisurely in his hand. There’s a loose, lazy air to him,
conflicting with a slippery protective feeling. Like the rainbow kaleidoscope of oil over water, as
beautiful as it is harmful. Like the deep, fuzzy shadows between strips of light that spill through
horizontal blinds. Like the feeling you get when it’s just you and the moon, laid bare under the
ethereal light of a sphere built of stars and dust, a field of grass under your flesh and the coo of
summer sounds in your ears.

(It’s dark, but Natsume is not afraid.)

“Thanks.” He grits out, taking the scroll from the man.

“No problem.” Is the reply, and the voice is as if the forest and earth could make sound.
“Fuuinjutsu, huh? Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Natsume says again. He doesn’t ask for a name and he doesn’t give one in return. They
part ways and Natsume doesn’t look back once, even though he feels eyes on the back of his neck.
He thrusts his bag up on the counter, the contents fit to burst.

The cashier barely looks at him, but he doesn’t try to overcharge Natsume or deny him change. He
pulls every item from the bag and adds up the total, then shoves them right back in without much
care. That’s fine, shinobi-grade items aren’t made to break and bend so easily. One item catches
Natsume’s eye. A book. Thin and small, like a short novel. He never picked up a book. While the
cashier is handling the money, Natsume pulls the book into his hands.

Clans of Konoha and Beyond.

It’s a tiny thing, as it doesn’t contain incriminating details or secrets. But it offers a short history of
every Clan in Konoha, and details of others that populate the Land of Fire. Crests, symbols, awards
and honors...it’s also rather old in appearance. Very unlike the other informative books or guides
the store has to offer. It almost looks out of date—which would potentially make it obsolete, or a
hand-me-down.

Or something else entirely.

Natsume drops the book in his bag and hefts the whole thing over his shoulder once more. He
pockets the change and doesn’t say a word to the cashier, who doesn’t say anything back.

Natsume looks around for the man with wildness in his soul, but there’s no one else in the store.

“You have to sit still.” Natsume scolds.

Naruto pouts, his bare toes wiggling. His toenails are half painted with bright orange, the edges a
bit sloppy with his frequent fidgeting. By his side, Sasuke is deep in concentration, his tongue
poking from the corner of his mouth as he carefully applies a layer of polish to Hinata’s toes. Her
own are lavender, a few shades off from her eyes. Sasuke’s will soon be coated in plain black.
Their fingernails are done already—after Naruto found Natsume halfway through painting his
nails, the blond had been adamant that he and his friends also paint their own. Hinata was the only
one with nail polish, so she’d run home and back with her little hands filled with various bottles of
different shades.

The polish they were using wasn’t made for shinobi. Natsume’s is clear, scentless, and meant to
protect the nails from chipping and breaking. Hinata’s is civilian made, the pretty kind that flakes
under pressure and smells like chemicals. He wonders what it must be like, to be able to afford
frivolous items just for the sake of having them.

Natsume carefully paints each of Naruto’s toes. They look mostly alright, with just a few smudges.
Either way, Naruto is happy with the outcome. The blond smiles wide enough to stretch his cheeks
and wiggles his toes.

“Don’t move around so much.” Natsume warns. “They need a few minutes to dry.”

“You’re so messy...” Sasuke rolls his eyes, but there’s no malice in his voice.

Hinata giggles a little, curled in on herself while watching Sasuke’s work over her knees. Her
cheeks turn rosy every time Naruto gives her even a fraction of attention. For a snot-nosed kid,
she’s pretty alright in Natsume’s book. Sasuke a little less so, but only because the combination of
him and Naruto is incredibly grating to deal with for anything longer than an hour. At least with all
three of them here, Hinata provides a soothing presence that contains the worst of the boys’
behavior. Not that she can’t be a troublemaker too—Natsume knows for a fact that the girl has
been the mastermind of a few pranks.

“Hey, lemme do yours next!” Naruto scoots over on his butt, mindful of his still drying toes. He
makes grabby hands in Sasuke’s direction.

The Uchiha makes a face as he pulls away from Hinata, finished with the last coat of polish. “Yeah
right! After the mess you made of Hinata’s fingernails, I don’t trust you with a brush at all!”

“I’ll only get better with practice! C’mon, lemme do it! Lemme, lemme, lemme!”

“I said no! I don’t want to walk around with messy polish, it’s embarrassing!”

“Don’t be a stick in the mud—”

“Don’t be an idiot!”

Hinata watches them go back and forth, her lips pressed together and trembling. Though her fists
are curled against her knees, there’s very little fighting spirit within her.

A gusty sigh escapes him. He rocks on his heels and reaches out to pinch Naruto and Sasuke’s
cheeks, stopping them mid argument.

“Ow!

“Nacchan!”

“Boys,” he says in his best no-nonsense voice, “Let’s not argue anymore, alright? You’re worrying
Hinata.”

Both of them glance over at the girl, who looks embarrassed at the attention. She looks down at
her knees with flushed cheeks, brows pinched together. The two boys look vaguely chastised,
looking around awkwardly without meeting the other’s eyes.

“Naruto, if someone says no, it means no. Ultimately, when it concerns someone else’s body and
life, they’re the ones with the final say. You can’t bulldoze through other peoples’ wants and
desires just to get your own.” Natsume makes sure his little brother nods before releasing the grip
on his cheek. Naruto rubs at the pinkened flesh and pouts, but does not resume badgering Sasuke.
“I’ll do your nails, Sasuke.” Hinata pipes up, offering a tenuous smile.

The dark haired boy grunts, shifting back towards her on knobby knees. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Don’t worry,” Natsume murmurs to his little brother, who watches with slightly sad eyes as his
two friends interact with each other. “You can learn how to steady your hand. And even if you
don’t, you’ll have Hinata by your side to help you.”

Azure eyes shine, like sunlight over still water. Naruto sniffs, all foxy grin and narrowed gaze; he
looks happy. Natsume feels an ache in his chest, black and curdling like spoiled milk. It’s not
entirely jealousy that he feels—no, not really. How could he, when he’s seen how desperately
Naruto craves attention and friends and people? But a twisted part of him watches how his little
brother swells with light and wonders— why wasn’t I enough to make you shine like this?

The little book is aged and yellowed. Well loved, which Natsume can’t relate to. It’s not a deep,
long read. In truth it barely takes an hour to skim through it all and learn bits and pieces of the
history of Konoha’s Clans. Most he already knows. The Senju, with their healing ability and
scattered wood release. The Uchiha, with their sharingan and fiery natures. (Everyone knew of the
two Clans who founded Konoha.) The Akimichi, Yamanaka and Nara were also mentioned briefly
—just the name of their Clan techniques and a little backstory as to how they found their way into
the village. It was actually some years after the Sarutobi Clan, which is interesting, as the other
three hold more prestige in the village—even if the Sandaime Hokage is a Sarutobi. The Inuzuka,
Hyuuga, Aburame and Hatake are mentioned as well.

Natsume hasn’t ever heard of the Hatake, and he can’t remember ever seeing the Clan symbol
around the village. It looks like a basic grid, probably mimicking the field that the name stands
for.

Probably extinct. He thinks, because that does happen. The Senju are basically disbanded, those
with any remaining blood ties being so distantly related that they barely count. It’s a Clan that’s
moved on and lost their prestige over time, even if it barely took a century. If there are Senju
remaining who still wear their Clan symbol, Natsume hasn’t seen them. Plenty of Uchiha, though.

It’s dark out, the late night sounds trickling in through the open window. Crickets and the hum of
electricity, cicadas and tinkling chimes being blown by a summer breeze. Naruto snores quietly on
the other side of the room, splayed haphazardly across the shuriken patterned sheets. Half of his
blanket is kicked off his bed, the moon’s soft glow washing out the brown tones of his skin and
painting him in shades of blue.

Natsume glances back down to his book, the words pale against the old parchment they’re printed
upon. It’s hard to read in the faint ambient light, the glow from the outside street lamps not doing
much to help. He traces his finger up and down as he reads, keeping track of the kanji so he
doesn’t lose his place.

In the back of the book, at the top of one of the last few pages, is a name.

His name.

Not his first, but his last. The very same characters he used to carefully trace with markers back in
the orphanage, until his fingers were stained with ink and piles of paper took up space under his
cot.

Four characters. He can see them in his sleep because they are all he has of himself, the only things
that belong to him.

Uzumaki.

Though his eyes ache from squinting in the low light, he feels energy come back to him and all his
pains fade away as he stares at the pages before him. They’re short and sweet, just as the others.
The Uzumaki were allies of the Senju, the book explains. Konoha’s Sister Village, Uzushio—

Red hair and incredible chakra.

Shodaime-sama’s wife—

Destroyed in the Second Great Shinobi War—

Natsume traces and traces until he feels as if the ink will bleed off the page and coat his fingertips,
sink into his skin and enter his bloodstream. Maybe it will curl around his heart like a viper, and
fill the holes. Instead it feels like more are created. His heart is a perforated organ, struggling to
beat under the strain.

He doesn’t understand it, really.

Konoha, the brave. The great. The village to unite all villages and clans. That which claimed the
Uzumaki as their family, as their greatest allies—

(Had lied.)

The night offers no answers. He’s left to sleep in his confusion, wondering what the truth is.
Wondering who he is.

The rhythmic sounds of his wooden Bokken colliding with the target echo his heartbeat. It thrums
through his body, shaking the very flesh from his bones. The weight of muggy summer air and
Genma’s gaze lay heavy on his back. Sweat dampens his shirt and beads at the base of his skull,
sticking to crimson strands. The tendons in his jaw feel as if they’re about to pop, teeth grinding
uncomfortably together with how tense he holds himself. The bitterness of salt coats his tongue.

“Alright,” Genma mutters, “What is it?”

Natsume doesn’t reply at first, though he stills in his movements. The Bokken hangs frozen, his
arms trembling. His sensei trails around him until they’re face to face, motions soundless across the
grass. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Judging by the incredulous look in the man’s eye, Genma doesn’t believe him for a second. “Yeah,
okay. Did something happen?”

“What makes you say that?” Here’s to hoping that the man will take the hint and drop it. Natsume
himself doesn’t have an answer yet. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling anymore. What he should
be feeling. It’s just...a tangle. A ball of yarn lodged in his throat. He can’t decide if he wants to
swallow or choke.
“Your eyebrows do a thing.” The senbon shifts. A hand gestures useless at Natsume’s tense
expression.

“My eyebrows.” He repeats carefully. Interesting. He has a tell. “Have all my tells figured out
already, do you?”

Something complicated passes through Genma’s gaze, “Something like that.”

With no other information forthcoming, Natsume allows himself to lower his arms and let the
Bokken rest at his side. Calluses have formed, thick and tough, across his palms. Though his hands
are slender and long, they will not be pretty. They’re a worker’s hands. A murderer’s hands.

He forces his face to relax. “What exactly are my eyebrows telling you?”

Genma hums. To Natsume, he still feels like sunlight filtering through trees, like the scent of salt
and bitter almonds, like a wall of earth. He’s a liar but he doesn’t act like one. After a moment, the
man finally comes to some internal conclusion. “That you’re confused and stressed. I know you’re
not the cuddly type, but if something is bothering you this much, maybe you should talk about it.”
As an afterthought, Genma adds, “Plus, you’ll mess up your training if you’re not focused.”

“I’ll get over it. Endure, right?”

Genma scratches his chin, “Yeah, yeah. But you don’t need to do it alone.”

Now that’s rich. Natsume exhales sharply through his nose, darkly amused. “Sure.”

“I mean it, Natsume.” The man says, more seriously than before. “Not only are we comrades,
we’re also mentor and student. I’m here to help you in any way I can.”

Wiping sweat from his brow, Natsume glances away from the jounin. The sun burns high and hot
against the back of his neck, making him squint against the force of it. He keeps thinking about the
book—about the man. There’s no doubt in his mind that the book had been placed in his bag by
that guy; now, for what reason, he doesn’t know. It makes him suspicious. It makes him nervous.
It makes him feel like an idiot, like there’s something going on that everyone else knows about
except for him and his brother. It’s always been like that. The hatred and fear and disdain, the
piercing eyes and visceral pain.

He knows what it looks like when someone hates you. Recognizes it in the slide of eyes off his
back, like water off a duck. The subtle curve to the mouth when it drops into a frown or a poorly
hidden sneer. He’s been on the other side of far too many acidic looks. Hands aren’t offered,
they’re raised. It’s easier to avoid trusting at all then let himself try—people like Shisui shove their
way under your skin like splinters, forcing their kindness upon you until you forget what it’s like to
not have them there. Sasuke and Hinata...well, they’re children. Blank slates before society sinks its
claws in and molds them into the perfect cookie cutter soldiers. He can’t bring himself to hate or
ignore them when all they do is reach out.

It’s as if he has handfuls of puzzle pieces, but no clue as to what picture he’s supposed to be
putting together. It’s infuriating.

“Then tell me about the Uzumaki.”

The chirp of cicadas swells to a crescendo. Genma’s eyes are pools of umber, unfathomable and
deep like an ocean of earth. While Natsume knows him as laidback and vaguely protective, there’s
something very still and dangerous about the quiet. It’s as if Natsume has asked about a secret—
something terrible and old and hidden. It feels almost taboo, but that’s ridiculous. That’s his name.
His Clan. Whatever information exists belongs to him, not to Genma or anyone else in Konoha.
They don’t deserve to hoard and hide it away. It’s not theirs to covet like stolen goods.

“The Uzumaki were a Clan that had been allied with the Senju since the Warring States Period.”
Genma breaks the silence, lowering himself on the ground to sit.

Natsume follows suit, placing his Bokken across his lap. “I know that much. The Shodaime even
took an Uzumaki bride.”

“Uzumaki Mito-sama.” Genma confirms. “Yeah. The Uzumaki were a big deal, and for good
reason. They’re originally from The Land of Eddies, an island off the eastern coast of the Land of
Fire. There’s not much I can tell you...not because I don’t want to, but because I honestly don’t
know much about it. The entire island was ravaged during the Second War, and it’s destruction is
seen as one of Konoha’s greatest shames. I do know their shinobi village was called Uzushio, and
that the Uzumaki Clan was renowned for their red hair, longevity and fuuinjutsu….”

Natsume digests this for a moment, latching on to the first thing he can to keep Genma talking
while he sorts out his thoughts. “Fuuinjutsu... That’s why you’re teaching me? Because it’s a Clan
skill?”

The jounin nods, sunlight glinting off the metal plate of his hitai-ate. “Your taijutsu forms are even
based off an old Uzumaki style. You can thank your Uchiha for that.”

He doesn’t quite know what to call the emotion bubbling within him. That’s not very unusual, but
this time it feels important. The numbness is searing, but it doesn’t burn away everything. It’s the
ashes he can’t discern, fingers too icy and heavy to sort through the remnants.

Because this is just confirmation.

Confirmation that everyone knows who the Uzumaki are—or were—and didn’t give a damn about
actually telling Natsume and Naruto. Teaching him taijutsu and fuuinjutsu...for what? Just
because? Without even telling him why? Outfitting him with the skills and talents of his people all
while pretending they never existed—all while neglecting to educate him on the truth. The shinobi
of Konoha wear the Uzumaki symbol on their flak jackets and clothes, but they barely remember
what it means. They’re erasing them. Konoha wants to erase Uzushio.

Their greatest shame; that’s what Genma called it. Even Shisui is in on it, teaching but never
telling.

Is that what Natsume and Naruto are? A source of shame? Of guilt? That hollow regret in
exhausted gazes, the discomfort and aversion—

But that doesn’t explain the rage. The blind hate and hurt all rolled into one.

His puzzle is still missing a few pieces.

“No one could tell me this earlier? No one could raise us with this knowledge?”

Genma’s face is a stone wall, “It wasn’t our place.”

“Bullshit,” Natsume laughs sharply, “Then who’s place is it, huh? My dead Clan’s? The Clan you
claim is revered by Konoha? If this is how the village treats the children of their beloved sister
village, then I don’t want to know how they treat their enemies.”

“Listen, it’s not fair. I know it’s not fair.” Genma’s senbon clicks against his teeth. “The Uzumaki
have fallen, their techniques lost, their traditions buried under decades of dust—and it’s terrible. I
don’t pretend to imagine how you might feel. I also don’t know anyone who can help you. You
and Naruto are the only Uzumaki in Konoha, and the only Uzumaki we know to be alive. We don’t
tell you things because as strong and smart as you might be—you and your brother? You’re still
children. You’re easy targets for a hungry world.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means,” Genma stresses, “That the Uzumaki are the most powerful clan to ever come out of the
shinobi nations. It took a combination of semi-allied nations to launch an attack—and there were
still Uzumaki survivors. They were hunted, Natsume. It’s not a pretty history. We don’t know how
many of you are left—if it’s come down to just you two after years and years.”

“Don’t be a hypocrite.” Natsume mutters, “The bloody downfall of my Clan is too much, but
you’re okay with sending me out to kill?”

“I don’t want to.”

Sharp blue eyes cut into murky umber. “But that’s what you’re training me for.”

The man nods slowly, “Yes, I am.”

Natsume doesn’t pretend to be kind, but he’s not cruel without purpose. And he’s never cruel to his
little brother, who looks at him like he holds the stars—when really the only one floating among
stardust is Naruto, the sun incarnate. Natsume remains in the dirt, forever grasping at air with
bloody fingernails.

He tells Naruto about the Uzumaki Clan, because there will be no secrets of this magnitude
between them. Naruto loves it—loves learning about where they come from, even if there isn’t
much information to begin with. He forgives and forgets too easily; doesn’t even try to be mad at
Shisui.

Natsume is another story.

“You’re angry with me, huh.” Shisui murmurs. He’s dressed in his usual all black outfit, chopping
bean sprouts at the kitchen counter. There’s a bandage across his face and around his wrist, small
injuries from the mission he’d just returned from. The scent of steaming vegetables and tangy soy
sauce fills the air. The window by the sink is open to let out the hot steam and smoke from the
cooking food.

Natsume hums noncommittally, stirring the pan of frying noodles and vegetables. He has to stand
 on a stool to reach, and his bangs are held back with a plain blue headband. “Should I be?”

“Yikes.” Shisui mutters under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!”

Natsume huffs softly, stomping out the faint stirrings of amusement. “I haven’t decided yet. I
suppose I’m mostly confused as to why you thought keeping it a secret made any sense
whatsoever.”

The Uchiha furrows his brow. “I guess it doesn’t in the long run—make sense, that is. At first, it
was because we assumed it would keep you safer. Kids say things, you know? Talk without
meaning. Trust too easily. We weren’t expecting someone like you—though perhaps we should
have. It’s our mistake.”

Natsume pauses in his stirring, ears full of the sizzle and pop of oil. “You keep saying ‘ we ’ and ‘
our ’.”

“Konoha,” Shisui elaborates. “The Hokage. It was decided it would be safer to tell you the secrets
of your family history when you were older and able to protect yourselves.”

“And yet we still hold the name Uzumaki.”

The chopping falters. “Yes, well. To be fair, Naruto doesn’t look much like an Uzumaki.”

“But I do.”

Shisui looks over and their eyes meet. “I suppose you do, but red hair isn’t everything.” He says
quietly, and yet he doesn’t once look at Natsume’s carmine hair. “I’m sure the Hokage would have
told you when you turned twelve, because that’s when he expected you both to be genin. You
being a prodigy... threw a wrench in that.”

Natsume turns away, the heat by his hand reminding him to keep stirring. “I should have been told
when I graduated.”

“I don’t have the answers to everything, Natsume. Some things are unfair, some things don’t make
sense. As shinobi we need to endure it all. Especially when it’s painful.” Shisui steps beside him,
dropping the bean sprouts into the pan. He knocks a knuckle lightly against Natsume’s temple,
somber but smiling. Always smiling. “I have to keep going forward. I have to keep trusting, even if
it ends in heartbreak. That’s the only way I can change things for the better.”

Natsume looks down at the bubbling oils snapping and popping against darkening vegetables. He
wonders why it’s his responsibility to suffer for the next generation at age six, before he’s learned
anything of the world at all. He wonders why everyone seems to expect him to be on board with it
without question.

Chapter End Notes

find me on tumblr!
 VOL. 1, ARC I. (wooden heart)
Chapter Notes

this is the longest i've gone without updating this fic which is wild... i started up school
tho so things might be slower than before. it's my senior year of college so,,, ya know.

anywho here's the usual tumblr link: here!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Fuuinjutsu is an art form. Every mark, every line and stroke and particle has to be made exactly as
intended. There’s no space for sloppy penmanship or ink blots, there’s no room for pause or
hesitation when your brush is soaked with ink and every wobble of your hand will end up stained
into paper. For practice, it’s best to use scrap paper and regular ink. Messing around with seals
could take off fingers or limbs or even kill you—which is why it’s recommended not to start with
chakra conductive ink and expensive scrolls. Everything about fuuinjutsu is expensive, from the
special ink to the paper to the amount of time and effort you need to put into perfecting the craft.

But it hasn’t stopped Natsume yet.

What people forget is that Natsume has just as much energy as his little brother, he just focuses it
differently. It’s therapeutic to keep his hands moving. He hyper-fixates on the repetition of
calligraphy, practicing the same characters over and over again until they suit his perfectionist
nature. His fingers are cramped and stiff and stained with black, but he keeps going at it every
single day.

Genma’s penmanship is beautiful. He’s a man made for detail work, with steady hands and a calm
demeanor. His skills lie in assasination with poisons and senbon, the little things that require extra
care and hours of training. He knows enough about fuuinjutsu to get Natsume started, and goes out
of his way to acquire more resources the further along Natsume gets.

That’s something the Uzumaki appreciates.

Adults are very rarely trustworthy. But Genma never raises a hand against Natsume. The man
never looks at him like he’s dirt, or something shameful. Sometimes the jounin is sad, umber eyes
looking for ghosts in the childish features of Natsume’s face. Genma trains him to be better,
pushing and pushing until his skills are polished and expanding. Weeks and weeks go by and
Natsume no longer tenses when his back is to his sensei—because Genma feels like a wall of earth,
like something that Natsume can lean on.

One summer afternoon, while training his chakra, Genma’s presence explodes to the point where
Natsume tastes almonds on his tongue, smells fresh cut grass and feels something immovable and
settled, yet tinged with anguish. It’s a lot. Enough to make him gasp and recoil, batting away
Genma’s awkward hand.

He breathes deeply through his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. “Can you back off? Your chakra
is really overwhelming.”

“My chakra?” Genma repeats.

Natsume cracks an eye open, the surge receding. He gives the other man a look, “Don’t tell me
you’ve forgotten what it is?”

“Cheeky,” the man mutters, “I’m more concerned with the fact that you can even sense me to the
point of pain—”

“I wasn’t in pain!”

“ Discomfort.” Genma rectifies dryly, “Answer me this, can you sense me at all times?”

Natsume purses his lips. The thing about chakra is that it’s all around you. In the grass and earth, in
the air—and Konoha is no small time village, it’s packed with bodies and chakra signatures. “For
the most part, yeah. Can’t everyone?”

They’re shinobi, it seems pretty natural to be able to sense the very thing that fuels them.

Genma rubs the back of his neck, “To some extent. If you’re using a jutsu or flaring your chakra—
concentrated or large bursts are easy to notice. But if everyone could sense chakra even when it’s
at the base level or being contained, then we’d have far more trouble with spywork. Shinobi who
can identify chakra with ease even in its natural state are what we call Sensors, and their abilities
are...ranged depending on distance and precision. There are those that can sense emotion and
chakra nature, or tell individuals apart. There’s a rumor that Nidaime-sama could sense people
from miles away.”

Huh. Suddenly the descriptors he’s been attaching to people make a little more sense. Natsume
recalls exactly how Genma feels. “You’re...earth.”

“Got it in one, kid.” The Jounin rocks on his heels, senbon shifting from side to side. “I know that
to aid in your focus, you form the Hitsuji hand sign. It’ll help you concentrate your chakra to your
senses. Unfortunately, it’s not exactly something I can help you train with. I’m not a natural-born
sensor.”

Natsume looks down at his hands, absently noting the callouses and aching blisters. It’s a useful
skill to have. It feels like it’s coming together now—the feelings he gets from others, the shadows
at the edges of his senses, the reason he stopped in that alley. It sounds like the best way to
improve is to practice his chakra control and meditate. Or something. That doesn’t seem so bad,
except the idea of sitting completely still isn’t exactly appealing. If he doesn’t have anything to
occupy his hands with then he’ll be left to his over-imaginative thoughts and excess energy.

Genma clicks his tongue. “Alright. Let’s get back to work. If you can last a minute against me with
that bokken then we’ll go on a training trip. Outside the village. ”

He perks up. He’s never been outside the village before, has only gazed at the towering walls
surrounding them. Just outside there is dense forest, sprinkled with farmland and patches of homes.
The closest town is a days walk away by civilian standards.

Natsume shifts and puts thoughts of chakra away for now, pulling his bokken from where it rests at
his hip. Across from him, Genma doesn’t move from his slouched, lax position. It’s a little
annoying, but Natsume isn’t yet at the skill level for the jounin to take him seriously. One day,
maybe. He darts forward, the wooden sword whipping around like an extension of his arm. It gives
him better reach and lets him stay on the far end of Genma’s space. The man will have to shift his
form and weight to grab at Natsume.

No matter how quickly he strikes and moves, he’s still not able to land a hit on Genma. The man
grins, however, a flash of teeth and steel. The jounin’s dark eyes carefully watch Natsume’s attacks
—and Natsume feels something like pride blossom in his chest, feels petals press to his rib cage
and threaten to burst from his skin. The new focus means that he’s become more of a threat.

When Genma retaliates, it’s just on the side of too fast. Glancing blows are dodged by the skin of
Natsume’s teeth, his bones rattling with every hit he counters with his bokken. Genma doesn’t give
Natsume more than he can handle, but he gives enough that Natsume has to push himself. He
always feels exhausted after their training sessions, but it’s a good sort of tired—helps him fall right
to sleep.

(Helps him feel like he really is improving.)

Suddenly, Genma moves faster than before, hand darting out too quickly for the eye to see.
Natsume twists his bokken up for a block and braces for a hit that never comes. Instead, a hand
lands on his head. Genma grins down at him and ruffles the mess of red under his fingers.

“Minute’s up kid. You did good.”

“You went easy on me.”

“Of course I did, I’m a jounin.”

Natsume resolutely does not pout. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Do you want to go on this training trip or not?” Genma asks, amused. His chakra feels like sun-
warmed rocks.

“I do.”

Shisui offers to watch Naruto when he can. It brings some measure of relief to Natsume, as he’s
never been separated from his brother for such a long period of time. He’s not even sure Naruto can
be trusted to take care of himself if Natsume isn’t there to hold his hand. The blond has never had
to cook or attempt his homework on his own—now that he thinks about it, maybe Natsume has
been doing too much and not letting his little brother grow on his own. Then again, Naruto was
six.

He should be acting like a kid and being looked after. It just really sucks that Natsume has to do
the looking after, even if he loves his brother more than anything.

Shisui will be busy with his own training and missions, he’s a jounin after all. A strong one, too.
The stress lines on his youthful face aren’t just for show. This means that Naruto will have to be on
his own for some measure of time. Not only is that a terrifying thought, but it’s also Natsume’s
worst nightmare. All he can think about these days is coming home to find that Naruto has
drowned in the tub or killed himself on the edge of a table or burned the entire apartment down
trying to cook.

In the end, he sets up his little brother with a couple packs of cup ramen. Naruto can make those in
his sleep at this point, and it’s the least risky meal—even if it is heavy with sodium and
disgustingly unhealthy to consume day in and day out.
He wakes up the morning of the training journey long before Naruto, who snores away the next
bed over. Natsume smiles briefly at his little brother, blond hair wild with sleep and limbs tangled
in shuriken patterned sheets. The sun is only just beginning to peer over the horizon, painting
Konoha in shades of orange cream and carnation pink. The world is still fuzzy and dim when he
steps outside, new pack over his shoulders. It almost feels too big for his body, the bottom of the
pack bumping the backs of his thighs with every step.

Genma waits for him at the gate, cutting a tall figure against the gloom of sunrise. His shadow is
long and dark, his hair tinged orange in the light. “All set, kiddo?”

“Yes.”

They aren’t going too far. This is more like a camping excursion than anything else, where
Natsume will be taught survival skills and hunting tactics that he’ll be missing out on due to early
graduation. It’s Natsume’s first time running through the trees with chakra, so they’re probably
going slower than Genma’s usual pace. They make quiet conversation, Natsume’s replies
marginally shorter than the jounin’s. Genma tests him on various kanji used in fuuinjutsu and
Natsume adjusts to multitasking while leaping from branch to branch meters above the ground.

The sun finds its way higher in the sky, the trees shielding them from the harsh light. With every
hour that passes, the atmosphere warms and the world awakens. Summer is in full swing around
them, cicadas screaming and the air thickening with the usual mugginess of a Konoha August. The
Land of Fire is hot summers and frigid winters, always a little wet no matter which season. He’s
sure that the weather in Suna must be a dry heat—which would probably be preferable at this
point, with the way the air seems to cling to his skin and drag him down.

Genma’s hair curls just a little at the tips from the humidity. He doesn’t look like he’s sweating at
all though. The kind of chakra control it takes to regulate his body temperature while using chakra
to leap through the trees is not something Natsume is privy to just yet. He takes the full brunt of
the heat with a scowl, his own hair puffed to twice its normal volume.

They stop when the sun is high enough in the sky to signify noontime, and Natsume’s stomach is
beginning to protest. He feels hot and tired, but not as bad as he thought he’d feel after hours of
nonstop travel. His stamina has significantly improved, mostly thanks to Gai and his training
routines. Since graduation, Natsume hasn’t seen the Green Beast at all, too busy with Genma and
genin life. Privately, he can admit it feels a bit weird to not hear Gai’s boisterous voice during
training sessions.

Does he miss the man?

He’s not too sure. It’s not like Gai is dead. Throughout their training he’d continually told himself
not to get attached, no matter how welcoming Gai ended up being. Now he doesn’t know what to
feel.

They packed no food.

The purpose of the excursion is to train his survival skills. That means he needs to hunt, kill and
cook his own food. He needs to learn which plants are edible, which are poisonous, what climate
they grow in and in what season they bloom. How to set up a camp, how to start a fire and use
seals to disperse smoke before it forms—how to cover it all up and make it seem as if no one had
ever been there.

Genma shows him how to make various traps for small prey, and how to make various traps for
much larger prey; the kind with loyalties and murderous intent. Natsume resolves to buy a book on
herbs when he gets back to the village. There’s no way he’s going to memorize all the information
that his sensei is dumping on him right now.

The need to dig a pit for a makeshift ‘outhouse’, which is Natsume’s first meeting with discomfort.
To be a shinobi means more than just murder, it’s becoming impervious to the sight of nakedness
and gore and literal shit. There’s not a smidge of embarrassment on Genma’s face when he
instructs Natsume to dig the hole at least four feet deep, and only three yards away from the edge
of their camp, so the view isn’t obscured. The older man was raised in the midst of a war, he’s
probably seen way too many people shit their pants out of fear or after death or just perched over a
hole in the middle of forest.

Natsume swallows his discomfort.

“The most basic structure of a camp includes a water source, pit latrine, traps and a smokeless fire.
This can change depending on the situation. While we’re in our own country, fires are fine. In
another, even smokeless it might not be the best decision as it still creates light. A general rule
while traveling in hostile territory is to never stop after the sun has already set. You either stop
when there’s still light, or you move through the night. Trying to set up a camp in the dark isn’t
smart or safe, and you can use evening light to mask a fire if you need one—as long as you put it
out before dusk.”

There’s a bubbling brook about half a mile from their position, from which they’d been able to
catch some fish. Small, but enough for now. Their hunting traps haven’t caught anything just yet.
The stream water he swallows is gritty and just on the side of too warm after being boiled over the
fire. Everything about this is mildly uncomfortable.

The two of them sit across from each other, the position allowing them a wider visual range.
Natsume has already eaten his way through his portion of the fish they’d caught, hands sticky with
fat grease. At least now that he’s sitting, he can work on regulating his temperature with his chakra
and cool himself down.

Genma continues to look unbothered, not a hair out of place. He munches slowly on the skewered
fish, taking his time with his words. “Solo missions are considerably more dangerous than any
other, not only because of the whole solo fighting thing, but also because you don’t have anyone to
watch your back during downtime. In our case, a two man squad isn’t exceptionally common. It
requires a ten hour rest, not including the time it takes to set up camp between just two people. It’s
why three man squads are preferred. Puts you at a bit of a disadvantage, since you don’t have your
own genin squad.”

The man pauses for a second, but when Natsume doesn’t chime in with any questions, he
continues. “Genin are trained in three man squads because that’s Konoha’s preferred set up for
efficiency. Of course, mission parameters can change that. You have to consider the size of your
group and how long the mission is expected to take when figuring out sleep rotations. The best
time to do so would be before you even leave the gates, but some missions are on the fly and there
isn’t much time to talk before you’re on the move. Hate those ones.”

“Why’s a three man squad the best for efficiency?”

Genma finishes the last of his fish and tosses the skewer stick to the side. Before responding, he
pulls a senbon from somewhere and slides it between his lips. “Three people setting up a campsite
takes barely any time at all, and you only need a nine hour sleep cycle, with each person getting six
hours if you split the watch time into three shifts. It’s more sleep than a solo or two person team
would get, and takes less time overall in a more efficient manner. Larger groups might split watch
over the course of a few days, but we can’t waste resources on every mission by sending out more
than three every time.”

“I see.” Natsume murmurs. So it looks like he’ll have to play friends with other shinobi over the
course of his career. He can probably deal with that as long as they don’t expect him to make small
talk.

“C’mon,” Genma grunts, pushing himself to his feet. “Lemme show you how to dispose of food
traces.”

Natsume grips his skewer and stands.

That night, they split the nightwatch into two five-hour shifts. Genma lets him sleep first, and it
takes Natsume at least an hour before he falls into a fitful rest. The ground is hard and unforgiving
despite the slight barrier the sleeping mat gifts him. When he’s shaken awake he doesn’t feel well
rested, and his body protests when he forces himself to move. All the day’s activity combined with
about four hours of rest time really does a number on his six-year-old body.

Genma slumps into his sleeping bag and presumably is out like a light—but Natsume can’t be sure
the jounin is going to get any sleep at all. Shifting soundlessly, Natsume presses his back to a
nearby tree and looks around into the dark. Shadows and dark spots shift with the wind, trees groan
and wildlife scutters across dry brush. He feels paranoia lay heavily over him like a thick blanket.
Since the fire was put out and the remains discarded, the only light is from the faintest flashes of
the moon through the leaves.

It’s scary.

He can’t curl in on himself, because that hinders his movement if he needs to react immediately.
All he can do is sit quietly and focus his chakra to peer around them. It’s actually pretty good
training, and it takes part of his mind off the fear of the dark. Genma’s chakra is carefully
contained and stagnant like a mountain—but there isn’t much of a difference in presence. Natsume
is almost positive now that the man isn’t asleep, and likely will stay awake just in case Natsume
fails to complete guard duty.

There isn’t much else he can sense aside from a few animals, and their chakra feels distinctly
different from that of a human. He’s not quite sure how to describe it. In the same way he can feel
the differences in a person’s chakra, he can just tell when something isn’t human. Their presence is
too small, too faint. They blend into the surrounding area, like smudges of graphite on paper.

He spends the next few hours practicing with his chakra and reciting fuuinjutsu particles in his
head. Every once in a while he’ll hear a sound from an animal that’ll distract him—make the hairs
on the back of his neck stand up and his paranoia grow—but nothing ever happens.

When the dim light of sunrise breaks through the treetops, Genma sits up. It’s almost five hours on
the dot, Natsume having been just about to push himself up and make his way over to his sensei.

Because they have nowhere to be, Genma shows him how to check the hunting traps they’d left
overnight. There’s a rabbit in one of them and a squirrel in another. Both alive.

“This is another lesson you’re missing out on in the Academy.” Genma murmurs, crouching down
next to Natsume and the squirming animals. “They teach you basic woodland survival, including
how to trap, kill and skin animals. Seeing as you graduated early, you weren’t able to learn that.”

Natsume looks down at the frightened, wiggling animals. Shards of ice lodge in his chest, birthing
seeds of discomfort. It’s a different kind of nervousness, not at all like what he’d felt having to use
the bathroom in full view of another person—even if said person hadn’t batted an eye or seemed to
care.

Genma is a warm and steady presence at his side. Crouched like this, the top of Natsume’s head is
about shoulder height. Natsume is always reminded of how small and young he is compared to
everyone around him—and kind as Genma is, he always seems to forget that Natsume is a child
everytime he sees the glint of the hitai-ate around Natsume’s arm. “You know what I’m asking you
to do, right?”

“Kill them.” Natsume replies, unmoving.

Genma shifts a little, the first signs of discomfort Natsume has seen from the man. “Yeah, kid.
Doesn’t take much. Get a good hold of the head and body. It’s just a sharp twist—you’ll feel a pop.
Animals like this are tiny and fragile in our hands, Natsume. But they’re like people in that way as
well. Easier to kill than you think.”

The rabbit thrashes when Natsume puts his hands on it, squirming helplessly in its stuck position.
He grips the back, fingers clenched tight around tufts of fur. He can feel the rabbit’s heartbeat
shake its whole body. Do it, he thinks.

Genma watches quietly. His earthy tones feel less like a place to rest against and more like a corner
Natsume’s been backed into.

Do it. This is his life now.

Natsume’s fingers tremble, nausea rearing its ugly head. His face remains carefully blank as
emotions he’s unable to name twist around his ribcage into tightly wound coils.

He snaps the rabbit’s neck.

Skinning it is easier than the killing, though Natsume doesn’t voice his thoughts. Genma skins and
guts the rabbit with skilled, familiar movements. It’s for Natsume’s benefit—he’s to observe and
then copy the motions on the squirrel, the smaller and less meaty animal. In the event that he
messes up, they’ll still have the rabbit and a pocketful of edible herbs. There’s a blackberry bush
growing wildly by the stream, the brambles sharp and threatening to soft hands. Genma plucked as
many as he could carry without much thought, hands far more dexterous than Natsume’s. He
himself ends up with a few paper-thin cuts that heal within minutes.

They eat their food and Genma shows him how to find mint, which also grows by the stream, in
the shade of a few larger plants. He stuffs a handful of the leaves in his mouth and chews to rid the
tacky, gross feeling left from not being able to brush his teeth. He picks the beginning bits of
plaque from his teeth with his fingernails beside his sensei.

“Normally we wouldn’t waste time doing this.” Genma murmurs.

And yet they are, so Natsume can’t help but think that the man is trying to go easy on him.
“What about smell? After a few days, people start to stink.”

Genma chuckles, “Trust me, I’m aware. Most shinobi use scent-blocking seals or scentless
deodorizers. For long journeys there’s usually time to wash off in a river, depending on where you
are. Subtle scents or scentless soaps are what most shinobi go for when at home anyway. Those
that stay in the village more are a lot more lax on that kind of thing—you know, wearing perfumes
or colognes, or just not bothering to try and hide their normal scent. Just don’t douse yourself in
anything before meeting an Inuzuka, unless you want them to avoid you.”

Natsume hasn’t met any Inuzuka yet, but he’s seen them around. Red clan markings, feral
appearances, usually brown or black hair—and huge dogs. Some of them look a lot like wolves, but
everyone he’s overheard always calls them dogs, no matter the size. He’s not much of a dog
person, really. Cats are less bothersome and don’t require constant supervision. Naruto once really
wanted a dog, begging and pleading for a puppy, but Natsume knew it would’ve been him who
ended up having to deal with the worst of it.

It had been one of Naruto’s worst tantrums, though his younger brother forgot about it a few days
later and instead insisted he wanted a toad.

“Can I get that at the Shinobi Surplus?” he asks, the taste of mint sharp and grassy on the back of
his tongue.

“Yeah, you can buy scentless soaps there, too. We’ll be working on the scent-blocking seals soon
so you won’t need to worry about purchasing them.” The senbon clicks against Genma’s teeth.

Natsume tries to replace the vacant feeling in his chest with excitement at the idea of learning more
fuinjutsu. But he still feels odd and bloody, the lives of two innocent animals on his conscience.

It really was easy.

They have two weeks out here, so Genma shows Natsume how to completely cover up the area to
make it look as if they were never there, and then they leave. They travel in whichever direction
Genma has chosen, but the sun lowering behind them tells Natsume that they’re heading east. He’s
only briefly seen a map of the Land of Fire, but from what he recalls it means they’re making their
way to the coast.

He’s never seen the ocean before. Something about it makes his extremities tingle with—with
what? Desire to see the water? To feel sand under his bare feet or taste the bitter tang of salt across
his mouth? He isn’t sure.

On the fourth day they end up by one of the Land of Fire’s many rivers, taking turns stripping
down to nothing and cleaning the dirt and summer sweat from their bodies. The water is frigid, but
nice compared to the hot sun blazing down on the back of their necks. Genma shows him how to
wash his clothes and Natsume forces himself to grow accustomed to nakedness. It’s not so bad, as
he’s been responsible for bathing Naruto for the past few years. It’s only weird because for some
reason, in his head nudity coincides with sex—and casual nudity coincides with intimacy and trust.
Maybe there’s trust, but there’s definitely nothing intimate or sexual between him and Genma.

They’re just two bags of meat when it comes down to it.

Whatever knowledge that sits in his head from...before...is the reason for the odd stigmas he
attaches to certain things. It makes him feel even more alone and on the outskirts when the people
around him are so comfortable and familiar with cultural connotations and actions that Natsume
finds instinctively odd or foreign.

They dry their clothes in the sun and Natsume practices water walking while he waits. He never
feels comfortable enough to look at the man straight on, but he manages to see scars and puckered
burn marks along Genma’s bare skin. A map of violence across his flesh.

Natsume looks down at his own skin, light brown and unmarred. He wonders if one day he’ll be
covered in old wounds with stories to tell.

The first week passes quickly and by the time the second week is half-way through they’re turned
around and on their way back, heading west to Konoha. He’s grown a bit used to sleeping on the
ground, warming himself against the chill of the night with his chakra. More animals have fallen to
his hands, and he’s a bit numb to it now. It still feels saddening—but only for a moment. There’s
no other food out here, and survival takes precedence over his feelings.

Genma teaches him hand signals for stop, go, enemy approaching and enemy spotted. There’s a
few others to go over, but Genma takes pity on his fried brain and only teaches a few. Natsume
learned a lot during this trip, more than he expected. Shinobi life is harsh and miserable and relies
far more on base instincts than he’d first anticipated. They become tools and animals for their
village, chained dogs to bark and tear at each other. Like Genma had said, animals are easier to kill
than you think.

Not having a toothbrush sucks. Not having more clothes is awful. Not knowing if you’ll have
enough food is terrifying. But they are shinobi and they must be exposed to this. They must learn
from it—how to overcome, how to flourish in the wilderness like the beasts they are.

They’re making their way back and he doesn’t smell because he learned how to clean himself and
his clothes in the wild. He’s not hungry because he learned how to hunt and forage. He’s not dead
because he learned how to stay on guard, how to look for signs of nearby life and how to be on his
feet within a second of waking. He can regulate his temperature with chakra and walk on water. He
memorized hand signals for foriegn nin and basic movement.

It was only one training trip, but he already feels stronger. He already feels better than he was when
they left.

“They won’t all be like this,” Genma murmurs around his senbon. “We’ll come across bandits,
criminals or foreign shinobi. I chose to keep us towards the east because it was less likely for us to
run into other shinobi—unless Kiri decided to cross the ocean and infiltrate the forests.”

“Could they do that?”

His sensei shakes his head. “Not without some trouble. We have guard posts along the entire
border of the Land of Fire. On most occasions, it’s not the most exciting job in the world.” Genma
glances back at him as they fly through the trees. “Unfortunately we’ll probably have to suffer
through it soon enough.”

Natsume frowns, “Doesn’t really sound like something a genin should participate in.”
 “Normally, you’d be correct. For you, it’ll be good C Rank experience, especially if we’re posted
by the coastal border or the border with Kusa. The Suna-Konoha border might be okay, but even
with the alliance we’re not exactly buddy-buddy.”

“Politics.” Natsume scoffs lightly.

Genma grins a little, “You said it.”

They reach Konoha at the end of the second week, when the sun is orange and heavy above the
horizon. He doesn’t feel any sort of excitement when he sees the gates. What he is excited about is
seeing Naruto, and maybe that shows on his face.

“Glad to be home?” Genma asks, a knowing smile on his mouth.

Natsume isn’t quite sure the man actually gets it—because Konoha isn’t a home. It’s wood and
cement and eyes on his back. A prison. Naruto is his home. But he’s learned more on the trip than
just survival. He spent two weeks in close quarters with a man who put his heart and soul into
serving Konoha, so he gets it now.

He gets it.

You don’t get far if you act traitorous—if you show your scorn for the village. This is a military
dictatorship and prodigy or not he’s a child in a world meant for adults.

“Yes,” he says, Naruto’s smile and bright blue eyes in his head, “I’m glad to be home and take an
actual shower.”

Chapter End Notes

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 VOL. 1, ARC I. (closed heart)
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

When Natsume and Naruto turn 7, they have a birthday party. It’s the first birthday party they’ve
ever had, though it isn’t very large. Natsume prefers that, actually, and it’s not so much a party as it
is a small gathering. Sasuke, Shisui and Itachi show up together in the evening. Hinata shortly
after, out of breath and clearly not supposed to be out. Nobody mentions it.

Because the day of their birth coincides with the Kyuubi attack, the festival of remembrance is in
full swing through the day. Despite the festivities, a somber mood hangs over the village. It’s not a
time for true celebration, and it’s certainly not a time for Naruto and Natsume to exit their homes
without caution.

When the knock on their door comes during sunset, the only reason Natsume even opens the door
is because he can sense who stands behind it.

“What are you doing here?”

Shisui grins, a gift bag swinging from his hand. “Isn’t it obvious? Throwing a party!”

Naruto excitedly pulls them in, blabbering away about his day and the lopsided cake Natsume had
baked them. This year it’s chocolate again, and he’s no better at baking than he was last time.

Itachi nods to Natsume, a box held carefully in his hands. He looks exhausted, not just in the lines
of his face, but in the dull sheen of his obsidian eyes. “I hope we aren’t intruding, Uzumaki-kun.”

“No,” Natsume sighs, “Come in. We weren’t particularly busy.”

The Uchiha smiles a bit, a mere twitch of his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “We brought a cake.
Shisui says you normally bake one yourself, but we decided to treat you anyway. It’s strawberry.”

“Thank you,” he replies, taking the box from the older boy. He’s never had strawberry cake before,
but he has a feeling he’ll like it. It’s also just...nice. Gifts feel pretty meaningless to a shinobi, so
being given food or something of use is preferred. It’s just a cake, but it’s one of the nicest gifts
they’ve received. “Really.”

Itachi’s lips do not move, but his eyes do soften, reflecting the orange of the setting sun. “It’s no
problem at all.”

“Hey, hey! Get over here!” Shisui calls from the kitchen, “We’re not getting any younger—well,
this guy certainly isn’t! Eh, birthday boy?” He aggressively noogies Naruto’s head until the blonde
is screeching with laughter.

Natsume shares a glance with Itachi and, for the first time, feels a sort of kinship. He can see it in
the way the older boy carries himself, in the way he watches over Sasuke and seems so, so tired,
the weight of the world on his twelve year old shoulders. For the first time, Natsume sees what
Shisui does—he sees that he and Itachi really are too similar for their own good.

And perhaps Itachi sees the same.

(So why does the look in his eyes turn sad?)

Hinata comes just an hour later, when Sasuke and Naruto’s hands are greasy with dinner and
they’ve been eyeing the cake like it’s a pile of gold. Only then do they cut it. Shisui does the
honors, slicing through white frosting decorated with strawberry slices. It’s the most expensive
cake Natsume has ever seen. The inside is vanilla and cream with strawberries between the cakes,
and it tastes better than every sweet Natsume has so far consumed.

He decides he really likes strawberries.

Hinata can’t stay too long, but her, Sasuke and Naruto move to the living room space after cake to
burn off the sugar by playing with Naruto’s toys. Shisui had bought him another plush to add to his
growing collection. This one is a cat with red button eyes. Hinata holds the toad plush, Sasuke has
a silver dog, and the three of them run around with the plushies high in the air, pretending the little
toys are shinobi animals on a mission. Their laughter rings in Natsume’s ears, clear and high like
bells.

He stays at the table with Shisui and Itachi, tired but not tired . There’s no desire to join the three
children, even though he’s the same age.

“How’s that sensei of yours?” Shisui asks, thinking he’s being sneaky when he nabs a glob of
frosting from the remaining cake and sticks it in his mouth.

“Genma-sensei is...acceptable.”

“Acceptable?” Shisui repeats, attempting to share an exaggerated glance with Itachi. “That’s high
praise coming from you.”

Natsume scowls, “It’s not praise, I’m being practical.”

Shisui only smiles, teeth like a shark. His eyes glimmer like hot coals; burning, burning, burning.
“Sure.” He allows, like he knows every nook and cranny of Natsume’s personality. Maybe he does.

The sun has entirely set and the buzzing hum of electricity burrows its way into his head. He
focuses once more on the laughter behind him, tucks it away in his memory for another day, when
there’s less laughter and light and warmth.

“You’ve been progressing.”

Natsume glances to Itachi, to the dark gaze and dark hair and pale skin; the Uchiha who feels like
an inferno, like feathers, like sugar powder clinging to his fingertips. “That’s the idea.”

“Will you continue to pursue kenjutsu?” Itachi asks, and Natsume can’t tell if the other boy is
genuinely curious or just trying to fill the silence. “Shisui tells me you’ve grown quite skilled.”

“He’s amazing! Soon Shiranui won’t be able to keep up with him.” Shisui brags. “He’ll have to
find another trainer.”

Natsume ignores Shisui’s interruption. “I’m getting there. Continuing is in my best interests, so I’ll
probably pursue another teacher eventually. Genma-sensei doesn’t specialize in it.”

“I see.” Itachi murmurs, ignoring Shisui as well.

“Guys!? Are you trying to hurt my feelings?”

Hinata has to leave within the hour and as the sun has already set, the Uchiha boys decide to walk
her home. Naruto is sad to see them go, but there’s a lightness in his face that Natsume doesn’t
recognize. It isn’t that his little brother was ever unhappy when it was just them two. Naruto
treasured the moments they spent together, treasured having Natsume’s attention, the little gifts the
redhead would scrounge up and the unconditional love connecting them. But Natsume was not
blind to the way that Naruto wanted more.

His little brother was like the sun, excessively bright and reaching —grasping for more, more,
more. He drew people in and kept them close, made them grow under his undiluted light. Made
them want to stay. Made them believe him when he put his mind to something.

Natsume does not have that charisma, and charisma it must be, because for all that Naruto is
determined and bright and inherently kind, he’s also annoying and loud. What Natsume does have
is an unnatural maturity that separates him from his agemates, and a youthful appearance that
separates him from the adults. Strictly speaking, Natsume does not fit. He’s also not the only one of
his kind, however, because Shisui and Itachi are the same, even if they’re leaving childhood
behind. They’re older and taller but they get him. They treat him as he is and don’t take things like
age or appearance into account.

The burden of being a child prodigy in a shinobi world is shared across their still growing
shoulders.

Shisui swings him up and around with ease, seventeen and beautiful the way the most deadly and
dangerous of creatures are, squeezing Natsume into hugs he can’t escape from. The Uchiha still
tries to carry him around like he’s four years old, and not seven with knobby knees and the heft of a
growing boy.

“Release me!” He growls like a wet cat, kicking out uselessly with his legs, arms pinned to his
sides. He puts on a show, but there’s very little attempt at a true struggle.

Shisui is tall and warm and his arms feel more like a home than Konoha’s streets. He smells of
ichor and syrup and steel, he feels like a prowling beast and a night sky filled with stars and the
heavy, hot churn of magma. He’s not like Naruto, but he also is.

Naruto and Shisui. Shisui and Naruto.

Like a little family.

Shisui’s laughter is throaty, his voice finally evened out after a few years of cracking. He finally
drops Natsume, only to move to Naruto and give the blond the same goodbye treatment. Sasuke
huffs by the door, hand in hand with Hinata and waiting for the oldest Uchiha to finish his
dramatics.

Itachi slips a scroll displaying the Uchiha crest into his palm. “You should find this useful.”

“This is a Clan scroll.” Natsume notes, not exactly questioning the decision. “Won’t you get in
trouble for this?”

Itachi—tired, dark eyed Itachi—does not smile, but his brow is soft and he looks his age under the
yellow lamplight. “I am the heir, and you are an Uzumaki.”

That, Natsume supposes, is an answer in itself. He and Naruto wave goodbye to their friends, the
four sticking the shadows so no one wonders why the Hyuuga heir is hanging around with a bunch
of Uchiha. The two Uzumaki watch until their friends are out of sight. Only then does Natsume
close the door and tell Naruto to go get ready for bed.

He thinks about Itachi’s gift for a while.

“Politics.” He scoffs into the night air, after Naruto is dead asleep.

(The scroll is filled with the basics of fire-resistant seals. It does not escape his notice that Uchiha
are mainly fire natures.)

Winter means learning a new set of survival skills. At seven years old, he’s barely four feet tall and
maybe 50lbs soaking wet; this means one of his biggest concerns is keeping warm and preserving
body heat. It’s easier to combat now that he can circulate his chakra to regulate his temperature.
(He runs hotter than most anyway.)

Genma takes him on another shopping trip, but they don’t go to the usual shop that Natsume
frequents—the one where he’d gotten that Clan book from. Instead they walk and walk and walk
until they’re in a less populated area of Konoha, and a sprawling forest can be seen in the distance.
The trees are tall and dark, but they don’t look as large as those obnoxious Hashirama trees.

The shop they step into is swathed in dull greens and tans, the symbol of the Nara Clan on a banner
they step under. It smells like a forest inside, like pine needles and petrichor and fur. Stylized
clothes made of fishnet or deerskin or dark green fabrics are on the left, weaponry in the middle
and what looks like medicinal items on the right. Deer antlers and jars of plants, sludge, poison, the
occasional animal corpse or mushroom.

A part of Natsume, the part that has too much knowledge, likens it to a weaponized witch shop. He
doesn’t know where that thought comes from. There’s no such thing as witches, and they most
certainly don’t have shops.

“This...is a Clan store.” He can’t help but point out the obvious.

“Sure is.” Is Genma’s cheerful reply, senbon clacking against his teeth.

“Are we allowed in here?”

His sensei moves into the store without a care, and the one Nara manning the register only glances
up at them for a moment before going back to the sudoku book in their hand. Natsume can’t tell if
it’s a man or woman, but the thick, dark hair and deep brown skin poke at his brain until he
remembers that it’s eerily similar to the way that mystery man in the previous store looked.

Oh, he thinks to himself, reaching out with his sensory abilities. The Nara at the register feels like
the shadows between sunbeams. They’re related. No doubt about it.

“Yeah,” Genma replies, dragging him over to the clothing. “It’s an open shop, just Nara run. Can’t
buy the clothes with their Clan Symbol though. Not unless you plan on marrying into the Nara...I
hear the Clan Head has a son about your age.” He throws a loose, teasing smile in Natsume’s
direction.

He doesn’t rise to the bait. “I’m not interested in changing my name.”

Genma huffs. “You’re no fun.”

The man outfits him with thermals, shows him the best clothes for winter. The Nara make
exceptional clothing suited for the wilderness, their thermals lightweight and like a second skin,
easy to wear under the usual uniform. A slightly thicker version contains mesh armor intertwined
with the fabric, adding defense on top of the cold protection. A winter cloak is added to the pile, a
little too big for Natsume at the moment, but Genma poorly hides his amusement and assures
Natsume that he’ll grow into it.

Natsume does not pout, because having a slightly too large cloak isn’t bad at all. It’s smart, in fact,
because he’s a growing boy and within a few months he’ll need to buy all new clothes anyway.

They buy a few more things, including a winter kit with heat seals to dry out wet lumber or boil
snow. He could probably make his own, but they come with the kit so he’s not complaining.
They’re interesting to study and pick apart, too. The kanji ‘温’ meant warm, and was the focal
point for multiple heat related seals. For the drying-slash-heating ones, fuuinjutsu particles were
added to shift warm to heat up, warm up when applied to inorganic objects like clothes, lumber or
liquid. You had to be careful with the output, however, else you light your clothes on fire instead of
drying them out. The grades were sorted like missions. A Grade D Heat Seal would dry light
clothes or paper. Grade C, thicker clothes or fabrics. Grade B would dry lumber. Grade A would
boil water. Grade S was how to start fires discreetly without leaving a trace as to how.

Going another route with the same central kanji, you create insulation seals. They were commonly
used on clothes and tents to keep a shinobi warm in chilly environments even without excessive
layers. It was an odd seal, because the particles spoke of stagnation while also being surrounded
by strokes for infinity.

The seals in the scroll Itachi gave him were entirely the opposite, meant to stop fire instead of
create it. 消, the kanji for extinguish was the center of that seal, surrounded by watery lines and
swooping marks that formed the kanji for fire. A good seal for protecting clothes, scrolls and books
from going up in flames. It definitely offered a buffer against chakra-infused fire, but probably
wouldn’t last under a constant stream of it. That was fine, Natsume can figure out something better
eventually, now that he has the building blocks of the seal.

He likes Fuuinjutsu. It requires enough concentration to pull his thoughts away from dark corners
and feels like art, every stroke done with the utmost care. It feels a little familiar in a way, but only
to that part of his brain that was more.

He finds he likes art. Fuuinjutsu gives him an outlet for that creative impulse, because seals look
like beautiful, swirling patterns. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough. He wants to do silly things
like paint or capture Naruto and Shisui in graphite portraits. But that’s for people with time, and he
does not have time.

“Do you need me to pay for these?” Genma asks.

Natsume levels him with a vicious stare, lip curling. The man raises his hands in surrender, the
corners of his mouth rising.

“Alright, alright. That’s the last time I’ll be a gentleman.”

The Uzumaki takes his pile over to the register, barely able to see over it. He struggles with all the
items but neither adult makes a comment about it, though Natsume can feel Genma’s amusement
like a laser on the back of his neck.
Nara-san checks out all the items and, in a voice just as androgynous as their appearance, states the
total. “1,000 ryo.”

Natsume looks at all the items on the counter: three pairs of thermals, one with mesh lining, a
cloak, closed-toed shoes and a winter supply kit that had heat seals, freeze-proof containers and
basic medical supplies. The haul was worth well above 1,000 ryo. If anything, this kind of
shopping spree might cost the same as a D Rank depending on where you bought your materials
from—and a D Rank was around 5,000 ryo.

( Total. Meaning it had to be split among whoever participated. That’s why most genin squads did
a few D Ranks a day, so they could actually earn enough money to stock up.)

He puts 1,000 ryo on the counter.

Nara-san takes, puts the items into two bags, and slides them over to Natsume. He takes them,
suspicious and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Normally he wouldn’t care, because saving
money is preferable and he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. But this time, something
feels different. Maybe not bad...but odd.

“Why’s it so cheap?”

Nara-san clicks the pen in their hand and pulls their sudoku book up. “No idea what you mean,
kid.”

And that’s that.

When they leave, Natsume very stubbornly carries his bags by himself. Genma doesn’t offer. It
seems he’s learned not to interfere with Natsume’s way of doing things—or he finds Natsume’s
struggling a good source of amusement.

“Go home and pack for a few days' travel.” His sensei announces. “I’m gonna teach you exactly
why you need that stuff you just bought.”

Before Natsume can reply, Genma has vanished in a swirl of leaves. He tightens his grip on his
bags and heads home, feet ghosting silently over the frozen ground. His breath leaves his lips in a
cloud of condensed air, his nose turning red the longer he trudges on in the cold. If he wanted, he
could be home in a flash. Could take to the rooftops or shunshin away and escape to somewhere
warmer.

But there’s something soothing about the chill, at least for the moment. When it snows, everything
becomes quieter. White covers the world in a blanket, muffling sound and sending the ambient
noise of insects and animals into hibernation. He likes the quiet. He likes the color of the street
lanterns reflecting off the flat, untouched snow. The trail of a single person cutting through
sparkling white. It’s the aesthetic of winter that he likes, far more than the cold and muck and wet
of it all.

He’s named for summer, and though he’s not a fan of the humid heat of Konoha, he suits the
season better. He can stand warm temperatures far longer than cold ones, which makes sense given
his lineage. The Uzumaki were a coastal clan, an island clan. Uzushio winters—according to
geography books—were more on the side of lukewarm rather than chilly, with warm waters and a
volcanic underbelly. Constitutionally, he was bred to withstand heat more than cold.

(Though bred was an uncomfortable word for it—then again, who knows.)

When he does get home, he’s chilled but not freezing. There are children running by with heavy
coats, their noses dripping snot and their ears a violent red. He doesn’t feel it, clad in a thin blue
jacket with his cheeks only faintly pink. Chakra circulates through him with ease, warming.

He feels...old.

During the winter trip, Natsume learns how to hunt in the snow. Food is scarce, most animals
hiding away from the cold in hibernation or migrated to warmer lands. Plants are withered and
dead. Water sources frozen. The very air enough to kill a man, even the biggest man, with
hypothermia.

Small animals like squirrels and chipmunks are harder to find but still present, and there are a few
rabbits wearing white winter coats. More effort is put into hunting during the winter and set-up for
camps takes longer. This means the travel time in general is lengthened and movement is slowed.
Missions take longer, even if it’s just hours or days more, it’s still longer.

Plants like Rose Hips, Persimmons and Barberries can be scrounged depending on the location,
and if it comes down to it pine trees have bark that can be ground into a flour that provides calories
and Hickory nuts can be plucked from the icy ground. Of course, most head out on missions with
packets of jerky and calorie pills and during the winter you can purchase food pills with a higher
fat content.

Natsume has a packet of jerky and a bag of calorie pills. He learns how to correctly apply
insulating and warming seals to clothes and tents, where best to set up camp during different winter
weather conditions. Staying in the trees is better because it helps block the wind, even if the bare
branches don’t do much to block the snow. Trees also means firewood and the ability to make a
sort of lean-to that can cover the tent and stop snow from piling on top of it.

Setting up the tent gives him an idea about creating barriers using fuuinjutsu. Maybe it would be
possible to use a solid barrier to protect the tent from rain, snow and wind? It would have to be
either chakra or blood activated—maybe both—and then whoever wanted to lower or raise it would
have to have their signature registered with the seal….that could get expensive. Complex.
Depending on how many shinobi the seal would have to work for. Or it could be indiscriminate,
and just need chakra to activate. But then it wouldn’t serve as protection from foreign shinobi. But
the idea came to him as a way to deal with the weather...

So maybe the protection from other shinobi could come later. Best not get too ahead of himself.

Genma shows him how to use all the tools he has.

Then he takes Natsume’s tools away and makes him do it with nothing but his own two hands.
Shinobi must be ready for any and every situation, after all. Natsume builds a shelter, spends hours
trying to start a fire, sets traps and digs through the snow to find nuts until his fingers feel like
blocks of ice.

He doesn’t yet know any fire release jutsu, doesn’t yet know any jutsu at all, actually. But his
chakra is plentiful and bright and corrosive, so after a few hours of trying it the traditional way, he
sends pure chakra into the flimsy pile of tinder and it alights with a small explosion. Not great, but
it does the job for now.

He kills more animals and half burns them over his shoddy fire. Genma said quite clearly that this
was a survival expedition and a test. He’s watching—unseen, but Natsume can feel him and the
man isn’t trying especially hard to hide. Natsume is on his own, but if he’s in any clear danger then
Genma will swoop in. He knows this, but he doesn’t take it for granted. He needs to figure this out
right, because there’s a very real possibility that not knowing how to survive in the winter will kill
him some day in his line of work.

When Genma took his tools, he took everything. Natsume is left with only the thin clothes on his
back, and they aren’t even his. They’re tiny shinobi standards, black and shapeless and without a
single seal. He’ll freeze to death without a heat source.

He focuses on regulating his temperature.

The shelter was built with fallen branches, leaning against the wide bark of a tree. Everything is
wet and cold and all he has is a shelter with too many drafts and a tiny fire that needs constant fuel.

If panic sets in, he’s done for. So he thinks about what exactly he can do. He has plenty of chakra
and knowledge of seals. No ink and no brush. A substitute would be….

Blood.

Natsume tears the flesh from his fingertips with his teeth and scrawls seals into the shitty hut he’s
made with bark and branches. Insulation. Warming. The barrier idea comes to mind. If he can
successfully establish four points around his little shelter, he can erect a barrier to keep out
anymore snow. Four chunks of bark covered in bloody symbols will have to do. It’s on the fly,
however, so he only manages to create a seal to repel snow, because water is easy enough to
signify. Wind is harder, because it’s just air, and he still needs air to circulate within the sealed
space. Right now probably isn’t the best time to mess around with that, so he settles. It’s not so
bad, because even with the occasional bout of wind, it’s warm.

He has a shelter, food and a fire. Water is easy enough to obtain, but he has no real way to drink it.
There’s no containers, nothing but his hands. Usually you would need to boil it but there’s no pot,
and plenty of snow. It won’t be completely pure, but if he can at least whittle a small cup or bowl
out of wood then he can let snow melt in it.

He’s going to be fine.

“You’re good.”

Natsume barely looks up, carefully watching his rabbit turn over the fire. “I’m learning.”

Genma grunts, “Would it kill you to take a compliment?”

Natsume survived on his own for four days, and then Genma dropped down and they set up all
their actual gear. Not that he wasn’t doing perfectly fine on his own—but a tent, warm clothes and
blankets were suddenly the most amazing items to ever grace the earth.

They spent three more days going over winter survival and everything he’d done wrong on his
own, and Natsume was ready to go home.

“I’m being honest.”

“You’re being difficult.” Genma fires back without any heat, leaning against a tree. “Yes, you need
improvement. Yes, you can always get better. That doesn’t mean you aren’t currently good.”

“I don’t want to be just good.” He’s also not in the mood for talking. Every day out here makes
him get grumpier and grumpier. Shinobi are meant to endure, sure, but that doesn’t mean he has to
like it. On top of his worsening mood, he’s also starting to miss Naruto and Shisui.

The older man looks sky high as if praying for another student. “Yeah, I know, kid.”

The first thing Natsume does when he gets home is take a hot shower. It shakes the last of the chill
from his bones and loosens his tensed muscles. He’s seven and tense.

Naruto is at the Academy, so Natsume takes his time winding down. He cleans the messes around
the house and makes a note to scold Naruto about them. After eating rough jerky, burnt squirrel
and bitters nuts for a week he’s ready for some actual food. The fridge is still stocked, so it looks
like Shisui took Naruto grocery shopping during the week. On the first shelf, just at his eye level,
is a covered pot with a note on it.

Your favorite, for my favorite little redhead! — Shicchan

Natsume feels a smile pull at his mouth, soft in the way he usually isn’t. He almost moves to throw
the note away, but then places it on the counter instead. It’s such an innocuous thing, there’s no
reason to keep it. But he does. Sentiment, maybe.

He takes the pot out of the fridge and kicks the door shut with his foot. After some careful
maneuvering, he sets the pot on the stove and drags the step-stool over so he can actually see
what’s in it. Beef Udon.

He grins again, wider this time. White baby teeth flash, the only witness a pot of noodle soup.

When Naruto comes home, it’s to the scent of beef broth. He slams the door behind him in a fit of
excitement. “Nacchan! You’re home!”

Natsume can barely blink before his brother is upon him, thin arms wrapped around him with a
tight, squeezing grip. He grunts and returns the hug with a more controlled movement, petting at
the blond spikes brushing his cheek. “I missed you, Naruto.”

His brother pulls away, keeping his hands on Natsume’s arms. His eyes are wide, unending blue
and shifting wetly like the ocean’s surface. The expression on his face is endearing. Honest.
Everything that Natsume is not. “I missed you a whole bunch, Nacchan. I had Sasuke and Hinata-
chan and Shicchan but it’s not the same, ya know? It’s weird when you’re not here!” Determination
quickly replaces the vulnerability. “But don’t worry about me, Nacchan! We’re shinobi! I know
you’re doing super-duper important stuffs, and soon I’ll be going on crazy ninja missions and
rescuing princesses and it might take days and days or even weeks! Which would really stink, like
a lot, ya know? Because they I wouldn’t see you and that’s the worst! But then, ya know, I thought
it wouldn’t be so bad to go adventuring or doing super crazy shinobi rescue missions. ‘Cause we’ll
always come home. So….you gotta promise.”

Natsume blinks. “Promise what?”

 “That you’ll always come home! And I’ll promise that I’ll always come home, so that way, neither
of us have to be lonely!”

It’s a childish thought. A young thought. An Innocent thought. Shinobi don’t always come home,
no matter how long they’ve been a shinobi, no matter how powerful or skilled. Konoha is not a
home so much as it is a prison, and he is an attack dog on a tight leash. He doesn’t want to come
home. He doesn’t care for the village, or the four walls they reside in. He wants to move anyway,
when he saves up enough money, to the shinobi district.

Getting attached to material items or terms like home are meaningless.

But Naruto... Naruto is a home all on his own. A person for Natsume to come back to, who loves
him unconditionally and with no reservations. A person who would tear down the world for him,
and for who Natsume would do the same. If Natsume must have a home, then Naruto is it, and he
will always endeavor to come back.

“I promise that I will always come back to you,” he murmurs, holding his pinky out to loop with
Naruto’s. Maybe it’s a lie. Maybe it’s a promise meant to be broken. Maybe he’ll die alone amidst
the trees or on a battlefield in the mud. “Now please take your shoes off, you’re tracking slush
through the house.”

Naruto looks down at his wet sandals, azure eyes following the trail of wet footprints. “Oops.”

Chapter End Notes

find me on tumblr!
 VOL. 1, ARC I. (spring)
Chapter Notes

heyyy, been a hot minute! i really missed my boy natsu ;-;

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Sometimes when Natsume dreams, he dreams of good things. He dreams of a world where smiling
doesn’t feel like a foreign concept, where Naruto’s laughter can be unhindered by stares in the
streets, where Shisui is a permanent fixture in their home. Soft dreams. Happy dreams. Ones where
two blurry figures wander into frame and Natsume calls them tou-chan and kaa-chan. He doesn’t
see them clearly and he never sees colors but he knows. He knows it’s them and he knows he’s
happy.

When Natsume has dreams like that, he wakes with bitterness on his tongue. Like overly brewed
tea or licorice. It sits in his mouth no matter how many times he swallows throughout the day and
puts him in a bad mood. The dreams are kind only when he’s sleeping, not when he wakes to face
the morning light and the harsh blow of reality.

It’s later than usual.

Naruto is already gone, and that itself is a surprise. It makes Natsume feel like a proud parent,
knowing that Naruto has grown and learned how to take care of himself without Natsume watching
over his shoulder like a hawk. All the weeks he spends away training…

Naruto has to pick himself up alone.

Even though they’re seven, and neither of them should have to, it’s a break that Natsume feels like
a physical weight being lifted from his shoulders. Naruto cleans his messes, knows how to bathe
himself, can brush his own teeth without being told twice. He’s learned how to act because it’s
routine, it’s all movement that his body has done over and over again and that’s just how he learns.
Kinetically.

Natsume’s just glad he’s basically raised Naruto to act that way from a young age. Otherwise
trying to beat a cleaner attitude into him later in life would have been near impossible.

He gets out of bed. His hair is in disarray, spikes and waves and curls, blood red and sticking to his
face. The space in the bed beside him has been cold for days, because Naruto no longer sleeps
beside him at night like he used to. Maybe he’s growing too fast. Maybe Konoha is turning him
into something of a half-baked adult as well, and there’s nothing Natsume can do when he’s only
this young—when he’s only this fragile compared to the powerhouses that walk the streets.

The sun hangs in the sky somewhere before noon. He estimates it to be 10am, definitely later than
he’s slept in a long time. Something, that something that sits in his head and has no true name, tells
him that he likes that. Sleeping in. Funny, as he’s never done it.

He thinks he’s never done it.

There’s no meeting with Genma-sensei today. He’s been instructed to rest his still growing body,
but Natsume has too much energy to just sit at home and do nothing. So he might as well sit at
home and do something.

After getting it drilled into his head that he needs a rest day at least once a week, he forgoes
running through kata in the living room. Instead he slowly eases himself into yoga poses.
Stretching isn’t working out. It’s just keeping up with his flexibility...one of the most necessary
skills of a shinobi.

Natsume eats cereal for breakfast, feeling oddly lazy today. Maybe it’s because he slept in, but his
limbs feel a bit heavy and his movements are more lethargic than he likes. He sits in the quiet of
the kitchen and wonders if he should get a hobby.

The streets are busy. Shouts and laughs, dust kicked up underfoot. Children running from each
other without a care in their hearts, too young yet to work. Teens stumbling over their first jobs.
Seasoned sellers calling out their sales and wares. He sticks to the sides and slips in and out. The
crowd is like a collection of lightbulbs. Tiny ones, though. Civilians don’t have much chakra. It’s
undeveloped, left alone through childhood. It’s true that the younger you start, the better your
chances are. Once you hit adulthood, molding and growing chakra pools becomes infinitely more
difficult. Impossible, for some.

Civilians feel like buzzing flies compared to a shinobi.

Act like it, too.

He sneers at a passing woman who recoils like he’s a rabid animal. Maybe he is. Maybe he wants
to be. It’s not like he really cares what the civilians think about him. All he has to do is be on his
best behavior around shinobi—or the best behavior he can exhibit, because while Natsume is
training to be a liar, he wears his emotions like a potent perfume. As long as he keeps his ugly,
angry, treasonous thoughts to himself, the shinobi of Konoha can just assume he’s a grouchy iron
wall.

Today he has nowhere to be and no one to see while Naruto is at school and Shisui is on a mission.
He’s wandering for the hell of it, because like it or not he’s grown too accustomed to the outdoors,
whether it be for survival or for training. He’d managed about two hours of reading before the itch
to move became too great. He’s starting to feel like Naruto, who houses the sun under his skin and
burns celestial atoms for energy.

He makes it the park.

The same park with the treeline he used to train by. The same park with the river between those
trees, where he’d lost a piece of himself underneath hands and water. It feels like a long time ago.
He feels bigger, older. He is, his clothes certainly attest to that, but it’s a different kind of feeling.
Aged in the heart rather than the body. Aged in the soul, maybe.

It’s not a park he likes to see. But he knows why he’s here.

Because Naruto feels like the sky, like the scent of a summer breeze, like sun-warmed rocks and
the taste of campfire smoke and oranges. He knows Naruto like the back of his hand, better even.
He’s also grown to recognize the feel of those who worm themselves close, who choose to sit by a
battered, angry redhead and think him nothing but a boy.
Sasuke feels like a river. Or maybe not. It’s smooth, like polished stones, polished glass, polished
ice. Flowering and bright like lightning, hot like boiling water. Undeniable heat, undeniable ash,
though far fainter than Natsume senses in Shisui and Itachi.

And he’s sitting alone in a park, hiding under the slide like it’s the best protection a child could
ever seek, using it as a shield against everything and anything. He’s crying and trying to pretend he
isn’t, even though he believes himself alone and that’s perhaps the saddest thing Natsume has ever
seen.

“You should be in school.” Is what he says when he’s close, his shadow draped across Sasuke’s
trembling form. He’s never been very good at soft things like comfort. “Someone bully you or
something?”

Seems unlikely, with that personality….and with Naruto, who would punch someone first and ask
questions later. It’s a habit Natsume isn’t entirely sure he wants to correct.

Sasuke flinches, looking up with shock. His face is bright red and swollen from crying, tears
hanging off his absurdly long lashes like little diamonds. Pale lips are set in a firm pout as he
breathes harshly through his nose and refuses to let out his cries. “N-Natsu…”

Natsume sighs. He’s dealt with Naruto their entire childhood. Yet despite that, he’s not good at
dealing with crying kids. Crying in general makes him uncomfortable, like he’s seeing a piece of
someone he’s not privy to. Children cry over the smallest things...but Sasuke, Sasuke isn’t really
like other children either.

He sits down next to the crying Uchiha, scooting under the slide so they’re both in the shade. “You
don’t seem like the type to get bullied.”

“It’s not that.” Sasuke sniffs, wiping his nose on his sleeve and leaving a trail of snot. “I don’t
wanna talk about it.”

Natsume looks at him for a long moment. “You don’t wanna talk about it, but you’re okay sitting
alone in a park. Crying.”

“I’m not crying!”

“The snot on your face says otherwise, brat.”

Sasuke wrinkles his nose, his disgusting, snot-dripping nose. He’s so flushed and messy that
Natsume wishes he had a washcloth or something. The only thing available is the river in the trees,
but he can’t even bring himself to think of it for too long.

“...It’s stupid.”

Natsume looks at Sasuke. Sasuke looks back, all wet eyes and frowning mouth.

“You should tell me anyway. Or someone, if you don’t think you can trust me.”

“I trust you!” Sasuke yelps, like it would be ridiculous to think otherwise.

It makes something in Natsume’s gut drop, like he’s freefalling. Words like trust sound so odd to
his ears. He hadn’t meant anything serious by it, and now it feels as if he’s just been given a
promise that’s too heavy. He ignores that for now and instead scours his brain for what could
possibly be bothering Sasuke.
“Is it your brother? Or your dad?”

Sasuke presses his lips together tightly. His face sinks further into the cradle of his arms, a few
more diamond tears slipping from his lashes to pave shiny paths down his chubby cheeks.

Bingo.

“Sasuke.”

The boy exhales gustily, looking grumpy. At least he’s stopped the crying, even if his voice still
wobbles and his breathing remains uneven. “It’s just that...nii-san has been super busy lately. Like,
really really busy. He won’t play with me, won’t train with me...barely even talks or looks at me.
Sometimes he’s home but it doesn’t feel like he’s home. And he gets quiet and never wants to
spend time with any of us, even at dinner.” The words spill from Sasuke like an infection. “They
think I’m stupid, because I’m not smart like Itachi. But I’m not stupid! I can see that something is
wrong and...and no one wants to bother with me.”

Itachi’s hands are probably so bloody that he doesn’t know what to do with them. His fingers
probably feel more comfortable with a kunai than they do wielding chopsticks. He’s probably
forgotten what it feels like to relax in his house when his home is the battlefield.

Natsume sees himself in Itachi. More so after Shisui’s comparison. More so when he’d taken the
time to see the way the world fell around Itachi’s figure like fate thought it obvious that it was the
boy’s job to pick up the pieces. Natsume sees himself in Itachi because he’s walking the same
path. A young prodigy trained to kill and die at the hands of adults, with a brother he’d do anything
for.

How scary. How terrifying.

“You’re not stupid.” You’re a child. “You’re still learning and that’s okay. The adults can stuff it. I
bet they’re just jealous of Itachi because he’s better than even them, and they just take it out on
you. You don’t have to care about them. You shouldn't care about anyone who makes you feel
lesser, because they don’t deserve you.”

Like how Konoha didn’t deserve him, didn’t deserve Naruto. Definitely not Naruto.
“But my dad—”

“Fuck your dad.” Natsume curses, “Dads can be mean. Dads can be worthless at caring for their
own kids. Their actions are their own and you don’t need his approval to be whatever you wanna
be.”

Sasuke sniffs again, too dejected and contemplative to point out Natsume’s cursing. “It still hurts
though. When he...when he says stuff about me not being like Itachi.”

Natsume sacrifices his sleeve, wiping away the snot and tears. He’s used to it by now, with Naruto.
It’s just as gross as usual. “That’s okay. But it’s stupid. Not you, him. The words he says. ‘Cause
ya can’t be like Itachi.”

Sasuke's lip wobbles.

“Not because you’re lesser or somethin’ stupid. But because your name is Uchiha Sasuke, not
Uchiha Itachi, ya know?” The verbal tic slips out without his consent, as it always does when he
starts getting worked up. “You can only be like Sasuke.”

Another sniff. Sasuke grumbles against Natsume’s continued wiping of his nasty snot.

“I dunno how to be just Sasuke.”

“Figure it out.” Natsume grumbles. “It’s no one else’s business but your own, so don’t go looking
for help from me. I only offer help when someone needs their ass kicked.”

“You helped me right now.” Sasuke says, childish and soft. “You’re a lot nicer than you act.”

Something uncomfortable squirms in Natsume’s chest. His heart, probably. He kinda feels like
throwing up a little, skin hot and nerves buzzing. Kind? Nice?

He pushes Sasuke over, so the boy tumbles onto his side with a cry.

“Go back to class.”

“Hey!” Sasuke exclaims, but Natsume is already up and walking away.

He presses his fingers to his mouth because his face feels off. There’s a smile there, stretched
across his lips, curved under his fingertips.

Thing is, Natsume thinks he might be addicted to the way a katana feels in his hands. The practice
boken is one thing, but the weight of live steel is something else entirely. It’s too big for him,
obviously. He’s better suited for a wakizashi at the moment, or a tanto—like what Shisui has.
Natsume has seen it more times than he can count, strapped to Shisui’s shoulder like a pale
imitation of a bird’s wing. Between them is a promise to train with it, a promise to hold the short
blade that’s an extension of Shisui’s limbs.

“You’re better than I am by now.” Genma sighs, “Just a little too tiny.”

Natsume glares at him, but there isn’t much heat behind it. He’s too enamored with the blade in his
hands. A perfectly crafted katana, almost as long as he is tall. The hilt is pretty, if plain, wrapped in
ocean blue cloth. He wants it. He wants it desperately, maybe more than he’s ever wanted
anything.

“I’ll find a kenjutsu user to train you. If you grow another foot taller, maybe I’ll get you that
katana as a present.” The man continues, teasing in his tone. “For now, pick a tanto and a
wakizashi. Not that I’m allowing you to use these outside of practice just yet. No field work until
you’re tested by a proper kenjutsu user.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Natsume mutters, absorbed in looking over the blades that line the walls of the
armory. He very reluctantly puts the katana in his reverent hands back to its rightful place. One
day, one day. Some childish part of him, a part that hasn’t been snuffed out by Konoha’s eager
violence and need to stomp on his happiness, can’t help but think that swords are the coolest
weapons ever.

Genma snorts behind him, and the taste of fondness leaks out of his chakra. Natsume pretends he
can’t feel it, because he doesn’t want to touch emotions like that with a ten foot pole. Even if it’s
comforting. Even if he relaxes and feels like he can reach for the man and his sensei will reach
back.

Trust.

He considers the words Sasuke said a few days ago. The words he’d let slip from his lips without a
second thought. Was the shinobi system built on trust or on betrayal? On the ability to lie, or the
ability to seek truth in your comrades? How do you find happiness and friendship in a world that
doesn’t give definite answers to those questions—those questions that meant everything to his
survival.

Here’s the thing.

Maybe Natsume wants to be happy here. Like Sasuke, who feels like the odd one out in his family,
who can’t find the care he needs in his own house, who wants to be whatever he has to be to get
that happiness. But even if Natsume relates to that, he knows it’s not right. He and Sasuke
shouldn’t have to be anything but themselves.

Even if Natsume doesn’t exactly know who Natsume is just yet either. His life is just Naruto. Just
survival. Just what do I need to save money for next.

His fingers trail over the cool metal of a short wakizashi with a black hilt and handle, the sheath a
delicately painted thing that depicts a tsunami, swirling mountains of water and sharp-mawed
creatures grasping for a way out of the torrent.

“This one.” He says, and takes the paired tanto as well.

Genma puts a hand on Natsume’s hair and ruffles his red locks.

He doesn’t even say anything when Genma pays for the two blades in their entirety, because for
once—for once...he wants to feel a little bit like a child. A little bit like he’s the one being taken
care of.

“How’s the fuuinjutsu going?”

“Pretty well.” He replies, sealing away the purchased blades. “Working on barrier types right now.
Elemental variance is…”

“Frustrating?”
Natsume hums. “Annoying, mostly. It’s like having a hundred of the same exact sentence with just
one word being different each time.”

Genma huffs a laugh past the senbon clacking against his teeth. “Yeah, you said it. But I guess
that’s all fuuinjutsu is at the core. Repetition.”

“Life is exactly the same.”

They walk the streets of Konoha, Genma with his hands in his pockets and chakra relaxed, like a
slumbering bear. Natsume isn’t sure if he wants to poke it. Isn’t sure if he wants to get closer. He’s
seven years old and scared. Yes, that’s the word. The word he hates to even think because he’s not
allowed to show it. Would Genma leave him behind to complete a mission?

Would he?

Genma. With his pin-straight brown hair—the same brown that half of Konoha sports because half
of them have some measure of Senju blood in them, whether it be a ⅓ or only enough to fill a pinky
toe—and his plain brown eyes that look like almonds and his chakra that smells the same, which
should be terrifying because so does cyanide.

Natsume wonders if he reaches out—if, if.

If he does.

Will he be treated with a handful of almond extract or poison?

The spring is muddy streets and flowers pushing their way out of cracks in the earth. Natsume
stares at Itachi, who stares back at him. Their little brothers play in the newly green grass, stains on
their shorts and sunshine in their faces.

Itachi looks like a shadow, like he’s not fully here and not fully there. The lines in his face are
impossibly deep, deep like the gouges in the earth that fill and flow with water. Natsume’s pretty
sure he’s never seen a kid look as tired as Uchiha Itachi does. Because that’s all Itachi is. A kid.
He’s not even thirteen yet, not for another three months.

And yet he carries himself like an old man, as if he’s seen the worst the world has to offer and still
somehow made it back alive, whether he wanted to or not.

He doesn’t think Itachi hates him. He doesn’t think Itachi trusts him.

“I hear you’ve moved on to live steel.” The older boy says in his quiet voice. It’s a babbling brook
over round stones. The feel of feathers under your fingers.

Natsume nods. He offers more information than he’d usually give without prying. “Yeah. I’ve
started learning under a woman by the name of Yugao Uzuki.”

The Uchiha’s expression doesn’t change. It’s like he hasn’t heard at all, but the information still
registers in his head. A doll. Itachi looks like a doll, pretty face and all. Expressionless. Do they
have therapists in Konoha? Natsume feels like Itachi really needs one. Badly. Do shinobi even
believe in mental illness?
(Why does he even know about it to begin with?)

Natsume looks away from that coal-black gaze. He looks instead at his arms, at the bruises lining
them, the wrapped blisters calluses on his hands. There is strength in his battered body. Strength he
hadn’t had before, strength he doesn’t want to lose. Itachi comes from a good family, one with
plenty of money and time and prestige. He’s similar to Natsume but also not, and Natsume wonders
what exactly drives the other boy.

Strength?

For what?

Sure, he’s pushed because of his skill, but where does he draw the line? When does it become
about Itachi’s needs?

He’s not sure he’ll ever really know, not when they’re like this with each other. At a standstill. Two
predatory animals circling each other, wondering if the other is friend or foe.

“Sasuke calls you his friend now.” Itachi says, derailing the previous topic of conversation. “He
didn’t before. He called you Naruto’s brother.”

A cold day under the slide, snot dripping down a chubby chin and staining sleeves—yeah,
Natsume can guess when Sasuke’s feelings had shifted. Now, dark eyes follow him, pudgy pale
hands reach almost as frequently as Naruto’s. Whatever affirmation Sasuke is seeking in Natsume,
he won’t find. (Or maybe he will.) He supposes they’ll have to wait and see.

He grunts. “That kid’s like a leech. I wouldn’t call us friends.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t.” And Itachi smiles, actually smiles, and it’s barely a wisp but it’s still
there, still alive on his skin where he’s been dead too long. “But your words and actions don’t
always match, do they?”

I figured you out, is what Natsume hears. He doesn’t like it.

“Call him whatever you want, but you’ll protect him.” The Uchiha murmurs.

Natsume closes his eyes, but all it does is make the sounds of Naruto and Sasuke’s laughter louder,
their chakra feel brighter. He decides to look at the sky instead. “He’s a kid.”

“He is,” Itachi says. He doesn’t say so are you, he doesn’t say it’s not supposed to be your
responsibility. “And you really are too kind.”

Natsume’s tongue feels heavy. He feels two seconds from breaking out in a cold sweat. Itachi’s
chakra is still calm and soothing, burning like slow-moving magma and heady with spice and the
wild scent of bird feathers. He’s disorienting and everything a twelve year old boy shouldn’t be and
Great Sage, sometimes it feels as if Natsume is talking to an otherworldly creature instead of a
human made of flesh and bone.

A hand claps onto his shoulder, another on Itachi’s. Natsume knows the hand, knows the turbulent
warmth, prowling beast and sky full of stars that burn within. Familiar chakra, his favorite chakra
— right after Naruto’s.

“Can’t leave you two anywhere,” Shisui says, burdened the way mothers are with unruly children.
“Honestly, both of you have the personalities of wet blankets. Or rocks.”
And seventeen isn’t old at all, but sometimes Natsume feels the years between them like physical
weights. An urge to be childish rises, an urge to be the little brother. He barely manages to rein it
in. It’s been happening a lot lately — that feeling of wanting a little more than he should. He takes
inches where he can.

“And you have the personality of a fucking turd, but we don’t talk about that, do we?” He says
instead, tucking away those soft, breakable emotions.

“The language that’s coming out of your mouth...was it you, Itachi!?” Shisui bemoans, slinking
between them, the missing puzzle piece. He towers over them, a head over Itachi, two heads over
Natsume. “Did you taint my little baby?”

Itachi softens like steel under extreme heat. Imperceptibly. “I assure you, he came that way.”

“It’s gotta be Shiranui.”

“I lose brain cells everytime we interact.” Natsume says.

“Ow. Better be careful, you only have so many of those.”

The older Uchiha dodges a well aimed strike to his gut. “Violence! Violence on the playground!”

His dramatics attract the attention of Naruto and Sasuke, who run over with dirty hands and
skinned knees they don’t even feel.

“Shicchan!” Naruto exclaims, projecting himself like a missile at the older teen. Shisui grabs him
with ease, muscles barely straining. He twirls Naruto around until they feel sick, laughing
boisterously.

“Naruto! Have you grown taller? Stealing all of Natsume’s height, huh?”

Natsume frowns, unamused, as Naruto breaks out in peals of laughter. “Shut up, shittysui.”

Shisui drops Naruto to the ground, impossibly gentle. Dark eyes, eyes like the night all his stars
hold, eyes like endless voids, glance down at them, echoing the grin on his lips. “Hey, I got
something.”

He pulls a camera from his shinobi pouch. Blue, square and compact. The disconnect between
technology still sits oddly in Natsume’s mind. Shisui presses a button with his thumb, then brings it
close to his face.

CLICK.

He captures the curious faces of Naruto and Sasuke, peering up at him and looking so terribly
young from Shisui’s hovering angle. He laughs and doesn’t show them.

“Where did you get that?” Itachi inquires as Shisui holds the camera above Naruto and Sasuke’s
reaching hands.

“Bought it. Thought, why not? Seemed like a good idea.” Shisui snaps another picture. This time
the camera is pointed in Itachi’s direction, on the unmoving mouth and stress painted face. Shisui’s
smile strains as he looks at whatever shows on the little camera screen. “You’re disgustingly
photogenic. What a pity.”

“So is that terrible personality of yours.” Itachi replies.

Natsume snorts, pressing his lips firmly together to stop any laughter. Shisui lets the comment roll
off his back like water on a duck. Instead he merely grins and urges them all close.

“Come on, come on, let’s get close! Group photo!” He tugs Natsume close with one arm. Warm
and alive and smelling of ash and summer nights. “You guys won’t be this tiny forever. Well,
Natsume might be — ow, ow! Okay, maybe you’ll grow an inch if you try really hard!”

Three of them grin, two of them don’t. Itachi’s mouth quirks, but you can’t see happiness in the
curve of his lips. It sits in the shadows of his face, in the back of his eyes like a light left on in the
dark. Natsume doesn’t smile and he doesn’t frown, but he’s content, and his eyes are blue, so blue,
like endless skies and for just a moment — just one, he’s free.

Shisui walks them home late in the evening, later than they should be out. The moon is high and
wide in the sky, white light washing out the colors of the world below. They pass tall buildings,
stacked apartments with too many color schemes. The quiet buzz of the nightlife falls away into
the background.

Naruto is asleep in Shisui’s arms, limp like a child’s toy and carried just as easily. His nose rests
against Shisui’s collar, soft snores exhaled against a dark shirt. It’s not summer yet, so the world is
still a little chilly, especially after the sun falls. Natsume feels none of it.

“In the summer, we should hide away on the Hokage’s Mountain.” Shisui whispers, chest a quiet
rumble to soothe Naruto further into sleep. “During Tanabata! We can watch the fireworks from
Yondaime-sama’s nose. I’ll buy you and Naruto a pack of sparklers, as long as you keep it a secret.
We can buy our own bamboo tree. Right in a little pot — maybe paint some frogs on it, since
Naruto seems to like ‘em so much. A tree of our own, to tie all our wishes to.”

Natsume can see it clearly in his head. Pictures of a festival he’s never been to. The scent of spice
and candle wax. The feel of paper and ribbon under his hands. The chime of bells and laughter.
Maybe it’ll be a clear sky, or maybe clouds will dot the night, echoes of a thunderstorm that’s
already passed — or just about to make its home in the Konoha air.

“In the summer.” Shisui promises. “In the summer we’ll act like kids, for a little bit. It’ll be
something we can all do together, the five of us. Maybe more, some day. That day. Who knows.
We can even make some ugly little ornaments for our poor little bamboo plant.”

“Is that why you want to do it on the Hokage’s Mountain? So no one has to suffer the sight of such
a monstrosity?”

Shisui shakes his head, a delicate smile pressed to his mouth, like flowers pressed between the
pages of a book. Soft and open. Silk under the moonlight. “Nah, Natsume. So we can bury it up
there. A little bamboo tree. A little secret filled with wishes. And it’s just ours.”

Natsume turns away, because suddenly it hurts to look at Shisui too closely. He’s too bright, a star
flaring and burning, bright enough to sear his eyelids. “Sounds more like wishful thinking.”

“Everything is these days.” The other boy murmurs, “That’s why I want to stop thinking of wishes.
I want to put them outside my head. In my hands. Around the branches of a bamboo tree. I want
them to exist here, where they can become something.”
 And all Natsume can think is: I wish I had a wish to share with you.

Chapter End Notes

find me on tumblr! art by the amazing aquahaha!

 VOL. 1, ARC I. (summer)
Chapter Notes

/tw ** check bottom for 'em

happy 1 year anniversary to this fic!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Natsume sweats under a Konoha sun, clothes sticking uncomfortably to his skin. It’s unnervingly
hot, but something about the way the adrenaline rushes through his veins is addicting. He’s no
longer normal, if he ever was.

His hands are worn and strong; a child’s hands, but molded for weaponry — and it is weaponry he
wields well.

Summer in Konoha is interesting. Everyone seems happier, lighter. They walk around with smiles,
eager to dress in festive clothing or bask in the sun besides rivers or lakes. Some lucky people even
travel to beaches.

Natsume aches to go to a beach. He doesn’t know why, but he does. For all that he’s read about the
Uzumaki living on and by the sea, he’s never seen it himself. What he’ll find when he gets
there...he doesn’t know. A part of himself, maybe. Or nothing at all.

Sasuke has grown angrier and both Itachi and Shisui have grown more distant. The youngest
Uchiha isn’t fond of expressing his feelings with words, having grown up with a stalwart father and
a clan bent on beating the visible emotion out of all their members. Yet when Hinata holds his
hand and looks at him with imploring eyes after he screams at both her and Naruto over something
tiny and insignificant, he breaks down into tears and cries in her little arms.

Natsume pretends he doesn’t see it….at first.

Maybe that’s cruel of him to do, but he still doesn’t know how to help Sasuke. Comfort, outside of
gifting it to Naruto, doesn’t come easy — and Sasuke is not one to seek it to begin with. The little
Uchiha wants love and acknowledgement from his family, but forever lives in the shadow of his
brother as the spare.

When Sasuke cries in their living room, with Hinata’s arms around him and Naruto standing to the
side looking like he’s about to cry as well, Natsume can only sigh.

He hates tears. He hates the sound of children crying.

Call it a weakness.

“Hey,” he grunts, announcing his presence. He’d been home for about an hour in his room, but
none of the children had even noticed.

The three startle, and Sasuke hiccups.

“What the hell’s your problem now?”

“My dad yelled at me,” Sasuke says after a long pause, his cheeks flushed red. It must sound
embarrassing to him out loud, but Natsume only blinks.

He’s known for a while that Sasuke and Itachi’s father isn’t the most upstanding guy — at least
when it comes to parenting. Who in their right mind would be happy about forcing their pre-
pubescent child to murder grown men? Fucked up people, that’s who. So no, Natsume does not
have a good impression of the man, though he’s never personally met him.

“You’re getting snot everywhere,” he finally mutters in reply, disappearing into the bathroom to
get a washcloth. It’s ratty and has at least three holes in it, but it’ll do.

He ignores Sasuke’s complaints about being too old and scrubs the little brat’s face clean. Now
that he’s not shiny and gross with tears and snot, he just looks like a tired, sad little boy.

Natsume doesn’t have a father. In this household, he is the father. He doesn’t know what advice to
give Sasuke. Doesn’t even know why the kid keeps looking at him like he’s hung the moon or
pulled a star out of his ass. It makes him uncomfortable, because Natsume is not someone to look
up to. He’s a child soldier. Sasuke should be enjoying his freedom. His childhood. He should be
everything that Natsume isn’t — everything that Natsume wishes for, even if he won’t admit it to
himself on the best of days.

“If you had a fight with your dad, then stay here for the night.”

Sasuke balks, “I can’t do that! I’ll get in so much trouble—”

“Yeah, well, it’ll be a lesson for your dad, too. Set some boundaries, or whatever. Getting angry at
a kid isn’t the right way to teach ‘em. Otherwise you just end up makin’ them hate you.”

“I...I don’t hate my dad.”

Natsume raises a brow, “Good for you. I’m sure that’ll last in your teen years.”

“I’m just mad. He shouldn’t have yelled at me!”

“Yeah, yeah!” Naruto goads, “He’s a smelly old man!”

“I don’t — I don’t —”

Sasuke stutters over his words, frustration in his face. Hinata presses a hand to his tense fist, and he
cools very slowly under her careful touch.

“...I wanna stay here for the night.”

Natsume shrugs, “Sure.”

Naruto whoops in excitement, throwing his arms around Sasuke. He babbles about all the fun
things they can do, and how he’s never had a sleepover before — Shisui didn’t count, because he
basically lived here most days and hey, hey Sasuke —

Leaving them too it, Natsume starts on dinner. It seems like he’ll have an extra mouth to feed
tonight.
He wakes when the moon is high.

His eyes drift to the side, where the source of what woke him lies. Shisui blinks back at him,
comfortable between Sasuke and Naruto’s snuggling forms.

“You’d have been dead an hour ago,” the Uchiha whispers.

Natsume huffs. Try as he might, he’s still not at the jounin’s level.

“Why are you here?”

“Can’t I stop by?” Shisui flutters his absurdly long lashes, shadows cutting menacing lines across
his face. The two windows in their bedroom are open just a crack, letting in fresh air and a soft
night breeze. Despite this, the room is still humid. Blankets are kicked to the bottom of beds, even
the thinnest sheets too weighty for summer.

“....” Natsume doesn’t know how to respond.

Lately, he wants to admit certain things — emotions, thoughts, pieces of himself he hides away
from prying eyes. Or even just glancing ones. Shisui makes him feel like a child, but only in the
best of ways. The Uchiha takes weight from Natsume’s shoulders and makes it easier to breathe, to
exist.

Shisui will pick up Naruto from school, the blonde running into the Uchiha’s arms like he belongs
there, getting picked up and swirled around and loved. Loved the way they should be as children;
loved the way Natsume doesn’t know how. He loves Naruto, he does, but he doesn’t know how to
be everything for his brother. He barely knows how to be himself.

Shisui will hold Naruto’s hand, will put the blonde on his hip, will wander into stores with them for
gifts or food — he acts like the older brother Natsume is forcing himself to be. Sometimes he wants
to be in Naruto’s place. It’s a strange, selfish thought. He wants to be the younger brother. Wants to
be doted on and carried without feeling like it’s a slight against his pride.

It’s something he can’t afford...and it’s not like Shisui doesn’t dote on Natsume. But he treats
Natsume like an adult more often than not. Talks about missions and training and weaponry. He
doesn’t buy toys for Natsume, he buys kunai.

Shisui looks at Natsume and doesn’t see anyone else. He sees Natsume. But to him, Natsume is a
genius shinobi. A child who is worth more than the average child. He teases but always expects
Natsume to straighten his back and act like the man he’s forced to grow into faster than he should.

And Natsume — he...doesn’t care. He takes everything and feels thankful for it. So what does that
say about him? What does it say that he revels in whatever twisted affection he gets from a
murderer barely out of his teens?

“Natsume?”

He swallows, throat dry, “Is his father mad?”

Shisui stares at him, eyes as dark as the night sky. His chakra tastes like smoldering ash and
molasses, and he never stops analyzing even when he’s not on a mission.

“He’s not...overjoyed. But Mikoto-sama talked him down. The woman’s scary when she wants to
be.”
“Hm.”

“Careful, you’re starting to sound like Itachi.”

Natsume turns to stare at his ceiling. There’s a single crack in the plaster and a cobweb in the
corner that he should clean tomorrow morning.

“I know,” he murmurs.

Shisui’s chakra snaps like a whip, a howling inferno tempering steel. It’s smothered in an instant,
quiet and unfurled and heavy like a weighted blanket.

“Get some sleep, you’re starting to get wrinkles too.”

“Shut up, Shisui.”

In the early morning of Itachi’s birthday, it rains.

When dawn breaks, the sun comes out to part the clouds and heat the wet ground, and the air turns
muggy and heavy. Natsume is able to regulate his chakra to adjust his temperature, but Naruto
moans in annoyance as sweat clings to his skin like a mist.

“It’s too hot for the Academy!”

“No,” Natsume says, pushing his brother into the bathroom, “you’re not skipping, so don’t even
start.”

“But Nacchan!”

“Do I need to brush your teeth for you?”

Naruto’s face twists. He’s gotten to the age where he’s discovered body autonomy and likes doing
things on his own to prove that he’s a ‘big boy’. He’s probably 50lbs soaking wet and his growth is
probably stunted, so it’s hilarious to put the adjective big anywhere near him.

“I can do it!”

Thankfully, the blonde does. He gets through the rest of the morning without any more complaints,
making sure to tuck a few papers into his bag. When Natsume asks about it, Naruto shows him a
few childish drawings of them, Itachi, Sasuke, Shisui and Hinata. Gifts for Itachi’s birthday, since
they can’t afford to spend anything extra — even with the little extra Natsume has been saving. It’s
all budgeted for food and a future house. Birthday gifts will be few and far between.

Natsume feels bad for a brief moment. He’d entirely forgotten about the Uchiha’s birthday. To be
honest, he’s been losing track of the days. Everything is train, train, mission, train. Rise, repeat.

Itachi might not even be in the village today. He’s been so bogged down by missions lately, he
barely has time to take a breath between them. Let alone spend time with Sasuke, who continually
comes over to their house to complain about his worsening home life.

It’s taught Naruto quite a lot about the different realities children face whether or not they have
parents. With Hinata’s cruel and overbearing father, Sasuke’s negligent and ruthless father —

What’s with fathers, actually? They all seem to suck in Konoha, if they aren’t already dead.

“What’s with that look?”

Genma raises a brow at him, half submerged in one of the massive lakes dotting the Konoha
countryside. They’re at Training Ground 22, working on water walking. Natsume thinks his sensei
only chose today’s lesson to cool down in the blistering heat.

“Today’s Itachi-san’s birthday.”

“Huh,” Genma’s senbon dips, “what’s that make him? Fifteen?”

“Thirteen.”

“Wow, he’s growing like a weed.”

He’s so young, Natsume wants to say. But it never really matters. Just twelve yesterday. Baby fat
clinging to his cheeks and the hollowed out look of a war veteran in his eyes. A child with furrows
carved into his face from pure stress.

Natsume crosses the lake with ease. His chakra control is still...spotty, but he can do this much
now. He simply has too much. He’s never going to be a medical ninja, or someone able to channel
careful and controlled quantities. He can get away with his taijutsu and kenjutsu easily. Ninjutsu
will be...a trial. A mountain he’ll have to climb with one hand while everyone else sprints over.

“Hey,” Genma heaves himself out of the lake, striding through the water to the shore instead of just
heaving himself onto the surface. “I got something for you.”

It’s a distraction, a change of subject. Natsume can’t tell why, or even if his sensei knows the
reason either. The Uchiha Clan makes people uncomfortable. He’d have to be blind not to see it.
They’re watched in the streets, not with the same hatred and fear as Natsume and Naruto, but
instead they’re looked upon like rodents. Bothersome, pesky know-it-alls. People think their own
shinobi are untrustworthy.

“What is it?” He asks, because for once he’s too tired to really push the envelope.

Genma tucks his legs beneath himself, dripping wet and sitting without care in the dirt and grass.
He pulls something from his pile of clothes and holds it up — a slip of paper. Square and thick, but
not fuuinjutsu grade.

“Channel some chakra into here and we’ll get your nature sorted out.”

Natsume wanders over. He’s gotten good at channeling his chakra to his feet for both tree and
water walking. Now he barely needs to think as he transitions from the water to the land.

He takes the Chakra Paper from Genma, pinching it between two fingers. He hasn’t given much
thought as to what his chakra nature affinity might be. While the idea of spewing fire from his lips
or creating huge walls of earth sounds mystical and entertaining, he’s….

Well, for whatever reason, he’s more inclined to other aspects of the shinobi arts.

Or maybe he’s just annoyed that chakra manipulation is so difficult. Even during the academy, the
only reason he was able to excel over his peers was because he went home and spent hours
practicing. His chakra is volatile. Constantly ready to explode from his body on the max output,
even when he’s trying for min.

He exhales and pushes some chakra into the paper. Moving it to his feet is muscle memory at this
point, switching it to his hands only takes a few seconds.

The paper turns soggy between his fingers.

Genma blinks, “Huh.”

Water affinities are not common in Konoha. The only affinity more uncommon is wind. It is not,
however, uncommon for those raised in the coastal nations, like Uzushio or Kiri. Natsume can only
assume some genetic influence had come into play. It’s fine enough. It’s not like he was too
terribly interested in ninjutsu to begin with. He still goes to the shinobi archives for public jutsu
scrolls to see what they have to offer, but as expected it’s mostly loaded with fire and earth style
jutsu. Then there’s a dramatic decrease to lightning, with water not far behind. There’s maybe
thirteen public scrolls for wind nature jutsu total.

Natsume takes a few water scrolls anyway. Ninjutsu is useful, even if he’s currently obsessed with
honing his skills in kenjutsu and fuuinjutsu.

The first scroll is for Water Clones, the second for Water Release: Water Gun, and the third for
Water Release: Water Spikes. Natsume thinks the names suck. Frightfully on the nose — but at
least he doesn’t have to yell out some random fantasy technique.

Most of the scrolls for water jutsu are very obviously stolen, bits of Kiri signature stamps still at
the corners. As a genin, even a prodigious one, he only has access to D and C rank jutsu. He hates
it.

(Mostly because he’s still struggling with it.)

He still spends five days trying to make it work. On the fifth night, he’s about ready to pull his hair
out. Why does chakra have to be so...so... finicky? The kind of control needed for half these jutsu
will take him years. With the size and swell of his chakra, most would think it natural for him to
become a ninjutsu specialist. He has the stores for it, after all.

Except his chakra control is excessively limited and his progress on that front is so damn slow that
he even catches Genma-sensei frowning about it when he thinks Natsume can’t see. Natsume
doesn’t have to see, the confusion is saturated in the jounin’s chakra.

If the needed control for a majority of techniques is the size of a needle head, his chakra is an
entire bolt of fabric. No thread to be seen.

On the fifth night Shisui stops for only a moment, busy as usual; he laughs at Natsume’s plight and
drops off a bunch of newly printed photos he’s been taking of their mismatched friend group. He
has a fire nature, obvious in the taste and feel of his chakra.

“I promise I’ll copy a million water techniques for ya!”

“On another mission?”

Shisui shrugs, lingering in the window. The summer breeze makes his curls shake across the
spotless hitai-ate tied to his forehead. His chakra prowls like a light-footed panther across the
room, curls like smoke around Natsume’s form. He is filled with such fondness, from the blaze
behind obsidian eyes to the curving grin that sits on the edge of mischievousness.

“Nah, you won’t have to miss me that much! I’m not going out of the village.”

“Like I’d miss you,” Natsume turns away, bustling around the kitchen. Naruto is still out, and he’ll
be gross and sweaty but hungry, and Natsume is not eating more ramen. He’s making dinner and
that’s final. Ever since Shisui dragged Naruto to Ichiraku, it’s all the blonde can talk about — and
Natsume thought it was bad with just instant ramen.

Shisui laughs, smooth and deep like the press of his chakra, “Your tsundere nature is so cute,
Nacchan!”

“Get out.”

“I’m going, I’m going! Don’t throw spoons at me! See ya later!”

Then he’s gone in a flash, lingering traces of shadows and spice and a sky full of stars burned into
the marrow of their home, into the marrow of Natsume’s bones.

He finishes making dinner just as Naruto tumbles in, the oyakodon steaming as he sets the table.
Naruto eats like a man starved, his little feet swinging under the table. He talks about his day with
bright eyes, happier than he’s ever been.

He has two best friends, two older brothers — Naruto is bursting with hope and laughter and
sunshine. Every day he grows brighter, like a wilted flower regaining strength. Blooming under
careful attention. And that’s all it took. Attention. He pulls pranks because they’re funny but he no
longer screams and throws tantrums (though they are well earned due to the public abuse and
neglect), no longer cries out for the people around him to just look and see.

Natsume knows without asking that it’s probably not enough. It’ll do. It could last forever. But
Naruto was made with a heart too big for the earth alone. He is the galaxy eater, the black hole.
The blonde would extend a hand of friendship to anyone and everyone if given the chance.
Surrounded and smothered in love, whichever shape it takes.

He is nothing at all like Natsume, who doesn’t feel sunshine fill the holes in his chest. There is
only coldness and smoke, acrid and bitter and not at all like the wisps that emanate from Shisui,
Itachi and Sasuke.

It’s a silly thought, but Natsume thinks that perhaps he can stop wilting as well. Maybe he’ll never
get the life he wants but the people make it easier. He feels better. Isn’t that a novelty?

After dinner, Natsume tucks the water jutsu scrolls in a sealed box under his bed, away from
Naruto’s squirrely hands, and wonders if he’ll even get any more use out of them with the
approaching library deadline. He goes back to Itachi’s gift instead — months old now, but still just
as interesting.

Fuuinjutsu is definitely better.

(And perhaps, out of guilt for missing the teen’s birthday or the slightest measure of twisted
affection, he starts on a gift for Itachi. Though by the time he’s done days will have come and
gone. But Itachi doesn’t seem like the type to care, and Natsume would rather avoid a spectacle
anyway.)
Maybe better fire-resistant seals. Bomb tags. Sharingan activated seals? Could that work?

He scribbles away in his notebook until the moon is high in the sky, Naruto soft and snoring in the
next bed over.

The day starts like every other.

But only in the fact that the sun rises and they have duties to fulfil. There is a pit in Natsume’s gut.
A gaping maw that is ever expanding and consuming within him. He thinks perhaps he just didn’t
get enough sleep — which is true. He probably totaled three before their alarms went off and
Naruto had to prepare for school.

It’s a break day for Natsume, and maybe that’s why he feels so terrible. Stagnation makes him
jittery. He relishes having private time; even enjoys doing nothing at all for hours aside from
reading or scrawling fuuinjutsu in total silence. But there are other days in which an untamed sort
of energy crawls under his skin and he can’t help but want to do something. He begins to get
paranoid.

Wondering, always wondering, if perhaps he’s being watched or monitored by the masked ones —
the ANBU, the assassins, the ones who silently make you go away. Natsume dreads being one of
them. He also recalls, when he’d been a mere infant trapped in a blank room with blank faced
beings, that some of them had been small too. Age is nothing next to skill. Childhood dreams are
smoke and dust. Baby fat is ignored and kindness is a kunai pressed into your palm.

When he does feel someone’s chakra approach, he’s almost glad for it.

Itachi’s chakra is feather-light, contained yet still reeking of smoke and burnt sugar. It barely feels
real at all, and for a moment Natsume wonders if he’s dreaming.

Then there’s a knock.

Satisfied, he gets to his feet and pushes away the mess of papers, scrolls and books. There’s ink on
his fingers and probably some on his face. Itachi won’t care. He killed a man at four or five years
old, he knows what a real mess looks like.

“It’s not often you come alone,” is the greeting he gives the Uchiha, which isn’t much of a greeting
at all.

Itachi stands, a wraith under direct sunlight. Pale skin is shrouded in black, clinging fabric and
washed out shielding plates. He stands as he always does, regal and tall, though still so young in
appearance. In the midst of a growth spurt yet somehow wearing it well.

Their eyes meet and it’s like staring into the void. Empty, gnawing, the vacuum of space where
you can scream and never be heard; swallower of stars, bottomless well. Itachi kneels before him,
bringing their eyes level. His arms remain lax at his sides, knuckles brushing the cement of the
entry walkway. There is no expression on his face, as there very rarely is when Natsume looks.

The real Itachi is always hidden away, like he’s some great beast and believes they all need to be
protected from what wanders underneath his flesh.
From his back pouch, Itachi produces a scroll. The Uchiha sigil is stamped in ink along the clasp.
His hands are careful, as though he’s holding something precious. He keeps staring at Natsume but
there’s nothing there, nothing to look back into.

A chill slips down Natsume’s spine, bumping every single knob along the way. Itachi’s chakra
shrinks and shrinks. Natsume can’t even taste it anymore. It’s hidden, far out of his reach and it
feels foreign. Different.

“Early this morning, Uchiha Shisui’s body was found in the Naka River.”

The words don’t make sense. Natsume furrows his brow, the noise of the street below fading out.

“What?” If he was the type to laugh, he’d do it now.

“A note was found nearby, confirming his death as a suicide. It’s speculated he took his life late
last night.”

I’m going, I’m going! Don’t throw spoons at me! See ya later!

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Uchiha Shisui is seventeen. He smells like kindness and wrath and walks like a ghost but smiles
like the sun. He’s a man who wants peace for the future of Konoha. He’s nice when he shouldn’t
be. Too nice. He has plans and dreams, and last night he was in Natsume’s house, in his window, in
his heart.

See ya later!

“Itachi,” Natsume says, “this isn’t funny.”

“Take it.”

The scroll rests in Itachi’s palms.

“Take it,” the Uchiha repeats, and there’s nothing there. Nothing in his eyes or on his face and
Natsume is so fucking tired of it.

“Why?”

“Take it,” Itachi urges, but it can barely be called that because his voice is nothing too, “he left it
for you.”

“What is it?”

“He left it for you.”

“Itachi.”

There’s nothing there.

“Itachi—”

The Uchiha presses the scroll to Natsume’s chest. Against his heart, where it rattles his ribs and
threatens to choke his lungs. The scroll is crisp. Fresh. It’s good fuuinjutsu paper, his mind hazily
notes.
Natsume takes it.

“Uchiha Shisui is dead.”

Natsume looks at Itachi, at nothing, “I don’t believe you.”

“He’s dead.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“He’s dead.”

“I said I don’t FUCKIN’ BELIEVE YOU!” Natsume screams, and he wants to throw the scroll at
Itachi’s face but he suddenly can’t make his fingers move, can’t unclench the stupidly expensive
paper, “He killed himself? Are you bullshitting me? That’s the stupidest fuckin’ joke I’ve ever had
the misfortune of hearing — that’s a bigger fuckin’ joke than this damn village.”

“Uchiha Shisui is dead.”

“Is that all you can say?”

Itachi’s mouth parts. He doesn’t know what to say. He looks at Natsume and there’s something
there but it still feels like nothing too. A monster, maybe. In a corpse.

“I don’t believe you,” Natsume says, but doesn’t feel himself say, “Shisui wasn’t suicidal and you
know that. Where is he?”

“He’s dead.”

“STOP SAYING THAT!”

The world is trembling. Natsume puts his hands to his head because the world is trembling but his
feet are solid on unmoving ground. He can’t look at Itachi, at nothing, because he wants to be
nothing too. This is a dream, a joke. Uchiha Shisui is a dreamer, an idealist, a shinobi of Konoha.
He wasn’t on a mission, he didn’t kill himself, he said See ya! He made a promise about silly water
jutsu and a promise about bamboo trees and wishes.

Summer heat howls at his doorstep, but who is heat and who is summer?

Summer is promises and smoke and slow churning magma, bamboo trees and pictures at bad
angles and a note in his drawer that he was too sentimental to throw out.

“I hate liars,” he says conversationally, staring at nothing and thinking I hate you.

Itachi is kneeling and he doesn’t move, because he’s nothing and he’s hated and he knows it. He
doesn’t reach to touch Natsume and doesn’t offer words of comfort.

“He’s gone,” Itachi replies, and it’s the truth but it still feels like a lie. It must be a lie. It’s a better
truth than suicide but the outcome is the same because it just means Shisui isn’t here.

Numbness, Natsume thinks, feels like a thousand needles pressing into the meat of his flesh all at
once.

“No,” he chokes, and he wants to scream that it’s a lie again. He’ll scream it until he’s blue in the
face and turned to dust, turned to nothing like the thirteen year old boy kneeling at his feet.
 “No.”

The numbness is no longer numbness. It’s hatred, a volcanic eruption, a monsoon of emotions he
doesn’t know how to categorize. Natsume swells bigger than his bones, his flesh, his soul. Shisui
would not kill himself. It means he died in a river, and Natsume remembers rivers and water and
the press of liquid at his mouth threatening to saturate his lungs; it means Uchiha Shisui was
murdered in the village he loved.

How dare you?

To whom the words are directed, Natsume doesn’t know. Shisui. Itachi. Himself. The killer. The
village.

Natsume burns and swells and breaks, the pieces of shattered glass that had been so carefully glued
back together over the years tear away once more. Incinerate. Turn to dust under the grounding
heel of a guttural growl and —

Red eyes.

Itachi is still nothing but his face turns to something, to fear, his hands twitch, his eyes are still
black, and Natsume sees a little boy on his knees trying to be an adult —

But mostly, he just sees the water and the fox, and then nothing at all.

“Drown in it, boy. Drown. ”

Chapter End Notes

* tw: suicide
find me on tumblr!
 VOL. 1, ARC I. (fall)
Chapter Notes

tw for suicide mention, panic, etc.

for future chapters - because all things get worse before they get better - please
remember that this is a dark fic. remember to check the tags. consume your content
responsibly because this fic WILL have fucked up shit.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The world is a cage. The bars tower into the gloom, wrapped in seals and humming with energy.
He is laid before it like a drowned man, floating as murky water claws at his sides, brushes his
cheeks and fills his ears. A burst of hot, acrid breath is exhaled over him like an explosion of
steam.

He stares into looming crimson eyes and the eyes stare back. He thinks that the stories and poems
must be wrong. The void is not some black thing that you stare into, not the absence of everything
and nothing. The void is the soul-sucking, oppressive feel of heat and chakra and fox breath,
massive crimson eyes filled with so much hatred it threatens to drown the onlooking more than the
water —

The water he rests in, that tries to pull him under and slip between his lips — it tastes like nothing
and he doesn’t know where he is, but he knows the shape of a fox. He sees the nine tails swirling
behind it, the sheer size and potent wrath thickening the air into pea soup.

Konoha’s greatest fear; their great downfall, their bedtime horror story to scare children with — the
Nine-tailed fox, in all its glory and violence. It sneers down at him like he’s a speck of dirt, a worm
to be crushed under its massive paw. It looks at him like it’s his fault he’s not in range to be killed
in such a manner.

“Give in.”

Why is Natsume here? Who is he again? His skin is burning under it all, yet he’s freezing in the
water.

“You hate so much, boy. I can help you...I can kill them all for you.”

Kill who?

Natsume doesn’t want to open his mouth to breathe in the murky liquid, but his lungs have started
to burn. If he doesn’t remember who, does it matter? Does he care about someone dying? Does he
hate?

“We can raze the village to the ground, boy. Just let me out. Pull off the seal.”

Is he hate?

The water ripples. The fox screams and it ripples even more, the shockwave of its breath and voice
kicking up waves.
“UCHIHA!”

It screams and roars like the caged animal it is, until Natsume’s ears are filled with howls and his
mouth is filled with water. Uchiha hurts. It hurts like a knife in his chest. More than the lack of air
or the burn under his skin.

Feet appear in the corner of his vision, but Natsume is —

Natsume can’t —

Everything is blurry and he...he hates.

He remembers.

“Kyuubi,” Itachi greets, eyes crimson and filled with pinwheels.

The world rights itself.

Natsume opens his eyes and gasps for air. He is blessedly dry, skin and hair and clothes. There’s a
haunting moment where he doesn’t remember who or what he is, or even where. He simply doesn’t
exist.

Then everything crashes down again, his soul firmly shoved into his skin until he’s fit to burst.

He’s in his apartment and his skin burns as though he’s been scrubbed raw or left in the sun too
long. There’s no water around him, reaching to drown. He remembers being at the doorway,
remembers Itachi.

Natsume lies — no. He registers a weight.

Itachi crouches over him.

“What am I?” Natsume croaks.

Has he surpassed pain? Is he the fox? Is that all he is? An object of hate, to be despised and to
despair?

Itachi is silent. Natsume hates.

“Shisui is dead, isn’t he?”

Sunny, unhinged grins and ash-magma chakra. Little notes and a pile of photos and too many
promises broken. Natsume tastes the word promise and it’s bitter poison. It’s sickening.
Disgusting.

Shisui is gone. Gone. That’s a disgusting word too.

Natsume hurts the way he’s never hurt before. The pain is so foreign that it rocks him to the core,
pulsing like a violent bruise in a place he didn’t know existed. It makes him...It makes him—

He turns in Itachi’s arms and vomits on the floor. His breathing picks up. He thinks of death and
smiles and black curls; he thinks of a fox and a world like a dirty sewer and water in his mouth and
the promise of retribution and destruction in his ears.

There’s that word again.

Promise.

“Breathe, Natsume.”

He gasps and he can’t breathe. He’s drowning on land, unable to get enough oxygen into his lungs.
Sweat beads on his flesh until he’s soaked through and that must be water enough because it’s just
so hard to breathe —

Itachi looks down at him, hands on Natsume’s burnt skin and tattered clothes. His touch isn’t hard
and it’s not familiar but he smells like smoke and ash and his chakra is so similar.

Natsume can’t stand it.

He can’t even cry right, so he just holds Itachi back and hates himself for that. Itachi is too short.
Too young and his hair is pin straight. He pulls Natsume in his lap and his arms the way he must
do with Sasuke, and they sit there and it helps —

It helps because Natsume can match his breathing, can feel a heartbeat against his own rocketing
one. Itachi’s chakra is agony.

He is in agony.

Suddenly, in the numb haze of denial and rage and grief, Natsume realizes that Itachi is thirteen
and he just lost a family member too. The closest friend he ever had. His chakra only slipped for a
moment, but it’s enough to make Natsume retch again, and Itachi doesn’t even care, doesn’t even
mind the stomach bile, the sweat, the little fingers clawing at his skin.

They sit on the floor and drown.

Natsume isn’t sure if Itachi cried. At some point it’s a blur, and Itachi’s face was hooked over his
shoulder and out of sight. When he really comes to his throat is raw from screaming and he feels so
disgusting and so empty.

He gets up and showers. He picks out a new set of clothes and changes into them with mechanical
movements. He keeps his head empty because if he thinks for a moment then he’ll be swept under
once more.

Itachi stands at the open doorway, back straight and chakra under control; he no longer tastes of
agony and a million star deaths. He stares out into the street and all Natsume can feel is the
hovering pressure of multiple observers surrounding the house and not even trying to hide. They
haven’t come in yet. Maybe they won’t.

“The Hokage wants to see you.”

“I don’t care.”
Itachi doesn’t turn. “You don’t have a choice.”

Natsume has never had a choice, has he? He doesn’t reply because he’s too drained, too numb to
even really feel his lips or move his throat. It took too much energy to even utter those three words.
He doesn’t think he can even walk the distance to the Hokage’s office. Suddenly all he wants to do
is sleep. His skin hurts, his head hurts, his heart hurts. There’s a wound carved into his soul that he
doesn’t think will ever heal. He isn’t sure he ever wants it to.

As though sensing his complete shutdown, Itachi finally moves towards him. Natsume doesn’t
protest when the Uchiha picks him up, becoming a limp weight in the teen’s arms. The touch that
he had so desperately clung to just minutes ago now feels like too much against his chakra-burned
flesh. But he doesn’t utter a word.

He shuts his eyes and lets Itachi shunshin them away.

When they slip into the Hokage’s office, he barely registers the walls or the people. It takes him a
moment to orient himself, and his eyes catch on the photos of the previous Hokages.

Itachi places him down carefully, his arms lingering for half a second. Then he steps back and
away, and Natsume is faced with a very grim Sandaime Hokage. The old, wizened man peers at
Natsume under the brim of his hat, unreadable emotions swirling in dark eyes. He seems to
completely bypass the fact that the redhead looks like he’s just come out of a microwave, skin
burned pink and peeling. It’s only thanks to the shower and change of clothes that he doesn’t look
the way he feels.

“Natsume-kun, do you know why you’re here?”

“I suppose you’ll tell me,” he replies dryly. Whatever it is, he’s not even sure he cares. The world
is discolored now. Empty.

The Sandaime’s lip quirks, but he doesn’t look amused in the slightest. “Natsume-kun, the chakra
that you unleashed is very dangerous.”

“Right, the fox. The kyuubi.” He glances over to the row of photos, crystal blue meeting their
match in the flat image of the Yondaime Hokage. “Yondaime-sama did a great job killing it, I see.”

“Natsume—”

“Am I in trouble?”

The Sandaime purses his lips. “No...of course not. You must understand, however, that the Kyuubi
is not a creature to be taken lightly. I had wished to wait until you were older to relinquish this
information, but that plan was thoroughly derailed after this afternoon’s incident.”

Sarutobi Hiruzen feels like stone. Harsh earth and powerful, towering trees that spring from it.
Everything about the way his chakra simmers tastes like power, like vegetation and immovable
mountains. His face is very serious, not at all resembling the kind old man he portrays when
delivering the Uzumaki’s monthly check.

“On the night of your birth, the Yondaime Hokage sealed the Kyuubi within you. There is no true
way to kill a Bijuu, for they are born purely of chakra. At the cost of his own life, he made you a
jinchuuriki to save the village. The beast’s chakra should be sealed tight, which makes this
situation rather dire.”

Right, Natsume thinks to himself. Nothing seems to really make sense, or feel...real. He’s just
floating out of his own body, watching as he’s being told these things and not truly letting any of it
sink in. This is—

This is too much, isn’t it?

“I’d like to have someone take a look at the seal. If it’s weakened, we’ll need to fix it. The fox
cannot be unleashed. It means that...for the time being, we’re putting you under watch. It’s for your
security, you understand. We’ll have to seal away your chakra to prevent any more...mishaps.”

Natsume takes a breath and tries to remember how to be a person. It takes a moment — a wiggling
of fingers and toes to remind himself that he’s in a body and not a cloud of mist. As he claws
himself back to...something, the information finally slots its way home in his battered, burnt out
mind. Nothing at all matters except one single fact.

“So it’s his fault.”

Blue meets blue once more, a blankness to Natsume’s face that doesn’t reveal the veritable
hurricane swirling underneath. He stares daggers into the blank, unmoving eyes of the Yondaime
Hokage’s image.

Namikaze Minato.

“He’s the reason the villagers hate me? Hate us? It was him who did this?”

He could care less about the village. If it burned to the ground right now he’d laugh and spit on its
ashes. This damned place didn’t have a speck of love in it. All it did was churn out more children
for slaughter while the rich who oversaw the Land of Fire ate their fill and more.

“....Natsume-kun,” Hiruzen says slowly, warily, “Namikaze Minato was a great man. Had he any
other option, you can be sure he would have taken it. He wanted you to be seen as a hero.”

“That wish of his worked out real well, didn’t it?” Natsume scoffs. “Everyone hates us. Everyone
knew. Except us. So we just had to deal with it.”

“While it’s true that the older generation is aware, it is forbidden to speak of your Jinchuuriki
status,” Hiruzen sighs, aging ten years before their eyes. “I am aware that the behavior of the adults
influences their children, however. Despite this, I had hoped you and your brother would be able to
make friends. As it stands, my hopes were not in vain—”

“My friend is dead,” Natsume interrupts. “Naruto has his own friends. I only had the one, and he’s
gone now.”

“Shisui—”

“Is dead. Suicide in the village he loved.”

Hiruzen and Natsume stare at each other, the silence oppressive. He is still a child, barely able to
look over the Hokage’s desk. He’s too young and weak to truly make this a physical fight, and he
knows that a blast of concentrated killing intent from the man known as the God of Shinobi would
have him on his ass for a week. But he doesn’t care about any of that. Why should he? Why should
he care about anything at all when it can be taken so easily if Konoha deems it?

The Sandaime grows sterner, his features sharpening. Gone is the friendly old man, the Hokage
who lived through too many wars taking his rightful place. Then he proceeds to ignore the topic of
Shisui entirely.
“There is a decree of silence in place to keep your jinchuuriki status hidden. This is for your own
protection. I advise you not to speak of your condition to anyone, otherwise you will put both
yourself and Naruto in danger.”

Natsume laughs, the sound edging on hysterical. He doesn’t laugh often, if ever. It feels weird,
shaking his throat and choking him. “Because you’ve done so well to protect us already?”

Itachi’s chakra flares in warning.

“I’ve done what I could,” Hiruzen says.

“You give us a check once a month and hope for the best — I don’t think anyone ever taught us
any real skills to survive on our own! We were four! Do you know how easily it is for four year
olds to drown themselves in tubs? Burn themselves on stoves they can’t even reach because they’re
too young and small? What was the point?”

The Sandaime’s chakra flares this time, and Itachi’s hands are on Natsume’s shoulders when he
stumbles back. A murderer’s hands, softer than everything else in this room.

“Your anger is understandable, but you need to control yourself. We can’t have the Kyuubi’s
chakra escaping. This is exactly the reason I’m sealing away your chakra until a Fuuinjutsu
specialist can assess you.”

Natsume falls silent. He wonders what exactly Sarutobi Hiruzen sees when he looks at him. A
child or a weapon? Or nothing at all? Is Natsume nothing in the eyes of this man? Is it because
he’s a child? There’s sweat coating his skin again, the smothering feel of the Sandaime’s chakra
making him sick. The man comes around his desk, still moving as swiftly as a man half his age. He
is still Hokage for a reason.

His touch doesn’t feel like Itachi’s. It’s like immovable stone and too sharp for Natsume to
stomach. The Sandaime pulls two seal tags from his sleeves, long pieces of high grade paper with
more advanced fuuinjutsu work than Natsume can pick apart. Each one is wrapped around his
wrists, clinging to his chakra-burned flesh like a fresh layer of skin. The second they’re both in
place, Natsume feels —

Empty.

Utterly empty. He nearly throws up again, not realizing how much his day to day awareness of the
world relied on his use of chakra — on his ability to read and sense it. He can’t taste, can’t feel,
can’t smell; Itachi becomes just Itachi, just a body, not magma and feathers and burnt sugar.

“I’ll let Itachi take you to...the safe room. I just wanted to have this chat with you to explain...the
fox’s presence. I hope you’re aware of the ramifications and treat this S Class secret with care. For
what it’s worth, Natsume,” Hiruzen goes soft, but only for a moment, “I am sorry it’s come to this.
It was always the hope that the village would rally behind you, not against. Please persevere. Prove
to them that you are just a boy.”

Prove?

Itachi picks up Natsume again; his muscles have gone stiff and he feels a few seconds from
vomiting once more.

Why does he have to prove anything? He didn’t choose this! None of this is his fault, it’s the fault
of others. It’s just him and his brother who have to deal with the fallout. It’s them who get
poisonous stares and hands around their throat and broken ribs. For what?
For this?

He clings to Itachi to ground himself. If he doesn’t, he fears he’ll leap from the Uchiha’s arms and
attempt to strangle the Sandaime. There is too much wrath in his body, it’s frozen him entirely. So
he’s left to be carried like a baby, lest he die an early death or get locked up.

Do not forget, he reminds himself through the ocean of pain and rage, this is a military village.

And he is nothing to them but a cage for a larger beast.

They leave the office.

“And both of you—” Hiruzen calls, his voice like gravel, deep with sorrow that Natsume can’t
discern, “I am sorry about Shisui.”

The doors swing shut. Natsume stares blankly over Itachi’s shoulder, his fingers tangling tight in
the black fabric of the teen’s shirt. There’s cotton in his head and a thunderstorm in his chest. It
sends sparks of lightning down his limbs, until his fingers and toes are tingling and it feels as
though he’s being stabbed by a million needles. It’s cold. He feels weak and ill and so utterly
alone. His reliance on his sensory abilities has never been clearer now that they’re gone. Taken.
Sealed. He doesn’t look at the seals pressed to his skin. Can’t bring himself to.

Itachi keeps walking, stone underneath Natsume’s boiling body. From his position, Natsume sees a
man walking down the hall behind them, heading right for the Hokage’s office doors. He’s dressed
in white and purple robes, his face half-bandaged and set with heavy wrinkles. Despite his apparent
age, his hair is still full and dark. As is his remaining eye, which peers directly into Natsume’s
crystal gaze.

Natsume turns his head into Itachi’s shoulder, hating the fear that slithers down his spine. There
was something...disgusting in the man’s face. Something ruthless in that single visible eye. He’s
glad when they’re finally out of sight.

Exhaustion crashes into him all at once, weighing his limbs down. He hated that entire experience.
He hates a lot of things. He hates this office, this building, this village. He hates the damn Hokage
and all the secrecy and that pointless fucking meeting where he just warned Natsume with thin
threats and barely-there explanations.

Itachi doesn’t speak.

At least he’s warm.

The ‘safe room’ is just the name ‘prison cell’ with nicer packaging. Natsume doesn’t see exactly
where he’s taken, his eyes pressed shut and his face turned into Itachi’s neck. He keeps quiet
because if he even breathes too loudly he might shatter, having been turned to glass in the span of
an hour. Itachi is too kind and warm for a boy who shoulders the identity of nothing.

Natsume only feels pity for him, as small as the emotion is in the ocean of grief he’s working
through.

The building is slate gray and buried among an uninhibited growth of Hashirama trees. It’s quite a
distance from the city or any nearby homes. Hidden. A perfect place for a prison, for a place to
keep the unwanted out of the civilian eye.

When Itachi finally puts him down, it’s on a bed that looks as though it was taken straight from a
hospital, and in a room with white walls, a three-inch steel door, and cameras in the corners. There
are no windows. Just a single lightbulb in the center of the ceiling. It dangles precariously, almost
as a warning.

Break this and you get no light.

This is definitely a holding cell for spies, if Natsume had to guess.

It is when he feels the abject absence of heat from another person that he surfaces from the fog just
a little. It’s enough for him to recall other responsibilities. He can’t keep — He can’t keep thinking
about —

“Naruto,” he murmurs, throat impossibly dry. “Who’s taking care of him? How long...How long
will I…”

He is weak. He is nothing in the eyes of Konoha and its Hokage. He can be mad all he wants at the
treatment he’s receiving but it’s not as if being mad will solve anything. There will still be
problems to deal with, rage or not. Any measure of control, anything at all — he scrambles for it.

“He’ll be okay,” Itachi replies. His voice is as soft as a whisper. There isn’t any fear in his face or
posture — not that Natsume thinks he’s skilled enough in reading body language to get a read on
the prodigy — even after facing the Kyuubi. “I don’t know how long you’ll be held. Depending on
how far away the Fuuinjutsu specialist is upon the receival of his summons, it could be any
number of days. Soon, hopefully.”

If you’re lucky. Isn’t said.

Natsume swallows. “Who…?”

“Jiraiya of the Sannin. He is the only fuuinjutsu specialist we have left after…”

“After the Yondaime.”

Itachi nods. He looks more put together now. Not as shaky and empty as he had when he’d
knocked on Natsume’s door. Perhaps something has settled, or maybe he’s just better at hiding
emotions now that he’s had time to...process.

Except Natsume had felt the grief and agony in Itachi’s chakra, building like the rising tide. He can
put any mask on, but Natsume knows. Even if he can’t see it. Even if…

Even if he can’t feel it anymore.

The emptiness is so strange. Not having access to his chakra, as troublesome as his chakra is, feels
like he’s been thrown into a completely different body. He feels the absence everywhere. Even
looking at Itachi, it’s hard to really acknowledge that the teen is there because there’s no presence.
No...existence. Without chakra, everything is just shapes without object permanence. Natsume
hates it.

But he swallows his complaints and doesn’t pick at the seals on his wrists even though he wants to.
It’s not as if they’d come off so easily anyway.
“The Yondaime…” Itachi starts. Stops. He lets himself look pained. “I...Natsume, I….”

Natsume reaches out. Itachi reaches back. Their hands touch, black gloves against burned skin. The
Uchiha becomes real again, with heat and pulse able to be felt. There’s still no chakra, still no life
force.

Whatever it is that Itachi tries to say, it doesn’t come to completion. His dark eyes turn mournful.
“I’m sorry.”

Natsume doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for — there are too many things to count, really. Or
nothing at all. Because Itachi is just a pawn, the messenger, the knife. The ones Natsume is really
mad at live at the top.

With his free hand, Itachi opens his pouch. He pulls out the scroll he tried to give Natsume earlier,
miraculously undamaged by the spewing of corrosive Kyuubi chakra. Their touch breaks as the
scroll is passed from one boy to the other.

It’s heavy, perhaps heavier than it should be. The quality is still fine, the Uchiha seal is still in
place. How innocuous it is for a parting gift from a dead man…

“Nastume,” Itachi says — (and when had he dropped the suffix? It doesn’t matter anymore) —
with his walls rebuilt. He stands with a blank expression that’s impossible to grasp. “I’ll take care
of things while you’re here. But I need you to promise me something.”

“What?”

“Promise me that when I’m not around, you’ll take care of Sasuke.”

That should be a given. They’ve already established that Natsume cares for the little turd; he has a
soft spot for children that the older Uchiha isn’t shy at all about exploiting. It’s just the way that
Itachi says it that makes Natsume...wonder. What is he trying to say? That he’s here for them? That
the two of them should stick together as older brothers, looking out for the younger ones in each
other’s absences?

His head hurts too much. He’s too tired. He hates the word promise.

“Okay,” he replies, “I promise.”

Then Itachi leaves, disappearing without a trace. The thick steel door is locked tight, closing
Natsume off from the world. He’s left in a room with four white walls, a bed, and a toilet.

...And an unopened scroll in his hands that no one but two grieving boys knows about.

He hesitates in opening it. His biggest personal reason is because once he does, he can’t go back.
It’ll be the last thing Uchiha Shisui ever gives him, so it carries a weight unlike any other. There is
absolutely no going back once he unseals it.

The more obvious reason is because he quite literally can’t. His chakra is sealed away, and chakra
is needed to activate a sealing scroll. Whatever’s inside will remain a secret for some time yet. Be
that days or weeks. He’s….

Well, he’s almost grateful, because he doesn’t know what he’d do if he could open it right away.
He sure as hell doesn’t want to do it here, locked in a room with surveillance cameras on him and
no place to hide. The scroll is personal.
Even if he can’t open it, he’s glad that Itachi gave it to him.

It belongs with him, to him.

All he can do is hold it close, like it’s something precious — because it is. He curls around it on the
bed, above the covers. He doesn’t feel safe here, in this so-called ‘safe room’, but the truth is that
it’s so others can feel safe, not him.

Story of his life…

Uchiha Itachi watches as children run from the Academy doors. Their joy is palpable, laughter
swelling in the air. It rings in his ears painfully. Once, he might have thought it beautiful, but now
only trepidation fills him at the sound.

The price of peace is pain.

He does not trust Uzumaki Natsume. The child is all rage and teeth, more willing to break his
bones while fighting against Konoha rather than defending it. Red hair to match a red heart,
violence in his blood and death in his eyes — eyes that match a dead man. The more he grows, the
more obvious it is.

Natsume is very obviously an Uzumaki, but he is also very obviously the son of their late
Yondaime. He’ll be a nightmare once the baby fat clinging to his whiskered cheeks melts away.
The spitting image of a hero that the child hates.

It’s that hatred that stops Itachi from falling too far. He is familiar with it, intimately so. Those of
the Uchiha Clan carry the burden of pain and wrath in their very souls. Most of them see everything
in stark shades of black and white, because it’s how things are. It’s how they were raised.
Sequestered to a tiny part of the village with only themselves for company and growing dissent
among the elders, among the village and the youth — they have become Konoha and the Uchiha
Clan. Not the Uchiha Clan of Konoha.

Shisui saw the world in shades of gold, eager to push Natsume to rest among the stars. He was able
to move past the pressing, smothering feeling of hatred that threatened to drown all who carried the
Uchiha name — just like Itachi.

It’s why they worked so well together — why they both were willing to risk everything for peace,
even if it meant they wouldn’t experience it.

Natsume isn’t like that.

Itachi knows this. Shisui refused to see it. Perhaps it wasn’t too late for the Uzumaki at the start,
when he’d been a tiny four year old with big eyes and fully formed trust issues, but now…

Now, Itachi doesn’t know what will happen. That worries him. That makes him lock away
whatever sympathies he has. Once upon a time, he might have admitted that he felt affection for
Natsume. The little boy who’s not even a decade old and feels so tiny in Itachi’s arms, warmer than
Sasuke runs….and not nearly as fidgety. The boy who talks like an adult, who looks so serious
with chubby cheeks and small hands. Nastume likes strawberries and salty foods, his eyes are so
clear and so blue that they reflect colors of the setting sun when they walk about in the evening.
 He is grumpy and sharp and too kind, too smart, too….

Itachi stamps it all out. He thinks of Sasuke and Sasuke alone. He’s left Natsume with the promise
of burden and he doesn’t regret it. Can’t regret it. In the next life, he’ll apologize to Shisui...and
Natsume.

In this life, he’ll use the Uzumaki until he becomes too much of a problem to keep around.

“Nii-san!” Sasuke appears, his two friends by his side. His face is bright, his happiness at Itachi’s
presence obvious. To be loved so utterly and unconditionally, and to love in return...this is why
Itachi is doing it.

He crouches down, softening his features as best he can. Most of it is false, but not all of it — he
loves his little brother so dearly, after all. He gives Hinata a nod, to which she returns shyly, before
turning his attention to the two boys.

“Sasuke, Naruto...I have to tell you something.”

Chapter End Notes

surprise itachi pov !!! this won't happen often (the alternate pov thing) as this story is
going to be almost entirely just natsume. everything is from his view. he's unreliable,
he's not seeing the whole picture, he doesn't have all the information, etc, etc, and
that's what i love. i'll eventually add a side-story fic that has this little world i've built
from the eyes of other characters. but for this one?

maybe an alternate pov when the situation REALLY calls for it.
find me on tumblr!
 VOL. 1, ARC I. (winter)
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The sound of the door opening wakes him. There’s no feeling to accompany it, no glimmer or hint
of chakra to tell him who it is. He opens his eyes quickly, tense around the scroll in his arms.

It’s been around a day and a half. They’ve brought him five meals since he first entered the cell.
Aside from that, he’s had very little correspondence with anyone else. He knows he’s being
monitored, and it rankles him that he isn’t able to sense them.

The lack of chakra is a hollow void. He feels consumed by it, teetering on the edge of some great
height that threatens to swallow him whole. Everything is so much colder and dimmer without the
thrum of life all around him, buzzing in his ears and under his skin.

“Hey kid.”

Natsume sits up quickly, staring at Genma impassively. There’s no way for him to tell if it’s really
his sensei or not, and at this point in time he’s so on edge that he wouldn’t put it past Konoha to lie
about it just to make him more pliable.

His jounin sensei approaches carefully, his footsteps purposefully making sound. The man gives
the shadow of a smile, his senbon flicking. Brown eyes catalogue the chakra burns on Natsume’s
skin and the bloodless grip on the scroll in his tiny hands. A great sigh leaves Genma then, the
bags under his eyes more prominent than they have ever been.

“You...didn’t do anything wrong.”

Natsume starts at the words. It’s the last thing he expected to hear.

Genma slouches, hands in his pockets and looking for all the world like he needs a good nap. “I’m
sorry about Shisui, really. Whatever you feel is okay, Natsume.”

“Why are you here?” Natsume asks, his voice low and raspy.

“I’m your sensei, I’ll always be here.”

Natsume hugs the scroll closer to his chest as though it’s a living thing. It’s a poor replacement for
Shisui and his blistering, smoky heat.

“Jiraiya-sama will be here within the hour,” Genma continues, once it becomes clear that Natsume
has nothing to say. “If the seal is still working as it should, you’ll be free to go shortly after.”

The following silence rings in Natsume’s ears.

He looks away from Genma and stares dispassionately at the wall. “How...did he get here so fast?”

“Well, this is a bit of an emergency. He has his ways. As... odd as he is, Jiraiya-sama is rather
powerful, and is capable of reverse summoning.”

“...I thought it would be days,” Natsume murmurs under his breath, allowing himself to feel the
slightest bit of relief amid the crushing grief and emptiness.
“Do you want someone here?” Genma’s voice lowers, turning soft in a way Natsume has never
heard from the man. “Aside from me, that is.”

At first, Natsume thinks about asking for Naruto. But he can’t receive comfort from the one he’s
supposed to be taking care of, if Naruto even understood what was happening. There’s no one for
Natsume to reach his hand out for, because the only one who would grasp back and tug him above
the waves is gone, drowned in the very water he was named after.

Well.

Maybe not the only one...

“Itachi,” he croaks. “I want Itachi.”

Jiraiya is a big man. Tall and broad with a loud, domineering presence. He enters the room with a
light air, a cocky grin on his face. His hands flail and his legs kick out as he drops into a few poses
while announcing his presence.

“It is I! The Great Toad Sage: Lord Jiraiya!”

Itachi’s pulse is slow in Natsume’s ear. He doesn’t so much as flinch at Jiraiya’s entrance, and his
hand feels like the only weight keeping Natsume grounded in reality. Jiraiya balks at the frosty
reception, his dark eyes taking in Natsume’s belligerent form leaning against a teen who is so
obviously Uchiha.

“Hey, hey, what’s this? We don’t need any insurance from those pinwheel eyes, Uchiha! Don’t tell
me you guys doubt my skills!?”

Itachi offers a placid smile. “I’m not here for insurance, Jiraiya-sama.”

Genma snorts from his position in the corner, arms crossed as he eyes the spectacle unraveling
before him.

This is the fuuinjutsu master? Natsume thinks to himself, keeping any expression off his face as he
observes the boisterous man. Jiraiya is just as wild and bright as the shock of choppy white hair
trailing down his back. He’s dressed rather conservatively - traditionally, even. The hitai-ate on his
forehead has the kanji for oil on it rather than the symbol for Konoha. Natsume doesn’t know what
he was expecting, but not...this.

There are tales of Legendary Sannin told in the Academy. Books about what the three of them did
during the second great war. The kinds of victories they achieved, the kinds of trauma they must
have gone through…

Natsume expected someone much more jaded. Or serious. Not someone who looked like a goofy
frog and acted like one too.

The Toad Sage makes a shooing motion. “Then what are you here for? This is serious business,
kid.”

“He’s here…” Natsume begins, his voice quiet but carrying in the small room. “Because he’s my
friend.”

Itachi’s hand, which rests against Natsume’s shoulder, flexes slightly. His fingers press a little more
firmly but his expression stays the same.

Jiraiya huffs, “Well, whatever. I don’t really care who you spend your time with. Lay down and
pull up your shirt.”

Natsume throws his feet up on the bed and lays down, dislodging himself from Itachi’s side, where
he’d been pretending not to cling. Itachi has black hair and black eyes, but his hair is pin straight
and there’s a hint of gray in the ring around his irises.

The lack of chakra once again makes him prickle, perhaps even worse than before, because he sees
all these people in his vicinity but he can’t feel them. It’s as if they aren’t real, like he’s
hallucinating. A moment of terror overcomes him and a childish instinct kicks in — he’s been too
spoiled by Shisui — and he grasps at Itachi’s shirt.

Itachi looks down at him, a hollowness in his gaze that matches the depth of whatever Natsume
can no longer sense. For a second they merely stare at each other, then Itachi carefully pries
Natsume’s fingers from the hem of his shirt and curls his own hand around them. Natsume’s hand
is cold and so is Itachi’s. It doesn’t feel anything like Shisui, who always seemed to run too hot.
But his fingers are larger than Natsume’s, his palms square and calloused. He doesn’t match at all
but he’s close enough to pretend.

Itachi in one hand, the scroll in the other.

“He’s a little young for you, Uchiha.”

Itachi doesn’t look away from Natsume. “Your humor is terribly crude, Jiraiya-sama.”

“Ugh, nothing fun about your type…your ancestors would be punching the air at the sight of you
right now,” the man mutters under his breath, which isn’t very quiet at all, before pressing his palm
to Natsume’s gut. “Alright kid, let's see what the issue is. If there even is one. Sandaime-sama
really is askin’ a lot of me these days. As if there’s anything wrong with the Yondaime’s seal. The
man was a genius! I taught him everything he knew!”

Somewhere behind them, Genma sighs.

The burst of chakra that follows is uncomfortable, enough to make Natsume wince. It’s intrusive,
stabbing against the seal’s paths, the tangle of ink engraved into his chakra network. Across the
expanse of his belly a swirling fuuinjutsu array rises, forming on his flesh within moments. Jiraiya
goes silent, his eyes closing as his face adopts an expression of concentration. A thin green film of
chakra coats the palm of his hand and each finger that remains pressed into Natsume’s gut.

Natsume tightens his hold on Itachi’s hand, too exhausted and empty to think about how much of a
child he’s acting like. Letting someone else take the reins for even a moment is enough. He just
needs a bit of time to get on his feet. Just a few days to unscramble his head. He ignores the pain
lancing through his gut and stares up at Itachi.

Itachi, who came when Natsume called. Who looks at him with those damn eyes.

“Well,” Jiraiya finally says after a long moment. “There’s nothing wrong. The seal is still intact. As
I expected. Really, what was sensei thinking? Minato could never mess up something like this. But
it was made with the eventual merging of you and the Kyuubi’s chakra in mind, so this kind of
event is...not great but also not out of the realm of possibility.”
“What’s that mean for the future?” Genma asks.

The Sage hums, “Well, he just needs to train more. It’s not as though we can do anything else for
him. The Kyuubi will always be there, so he has to learn to live with it.”

“ He is right here,” Natsume snaps. “And I don’t care about the Kyuubi. I just want to leave.”

“ Temper,” Jiraiya chuckles. “Must be the hair.”

Natsume tenses.

“All that fanfare for this?” Itachi interrupts, that sly, false smile returning to his face as he stares at
the Sage. “Then I assume your job here is done?”

“Touchy. Wow, I can really feel the love in here. Seriously. Ancestors? Still punching. Rolling in
their graves, even. You guys should be grateful it isn’t something terrible, not that anything is too
terrible for me.”

“Jiraiya-sama,” Genma clears his throat, “Can the kid leave or what?”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, actually, are you into fuuinjutsu?”

Natsume narrows his eyes as the full weight of Jiraiya’s attention falls on him. There’s something
in the man’s face that makes him squirm. A sort of recognition that makes Natsume feel like he’s
being left out of the loop. “What of it?”

“Well,” Jiraiya sniffs smugly. “I’m kind of a master, if you didn’t know. I might be willing to teach
you a few things if you’re desperate.”

Flatly, Natsume says, “No.”

“N-No? What?”

Genma coughs. Itachi doesn’t smile with his mouth, but his dark eyes glimmer.

Natsume pushes himself up, his shirt falling back down. He reluctantly lets go of Itachi’s hand and
pretends he doesn’t care. “I want to leave. I’ve left my brother alone long enough.”

“This could be a once in a lifetime opportunity!”

“I’ll get over it.”

Before he can even slip off the bed, Itachi’s arms curl around him without warning, and he’s
scooped up against the Uchiha heir’s hip like a small child. The scroll is caught between their
bodies, pressed chest to chest where their hearts can both beat against it. The position gives
Natsume the perfect view of Jiraiya’s gobsmacked face.

Still feeling a bit tired, Natsume allows himself to be carried, pointedly ignoring Genma’s intense
gaze boring into the side of his head. He holds out his hands, the chakra seals still pressed around
his wrists.

Jiraiya huffs like he can’t believe what’s just occurred, but pulls off the seals with chakra-dusted
hands and the slips of paper flare up and disintegrate in a flash of fire. “Stubborn too, huh. I
thought you’d be eager to learn something new, what gives? It’s not like fuuinjutsu is popular
around here!”
Natsume doesn’t even hear him at first. The world has burst into color once more, everything sharp
and loud and fresh. He nearly chokes at the sheer swell of chakra that overloads him. It takes a
solid five seconds for him to acclimate to the tidal wave, but it’s exhilarating more than it is
painful. It’s like taking the first lungful of air after nearly drowning. He feels lighter, stronger,
clearer. He’d been sitting there with a head full of cotton and now he’s back among the clouds.

Genma’s sharp, earthy tones. Sweet almonds and the bitter tang of poison. Itachi’s smoke and
sugar, heavy with the wretched tones of agony and despair and heat. Then there’s Jiraiya, who is
like a walking pool of slick oil, the flash of sun through trees, and a spring shower.

Natsume inhales and exhales. Then he turns his head to gaze at Jiraiya with unamused crystalline
eyes. “Aren’t you a little old to be this desperate?”

Itachi walks them out of the room with a smile pressed to Natsume’s shoulder, an arm under his
legs and a hand pressed like a brand of fire to the square of his back, right between his tiny
shoulder blades. The sound of Jiraiya’s spluttering and Genma’s guffaws follows them out.

Natsume keeps his eyes closed as Itachi carries him away. He focuses on the return of his chakra,
on the world around him pulsing like a single organism. Itachi’s chakra speaks of pain, and
Natsume’s sure his own does as well. In the strangest of ways, he feels like he can rely on Itachi.

Like they’re the same.

Maybe it’s because they saw Shisui in the same light, or maybe it’s because they see the other as
an equal. Natsume should really...stop comparing him to Shisui.

He presses his face to Itachi’s shoulder. The teen smells like smoke and fresh cut grass, the spice,
sugar, and heat of his chakra washes across Natsume in a soft wave; the tide brushing against the
shore. It’s comforting in its familiarity, in its differences, in the fact that it’s Itachi, who won’t
judge Natsume and doesn’t care when he’s weak.

Natsume can tell when they arrive in front of his apartment. The wisps of chakra remnants and the
livewire of his brother’s familiar orange peel and sunshine signature pulses within. He opens his
eyes and squints against the pinks of a looming sunset. They pause on the front step, a faint breeze
stirring red and black strands of hair against each other.

Itachi’s grip tightens to the point of discomfort, and his chakra screams before falling silent. The
teen shutters away, until the taste of his chakra is so faint it’s nearly gone. Then he places Natsume
down, hands brushing against hands.

His fingers catch on strands of carmine hair that frame Natsume’s cheek and hold there, the scarlet
bleeding between his fingers. Itachi stares for a long moment, and Natsume has no words to stay.
They are silent in their shared grief. The scroll is an anvil in Natsume’s hand, growing heavier by
the second.

“What did you tell them?” he asks.

“The truth,” Itachi replies. “That Shisui is dead. That you...had to go away for a bit because you got
angry and hurt yourself.”
“That’s not the whole truth.”

“No.”

Natsume considers this, azure blue against charcoal black. “Okay.”

Itachi opens his mouth, a thousand words in his gaze. He closes his lips and stands up straight,
Natsume’s hair falling from his grasp. “Goodbye, Natsume.”

The finality makes Natsume shiver, even in the warmth of the early summer season.

“Goodnight, Itachi.”

And the older boy disappears, as though he was never there to begin with.

Natsume stares a little more into the remainder of the sunset he can see before it sinks below the
horizon of buildings across the street. What a cold, cruel irony, for the sun to die.

Naruto sobs in his arms.

He sobs until he’s sick and vomits all over the both of them.

He sobs in the shower as Natsume cleans them off, and then falls to sleep shortly after. Natsume is
sure his little brother said words, said something important or maybe pointless, but his mind has
grown fuzzy and he just pushes himself through the motions. Itachi took the last of the heat and it
will take some time before Natsume can recover.

All in all, it takes three hours before he’s once again alone with his thoughts. Naruto sleeps beside
him, completely exhausted. His eyes are red and horrifically swollen from all the crying he’s done
the past two days. His lips are chapped from dehydration but the amount of empty water cups
around the room tells Natsume that Itachi had at least held up his end of the bargain in trying to
keep Naruto afloat.

The scroll stares back at him.

The next inhale is shaky and audible, shaking his whole chest. Natsume swallows around a lump in
his throat. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if whatever is in here solidifies it — it being the end.
The end of Shisui. This is the last thing Natsume will ever receive from the Uchiha. This is the last
thing Shisui will ever say to him. This is it.

It feels too important to touch, too important to just open in the casual dimness of night with his
brother sniffling and snoring beside him. But then again, perhaps there’s no better place to open it.

When he inserts chakra into the scroll, he feels like vomiting the same way Naruto did.

His watery chakra flows into the seal, kanji floating across the bulk of it before a few items
suddenly appear with a light pop.

Natsume stares blankly down at what has come out.

Another scroll, this one pitch black and tied off with an intricate looking red ribbon. A letter,
folded into a square with no envelope in sight. A box a little bigger than the length of a kunai and
twice as wide.

And Shisui’s tanto.

The very one he carried with him always, strung behind his shoulder or held in crafty hands to
show off with. Natsume recognizes the cut of the steel, the slight engravings, and the worn spot at
the edge of the hilt. He runs a careful hand over it, for it’s too precious to touch so callously,
practically a living being in its own right. Natsume feels sick and unworthy just looking at it.
Disgusted.

Reverently, he places it to the side. Suddenly he doesn’t feel like this is a good idea. This is too
real. Too much. Too fast. He takes a few quick, short breaths, shaking his head. Maybe he should
leave this for tomorrow-

Naruto grumbles in his sleep, his pudgy hand brushing Natsume’s side. His bright, citrusy chakra
flares momentarily, and something settles in Natsume.

Taking a few calming breaths, Natsume steels his expression and his heart — though perhaps
that’s a lost cause already. With shaking hands, he picks up the black scroll. It’s quite a bit larger
than the storage scroll it came out of, with a weight to it that Natsume wasn’t expecting. Carefully
unraveling the string around it, he pulls it open and then promptly drops it in shock.

The scroll bounces against the mattress and knocks against his knee.

In sharp, bold ink, Itachi’s name can be seen. Just above it, grayed out and watery, is Shisui’s.

Natsume picks it up again, treating it like a live bomb. He pulls the scroll all the way open again,
and stares at a long list of names underneath a paragraph of text.

Crow Summoning Contract is written in large, precise kanji at the top.

Natsume stares at it for a while longer, wondering and...well, just wondering. Shisui’s name is so
faded, nearly invisible against the crisp off-white of the scroll’s interior. It stands out all the same,
and Natsume’s gaze is drawn to it even more than it is the crystal clear penmanship of Itachi’s just
below. Rolling it up, he places it very carefully off to the side with the tanto. He tries not to think
about it for now. His mind buzzes and his fingers tingle, hands growing even shakier.

Softly clearing his throat, Natsume reaches for the folded paper. It’s thin and unassuming in his
fingers, as if it’s just another one of Shisui’s notes left around the house whenever he drops
something off. Natsume still has a few of those little scraps tucked away in a drawer somewhere,
proof of Shisui’s care.

He nearly tears the paper when opening it with how hard he trembles.

In Shisui’s looping, crisp handwriting, the note reads:

Natsume,

I could say something really dramatic right now, like: If you’re reading this, I’m dead. But I can
already tell you wouldn’t appreciate that. You’re still pretty bad at the whole joke thing, and I hope
that changes someday. You really do deserve to have fun. To laugh and smile. I wanted to see you
smiling so wide you nearly split your cheeks. I see Naruto do it all the time, but you don’t smile the
same. I just know it. And it’s also not the same because it isn’t you. Natsume. I know you’re not
your brother, I know you’re not your parents. You’re just Natsume, and that’s all you need to be.
That’s all you ever need to be. Konoha is a lot of things, has done a lot of things to you, but… I still
love it. I still dream of peace. I want to see a future where the nations don’t war with each other,
where families aren’t at risk of breaking apart because of politics or shinobi conflicts.

I’m not going to see that future. But I want you to. I want you to live, to laugh, to smile for someone.
For yourself, too. That’s the most important part! (If you can’t smile for yourself then don’t do it
for others. You’re more important.) I didn’t mean for this letter to be so serious, but it’s really
hitting me, you know? This is it. I guess I’m trying to say as much as I can before time runs out. A
lifetime’s worth of words in a single letter, on a single page.

It’s never going to be enough, but cut me some slack. I didn’t want to leave you either, so this is a
bit last minute, and you’re lucky I even had paper in my pocket. I thought everything would turn
out alright. I had hope. It didn’t pan out the way I wanted, but, well, it was a gamble to start. I
don’t regret trying. I can’t tell you everything, and I don’t have enough paper for me to even try.
But I guess the most important thing for you to know is that you are my person. Don’t get me
wrong, I love Naruto like the scrappy little brother my parents never gave me, but you’re a little
different. I would have died for you, in a heartbeat. It’s an Uchiha thing. (So you should feel
special!) Maybe Itachi or Sasuke can explain it. I hope they’ll be able to. I hope for a lot of things.

Grumpy little brother, I want you to know that I love you. That’s really the most important part of
this letter. The words I never got to say out loud. I don’t know, maybe it’s a shinobi thing or
something, but...I should have said it.

It’s the only regret I have.

Do what you want with the tanto and scroll. They’re yours, to use or give away. I hope it’s not too
shameless of me to want you to use them and not toss ‘em in the bin.

Yours ‘till ya kick the bucket,

(Which should be in a hundred years or I’ll be pissed)

Uchiha Shisui.

Natsume puts the letter to the side. As though in a trance, he reaches out for the last item, the box.
He pulls off the lid, and his hands have gone so numb that it slips between his fingers. The box hits
the mattress and spills the contents in his lap.

Tens of photos stare back at him, filled with the faces of their little group. Shisui, Itachi, Sasuke,
Naruto, Hinata, Natsume. A slim, weightier item pokes out from under one photo. It’s a little charm
in the shape of a bamboo stalk with a short ribbon tied to it.

He remembers—

“In the summer, we should hide away on the Hokage’s Mountain,” Shisui whispers, chest a quiet
rumble to soothe Naruto further into sleep. “During Tanabata! We can watch the fireworks from
Yondaime-sama’s nose. I’ll buy you and Naruto a pack of sparklers, as long as you keep it a secret.
We can buy our own bamboo tree. Right in a little pot — maybe paint some frogs on it, since
Naruto seems to like ‘em so much. A tree of our own, to tie all our wishes to.”

Something stupid like —

 “In the summer.” Shisui promises. “In the summer we’ll act like kids, for a little bit. It’ll be
something we can all do together, the five of us. Maybe more, some day. That day. Who knows. We
can even make some ugly little ornaments for our poor little bamboo plant.”

Just words, really—

“Nah, Natsume. So we can bury it up there. A little bamboo tree. A little secret filled with wishes.
And it’s just ours.”

Just wishful thinking—

“Everything is these days,” the other boy murmurs. “That’s why I want to stop thinking of wishes.
I want to put them outside my head. In my hands. Around the branches of a bamboo tree. I want
them to exist here, where they can become something.”

And Natsume begins to cry.

Chapter End Notes

anyway what i really want to do aside from cry about this is let u know that uhhh even
if itachi... loves sasuke the most, it doesn't mean he doesn't love natsu, in whatever
way he can. god they just make me so sad,,,,
find me on tumblr!
 VOL. 1, ARC I. (death)
Chapter Notes

bruh the hellstorm that awaits this fic

*TW/ non-descriptive vomiting

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The shadows deepen. Spread like fungus over twisted, gnarled roots. The colors have washed
away. He stands at the base of a tree. Feels the moss and dirt crawl over his feet, feels it try to fix
him to the earth.

“Are you happy, Natsume?”

He looks up, cranes his neck to peer at the looming figure. All he sees is writhing shadows and a
white smile, teeth like knives. The hair curls, waves, fluid and moving as though without gravity.
Refracted light seems to bounce off of their flesh, scattered and loopy like the sun through clear
water. They don’t paint a pretty picture, but Natsume isn’t scared. He feels no fear.

He feels very little at all.

No reply leaves his mouth, or maybe it does. Either way, the figure nods like he’s responded. They
hold out their hands; the offer of a knife in one, a white camellia in the other.

Natsume hears the trickle of a stream grow louder, coming closer and closer until it’s nearly a
thunderous roar in his ears. From nowhere, from everywhere, water pours across the ground, over
his sunken feet and rising.

“Natsume,” the figure says, lingering on his name. “Natsume.”

He looks at the flower, imagines the weight of it in his hair. Scarlet hair, hair like blood, hair of
the Uzumaki. That very hair gains a life of its own, suddenly lengthening at an expedited pace.
Crimson locks go past his shoulders, chest, waist, knees – until it enters the steadily rising water.

Red swirls around his ankles.

“Natsume, what do you want?”

The figure has curls that dance, the mouth of a smiling predator, the heat of a flame cupped in your
hand. Natsume knows him like he knows the red, the water, the glinting knife.

Still, no reply falls from his mouth. He doesn’t know if he even tries to move his lips. Maybe he
does, maybe he doesn’t. The world is distorted, shifting impossibly between moments. There is
water everywhere. There is hair everywhere. Natsume stares at the teeth and wishes for eyes.

They were like coals, he thinks.

He looks from the knife to the flower. Did he ever ask what it meant? Such an innocuous blossom,
with half-crushed petals and creases. Whiter than snowfall, unable to flourish in the summer. The
color of innocence. Fitting, then, for it to not exist in him.

Natsume takes the knife from Shisui’s hand, because it was always Shisui’s hand.

He doesn’t look at the flower. When his decision is made, it’s dropped into the frothy waters at
their knees, tangling in the mess of long red hair. Natsume raises the knife to ear level and begins
to hack away the crimson sprawl. Chunk after chunk of hair falls, until it’s shorn away as close to
his scalp as he can get. Not gone, because the legacy of sea-born ichor will never leave him, but
short enough to remove the weight.

“Natsume.”

He holds the knife. Grasps it tight. The cracked image of Shisui twists and melts, water surging
around them. Whirlpools bloom around their bodies – around Natsume’s body, as Shisui has
disappeared into swirls, becoming one with them. Strands of red hair mix and mix until he floats in
a blender of bloody water. It threatens to drown him.

He closes his eyes, knife in hand, ready to go under.

Then a hand slips from nowhere, from somewhere, and tugs at his wrist. Without effort, he’s pulled
from the muck and out of the mouth of the whirlpool. From one blink to the next he’s somewhere
else entirely. A cage, where the water is murky green and at his ankles.

Itachi grasps the wrist holding the knife, pulls Natsume close. Then closer still, until the knife is
between them and their foreheads are knocked together. Height doesn’t seem to matter here; where
Itachi would have to bend at the knees in reality, in this world they seem to hover at the same level.

Black eyes meet blue. Natsume’s hand is maneuvered until the knife is pressed to Itachi’s gut.
Behind them, a gigantic exhale of hot breath clouds around their bodies like steam.

“Uchiha,” a deep voice snarls.

Itachi pushes Natsume’s hand and doesn’t even wince when the knife cuts through his shirt.

“Whatever it takes,” he whispers, holding Natsume’s gaze. His eyes burn like the hottest coals,
flaring bright red to match the choppy hair on Natsume’s head. Three tomoe swirl like the
whirlpools did. “You made a promise.”

“UCHIHA!”

Itachi releases Natsume’s hand then. He lets the knifepoint rest against his skin. He doesn’t move
away. Natsume doesn’t either, but he can’t move. Can’t speak. Itachi’s hands come around him,
his arms, his head pressed to the side of Natsume’s. The knife sinks into his gut with impossible
ease, and he hugs Natsume close – hugs him hard enough to break.

Even if he wanted to hug the Uchiha back, he can’t. His arms are trapped, one growing slick with
blood while the other hangs uselessly at his side. He tries to inhale but can’t smell anything at all.
Not the old, sewer-like water. Not the scent of metal polish and sugar, ash and blood. The world is
formless. Without shape. Without time.

Itachi begins to falter. Begins to melt like Shisui did.

Natsume struggles to move his arms, his hands, his anything. He wants to return the embrace, or
catch his hands around the other boy’s shirt. Instead he remains frozen as Itachi disappears just
like his brethren, turning to water and rippling across the ankle-deep spill Natsume stands in. Only
then does the knife clatter from his bloodstained hand, and the murk begins to cloud with crimson.

“Do you see, you little insect? Nothing you hold onto will last. That’s the way of men,” the dark
voice at his back croons. “ This world is rife with betrayal. Nothing is yours. Everything will be
taken from you. It’s best to burn it all before that can happen. Wouldn’t that feel better? The
one thing you can control… Destroying yourself before anyone else can.”

He heaves. His fingers twitch.

“You’re having a nightmare, worm.”

His eyes roll in his head.

“I assure you, the waking world is a hundred times worse.”

Natsume gurgles. The water churns at his feet. He feels like he’s drowning.

“In time, you will beg for sleep. Kill them all before then. Broken things are only fun when
they’re violent.”

Natsume’s body comes back to his control and he gasps ferociously. Belatedly, a hand shoots out
into the space where Itachi had once been. In the dim and steam, all he sees is his own trembling
flesh. Smears of rusty scarlet coagulate between his fingers.

In the darkest hours of the morning, he awakens.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. There is a chill in the air, so visceral and tangible he feels
confused for a moment when his breath doesn’t exhale a cloud of condensation. An ache in his
eyes persists no matter how hard he rubs them, the surrounding flesh tender and swollen.

Beside him, Naruto slumbers on. With the moon still high in the sky, it can’t have been more than
a few hours since he drifted off, Shisui’s gifts still spread out on his lap. The moment his eyes land
upon them, sheer panic slams into him. His head throbs with the force of it, lungs stuttering so
badly he swears he tastes the sharp tang of blood in his mouth. Blood that does not appear on his
hands. With quick, trembling motions, Natsume gathers all the items and stumbles out of bed—
barely remembering to be quiet.

Every item is carefully sealed back into the scroll, and then the scroll is placed in a box. Not just
any box, a storage box he’s been experimenting with. It’s completely littered with protection seals,
from fire to water to electrical damage, and any form of blunt force trauma he could imagine.

Natsume treasures very few things. Material items are inconsequential compared to his brother, but
they are also necessary to their happiness. Paranoia consumes him on a daily basis. Their locks are
terrible, their home easily accessible to shinobi and civilians alike. Their money is hidden around
the house and not in a bank because Natsume doesn’t know the first thing about opening an
account, should he be allowed to.

The contents of these scrolls have surpassed every material item he’s ever owned.

The paranoia twists into something darker, something dripping with anxiety and desperation.
Whatever had woken him—the nightmare, chill in the air, the ominous taste to the outside world's
ambient chakra—it only makes everything worse, until he’s sweating and shaking.

His feet barely make a sound as he runs around the cramped apartment. Every single remnant of
Shisui is collected. Every spare photograph lying around, every scribbled note and poorly drawn
smiley face. Natsume holds them in his hands like precious gems, like they’re made of glass.

Everything goes in the box.

He trails his fingers over the grooves and dried ink, staring with wide, haunted eyes. An entire
world in a little wooden box. Natsume’s grip tightens, the numbness receding for a mere second.

He will kill anyone who puts their hands on it.

Then the paranoia sharpens to a knife-point, acrid and thick like smoke from a wildfire. It saturates
his every breath, seeping into his bloodstream. All around him hangs the terrible, awful sense of
wrongness. Should tragedy have a sensation, this would be it. Nearly tangible and clogging his
throat until he feels like coughing.

Natsume makes sure all the windows are locked.

The moon is enormous in the cloudless sky, and it feels as if it’s bright enough to mimic the sun.
Natsume sees shadows and movement in the dim, washed-out streets, not even the barest whisper
of sound on the wind. For a brief moment, the back-lit figure of a bird in flight cuts across the
expanse of the moon. He closes every curtain until the house is nearly black from lack of light, thin
slivers of starlight blurring from the edges.

When he returns to the bed, Naruto is still snoring away. There’s a slight furrow in his brow,
hinting that his sleep isn’t as restful as presumed.

Then, in the next moment, he senses it.

Bitter almonds and earth. Sharp, strained, strung out to the point of pain. Shiranui Genma trudges
up the steps to their front door slowly, as though weighed down and reluctant to reach the end.

The hour is so late, and Natsume is so frayed at the edges, that he knows this can only be about
something terrible. What else could happen? What else could implode within their small slice of
poison?

He opens the door before Genma has time to knock, and when he sees the man’s appearance
Natsume knows his suspicions were true. Genma is haggard, down to even the silk of his brown
hair—which now hangs limp and dark. His eyes are hollow, burnt umber blackened by grief. It
seeps into the air through his chakra, wave after wave of horror.

With a gaunt expression, Genma crouches down to one knee, and the image overlaps with that of
Itachi kneeling to deliver wretched news of death. Natsume feels a near overwhelming urge to
vomit. Now eye to eye, the horrid sensations seem to amplify. Genma’s face has gone blank, while
his chakra still roils like an angry sea.

“What is it now?” Natsume croaks. He is still shattered pieces, the glue hasn’t yet dried. Anything
else will surely turn him to dust.

(Kill them all first.)

“I want you to know,” Genma begins, voice a whisper to remain between only the two of them; like
a secret. “Uchiha Sasuke is still alive.”

Natsume is quiet.

Genma continues, “An hour ago the rest of the Uchiha Clan were massacred. There is only one
lead.”

Natsume feels like blowing away with the wind. The words sound like words with no meaning, no
impact. He can’t interpret them, can’t figure out what kind of expression to make. He doesn’t know
any other Uchihas, not in any way that matters. He only knew the three, then the two, and now it
looks like the one.

(Destroy yourself before anyone else can.)

He remembers the hidden grief in Itachi’s chakra, like a diamond buried under layers of sand. He
remembers the goodbye that should have been goodnight but wasn’t—so very clearly wasn’t—and
Natsume hadn’t cared at the time despite the feeling of a door shut behind him.

“We need to confirm it with Sasuke, but…we believe it’s—”

“Uchiha Itachi,” Natsume finishes, murmuring the name upon an exhale. He almost wants to
laugh. Wants to scream out at this twisted irony until his throat tears and his gut churns with the
force of it all. But he can’t even bring himself to smile.

Uchiha Itachi massacred his own clan.

That kind of sentence makes no sense at all, and all the sense in the world. Sickness fills his head,
burrows into his bones.

You’re too alike, he remembers Shisui saying.

Konoha is so shrouded in its own shadows, branches stretched out to darken the earth and those
below. The sheltered civilians don’t even realize the hues of navy poison under their feet. The tide
that crawls up their skin with every rippling death. They’re drowning in open air and they don’t
even see it.

Itachi, Itachi, Itachi, Itachi.

Sugar-spun, ash-and-smoke Itachi, with his stress carved into his face like lines in marble. Who
loved so fiercely his chakra could never hide it, who burned so passionately—of course he did,
there was fire in his soul and on the wind of every breath Natsume took around the teen.

“Natsume?”

He tries to think. No. Thinking is bad. What thoughts can he even conjure? Nothing makes sense
and everything is bad, but that’s just it—there’s no reprieve, so it’s all he can do to just stand.

What’s it matter anymore?

“Natsume…” Genma calls again, softer this time. “Are you still with me?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I thought it best you hear from me, rather than through some gossip. I know you were…close.”

Natsume looks up, the world torn and gray at the edges. It’s better not to think about it at all. It
won’t change what has happened. It won’t change what’s going to keep happening. The outcome
will be the same whether or not he screams and throws a tantrum. The days will continue on and
the Uchiha Clan will still be dead. Their blood is caked into the streets and dirt of Konoha. Not for
it, but instead because of it.

So he closes a door within him, away from the summer and the heat. He shuts his eyes and the
world goes cold, and when he opens them everything is exactly the same.

He closes a door and lets the ice take over, because it’s easier to freeze out everything rather than
feel it all.

Information received: The Uchiha Clan is dead. Uchiha Itachi killed them all. Uchiha Sasuke is still
alive.

In the other room, Naruto’s sleepy breathing catches and releases.

Natsume has only one question—a question that sounds more like a demand, the sky in his eyes
frosted over.

“Where….is Sasuke?”

Sasuke rests in a high security location within the hospital. Genma doesn’t have all the information
—isn’t privy to it, since he’s not in charge of guarding the ‘Last’ Uchiha. All he can tell Natsume is
that Sasuke is being protected, that he’s safe, and that he’s not exactly injured.

Not exactly injured. That can mean a lot of things. Wounds of the body and wounds of the mind are
two different monsters, though they can certainly interact.

The Uchiha are renowned for their genjutsu capabilities, especially in regards to the Sharingan.
Itachi was—is—the strongest of them all, and has always been praised for it. Shisui was
exceptional at speed and chakra control.

Itachi, genjutsu.

There might not be a single injury on Sasuke’s body, but his mind is another story. Very easily can
a mind be torn to shreds with the right genjutsu. Mental torture on children is a hundred times
worse. For one, their chakra pathways aren’t completely developed yet. It generally takes until the
ages of sixteen to eighteen before it settles, which is why a lot of people put pressure on children to
push their chakra consumption and expand their reserves through repetitive practice while they
can. Once you age out, trying to increase your reserves is nearly impossible. Of course some, like
Natsume and Naruto, are born with incredibly large reserves from the get-go.

Sasuke’s chakra reserves are decent for a child his age, but nowhere near what he’d prefer. With
his underdeveloped pathways, he’s at a higher risk for antagonistic jutsu to cause permanent
damage to his chakra network.

Natsume thinks about it for the rest of the night.

After Genma leaves—rather reluctantly—Natsume refuses to fall back asleep. Can’t even force
himself. He may be exhausted from days worth of stress, but the idea of returning to the
nightmares that wait aren’t enticing. Even if the world outside is infinitely more painful.

It’s incomprehensible to even think about sleep after this news.

So he sits in bed beside Naruto until the sun rises, and Konoha awakens to news of a terrible
disaster within their own walls. It’ll burn its way around the Village in a matter of hours. Someone
will see the tape. The villagers like to gossip. The shinobi with Uchiha friends will be informed.
Will get drunk or grow haggard. There will be a sudden gap in the makeup of their Village and it
will be felt.

He wonders if the Hokage will release an official statement. He wonders if there will be a mass
funeral. Will all the bodies be burnt?

(“We have body scrolls for the worst case scenario.”

Natsume’s expression doesn’t change. He stares at the black scroll Genma has placed on the table
before him, on top of the countless papers that he’d been using to study. Fuuinjutsu is a never-
ending effort.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to figure out how to make one on your own, but for the rest of us we have
to be sure to always have a couple on us at all times. Whenever a team is sent out, you bring as
many as there are members on the squad.”

“What about the other worst case scenario?” Natsume asks. Because missions are rarely as
straightforward as you expect. The higher the rank, the more likely you face the consequences.
“What happens when there’s no scroll?”

Genma sighs, a crease forming between his brows. He slumps down on the other side of the low
table, senbon clicking between his teeth. “Then you need to get rid of the body by any means
necessary. Burn it to a crisp, mix the ashes in mud. Konoha bodies carry Konoha secrets.” Then
he sighs, looking slightly pained. “There is a hierarchy, however. Plans change. Sometimes you
don’t have the time to recover bodies or destroy them when your life's on the line. Sometimes you
do have a bit of time, but not enough.”

Natsume’s hand stills—then he moves his brush away from the parchment before the ink can pool.
“What do you mean?”

“If you can only get to one, prioritize those from clans. If there are multiple clan shinobi, prioritize
those with kekkei genkai that afflict their bodies. Those with Doujutsu, like the Byakugan or
Sharingan, are higher on the list, because their eyes can be taken and used after death. Those with
techniques present in their chakra are next, because while they can’t be stolen from a corpse, they
can be studied. Those who rely specifically on links with animals or science are near the bottom,
like the Inuzuka or Akimichi.”

“And if there are no clan shinobi?”

Genma huffs, “I was getting there. If you’ve only got clanless corpses, you go by rank. The higher
the rank, the higher the priority. It might be gruesome, but it’s necessary. We do what we have to to
protect the village.”)

Natsume shakes his head, willing the memory to fade. There will be no bodies to bury. There will
only be ashes—if that. The safest option would be to remove all worldly evidence at all. Then
again, he doesn’t exactly know the extent of the Shinobi Nations’ science capabilities. Maybe
ashes are fine.
“Naccha?”

Naruto’s sleepy voice comes around 10AM, when the bustle from the streets can already be heard.
The blonde wriggles around under the covers, blue eyes still hazy as he slowly emerges into
awareness.

For a moment, it seems like every other morning.

Then the curtain is pulled back, and Naruto’s eyes clear.

“What’s wrong?”

Natsume doesn’t try to smile. “You’re not going to the Academy today.”

His little brother sits up, then glances out towards the window. Normally, he’d be cheering at such
news, but instead he’s quiet. Despite his long sleep his eyes are still red and his face is bloated
from all the crying. Naruto watches Natsume with an expression that borders…dull.

“Shicchan really isn’t coming back, is he?”

Hours ago, Natsume closed a door. Now he doesn’t flinch when he glances at Naruto, just exhales.
“Yeah.”

To his credit, Naruto doesn’t cry. Instead he looks down at the sheets, fisting them in his tiny
hands. His lips wobble, his brow furrows. There’s a glare on his face instead of sadness.

“Why can’t I go to the Academy today?”

He wonders how to deliver the words. Slow? Roundabout? Direct?

Something has happened. Seems too easy.

He does it anyway. “Something happened.”

There’s really no easy way to say it. He doesn’t understand how Genma spoke so easily. So
assuredly. It’s like Natsume’s tongue is tying itself in knots as he vaguely explains what has
happened. Then, when he’s finished, Naruto still looks mad.

“That doesn’t make sense!” he cries out, face flushed red and tears in his eyes. They’re born of
stress and frustration. “Ita-nii wouldn’t do that! You’re lying!”

“I’m not.”

Naruto tosses the blankets aside and runs away from the bed. His little feet slam against the floor as
he flees to the bathroom. He slams the door behind him, rattling the frame. Natsume just watches
him go, understanding the need to bolt from the news but not having the luxury too.

His little brother has a point, though.

To imagine Itachi as a slaughterer of his own family is difficult. Not impossible, but strange. The
grief had been real. The choke of pain within the other boy’s chakra had been real. There was no
faking it.

Natsume knows that Itachi is a child with ANBU level skill. He knows Itachi is the kind of person
who feels like steel, but bends like straw at the sight of Sasuke. Uchiha Itachi loves his family, he
loves this Village. He loved Shisui.
Uchiha Itachi massacred the Uchiha Clan.

Maybe it’s true, but it doesn’t make sense.

Natsume tries to imagine what it would take to slaughter everyone you share blood with. Tries to
imagine killing children, infants, helpless elderly, your neighbor, your cousin, your parents. He
can’t fathom it. He can’t match the kind of boy who burned so brilliantly with that damned Will of
Fire alongside the image of a Clan Killer.

(“Call him whatever you want, but you’ll protect him,” the Uchiha murmurs.

Natsume closes his eyes, but all it does is make the sounds of Naruto and Sasuke’s laughter louder,
their chakra feel brighter. He decides to look at the sky instead. “He’s a kid.”

“He is,” Itachi says. He doesn’t say so are you, he doesn’t say it’s not supposed to be your
responsibility. “And you really are too kind.”)

What kind of brother speaks those words with thoughts of murder in his head? Natsume’s own
head hurts, and not from just lack of sleep. Why butter up Natsume if it was all a lie? They spoke
many words in private about their brothers, and Itachi’s chakra never lied. It wasn’t possible. There
was no poison in Itachi’s chakra, just heat and sugar like always.

(“I’ll take care of things while you’re here. But I need you to promise me something.”

“What?”

“Promise me that when I’m not around, you’ll take care of Sasuke.”)

How long had he been planning this?

One didn’t simply snap and kill their entire Clan. The kind of energy it would take to kill over a
hundred people—it’s not the kind of thing that occurred during a temper tantrum. Not in the middle
of a goddamn Village. Not—

No. No, actually, that didn’t make sense.

In the middle of the Village?

Itachi is incredible, but is he incredible enough to kill over a hundred people without anyone
making noise? Without anyone from the esteemed Uchiha Clan fighting back? Sounding an alarm?
He isn’t the only one with a Sharingan, even if it’s one of their strongest.

Their Village never truly slept. Shinobi made rounds within the walls, watching for crime or
infiltrators. There were too many discrepancies. Too many facts that couldn’t possibly be facts.

Natsume throws the blankets off his legs. He hears sobbing from the bathroom, but doesn’t bother
knocking on the door. What can he do to help? There’s nothing to say. All they can do is come to
accept the news.

He paces the room. Back and forth. Back and forth. He hates thinking. The more he thinks, the
worse it gets. It makes him sick. So terribly sick that his stomach turns over in his gut. The world
spins, and he realizes he’s been hyperventilating. Something is wrong. The Village is wrong. Itachi
being a murderer outside of shinobi work is wrong.

Natsume storms into the bathroom. It has no lock so it opens easily, smashing into the opposite
 wall. Naruto lets out a sound of surprise, his cries stuttering in his chest. His eyes are wet and
round, flesh burned red with agony. Natsume barely sees him.

He throws up into the toilet, bile burning his esophagus. Barely anything comes up, but his
stomach can’t stop contracting. He grips the edge of the chipped porcelain.

“Nacchan!”

Naruto’s hands are on his back, curving around his shoulder. His wet face smears against
Natsume’s scarlet hair. When he finally pulls away from the toilet, it’s back into Naruto’s arms.

His little brother clings tight, until they’re both tumbling backwards onto the tile floor in a tangle.
They both lay there, breathing heavily and utterly snotty. Natsume stares up at the weak
fluorescent light overhead, feeling his brother’s chest rise and fall under his head.

When he closes his eyes, the image of Sasuke is burned into the dark.

Chapter End Notes

find me on tumblr!
 VOL. 1, ARC I. (determination)
Chapter Notes

Somehow managed to update before the end of the year !!!!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The day Sasuke comes back, it’s sunny.

Blue sky, cloudless, spitting in their faces. Natsume hasn’t been called to a mission since the
massacre, so all his time is spent caring for Naruto and training. Pushing his body to the absolute
limits. Anything for a distraction.

Every day he picks Naruto up from the Academy. Hiding in the shadows of the fence and ignoring
the stares of parents and guardians. It’s there that he senses Sasuke before the boy is even in view.
The chakra is withered like rot and woodsmoke. Heavy ozone before the rain. Something terrible
has changed—but that’s obvious.

Sasuke is sitting in the shade of the lonely tree, dull-eyed and still as a doll. He looks gaunt, a
redness to his cheeks that tells Natsume the boy has been there since the morning. Never went
inside.

Natsume breaks away from the fence and walks over. He looks at the hollow shell of a boy. Blue-
black hair, dark eyes, pale skin, aristocratic features. Blood in his veins that’s unique now to only
him and one other. Natsume looks at Sasuke and sees a twisted, cracked mirror.

He doesn’t have to wonder at the thought of ‘ What’s it like to no longer share your face with
others around you?’ Because he only has Naruto, as Sasuke only has Itachi.

His shadow over Sasuke’s face draws out a flicker of recognition. Dark eyes slowly rise to rest on
his face. Natsume wonders who’s watching this kid, and why Sasuke’s being allowed back when
he still looks like this.

With a sigh, Natsume reaches forward and drags Sasuke up by his collar. “Get on your feet.”

Sasuke’s expression crumples like a crushed can. Twisting into something vile and tortured.
Whether he’s sad, or angry, it’s all the same. Agonized. “Natsu—”

“You’re coming home with us. You need help.”

“I don’t need it.”

Natsume raises a brow. “You look like shit. You can take care of yourself? As if some brat who’s
never even made his own lunch box could last on his own.”

A wordless cry. Sasuke slaps at Natsume’s wrist to be let go and backs against the tree. He scowls,
the red skin under his eyes stark and sickly. “Fuck you.”

“Oh? You think knowing a few swear words makes you a big boy?” Natsume drills his fist into the
bark right by Sasuke’s head. The boy’s eyes go wide, and more life shines through them. “You’re
not making it to next week at the rate you’re going. What exactly is it that you want to do? Gonna
waltz up to Itachi when you can’t even shower?”

Sasuke leaps at him, teeth and flashing eyes. His little hands barely feel like anything. “I don’t—I
just—I need to kill him!”

With a single side-step and shove, Sasuke lands in the dirt. He can barely push himself up on his
shaking arms. Natsume looks at him and tries to envision bubbling streams, lightning, and hot
coals. A smile and a boy who could cry.

Kill him, huh?

Itachi always felt like burned sugar and molten lava. He mourned Shisui. He loved Sasuke. He
looked at Natsume like they both understood each other, and maybe they did. Maybe they still do.

It’s frustrating. Natsume’s not drowning in pain and confusion the way Sasuke is. Sure, Natsume
understands that there’s a lot going on behind the scenes that he isn’t privy to, but at the end of the
day it isn’t Itachi that he’s wondering about.

It’s Konoha.

Itachi massacred the Uchiha clan for power. Itachi killed Uchiha Shisui. Itachi made me promise
to look after Sasuke.

“Sasuke, look at me.” Nothing. Natsume grits his teeth. His next words are sharp. “I said look at
me.”

Finally, Sasuke glances up at Natsume with burning eyes through his dark, oily bangs.

“Getting angry about the truth is all well and good. But you’re not going to change anything by just
stewing in it.” He steps in close, crouching beside Sasuke. His next words aren’t meant for lurking
watchers or gossipy parents. “This world doesn’t care about your grief. Konoha doesn’t care for
blunt tools.”

“I don’t care what happens to me,” Sasuke chokes. “I’ll do anything. I’m going to kill him no
matter what.”

“Then get up and come home with us.” He grabs Sasuke’s chin, feels the bird bones under his
fingers. “Look at me and only me. I’m your first challenge. If you can’t beat me, then you have no
hope.”

Natsume pulls away and stands. He glances at the few parents who started to creep too close,
sending them reeling back.

Sasuke droops like all his strings have been cut. But after a minute he gets to his feet. His stare is
no longer venomous. Instead there’s something contemplative lingering in his shadows, drilling
holes into the side of Natsume’s face.

“Train me.”

Natsume snorts, “Get healthy first.”

Before the other can respond, the doors to the Academy are thrown open. Children stream out into
the yard, noisy and filled with energy. Sasuke retreats into himself, blank apathy returning. He
even steps a little behind Natsume.
Naruto bolts right over with a loud cry. “Nacchan!”

He tumbles into Natsume’s arms and wraps him in a sticky hug. Sunshine and tangerines light up
Natsume’s senses. He’s only able to return the hug for a moment before Naruto sees Sasuke.

Then he finds himself empty-handed as Naruto tackles Sasuke in a hug. “Sasuke, you’re back!”

Sasuke doesn’t return it, and after a moment he squirms out of Naruto’s arms. It’s not like they’ve
hugged a lot before, so Naruto takes it with a grain of salt.

“Um, hi,” Naruto says, fidgeting with his hands. He glances at Natsume with clear distress. Asking
for help. For something to offer.

Natsume doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing in the world you could give to a child whose whole
family has just been massacred. No words. No comforts. All Natsume can offer is a chance to take
some power back.

Behind them, Hinata tries to approach. Before she can reach their group, her arm is caught by a
man with the same eyes as her. He’s too young to be her father, so perhaps a cousin. His grip is
brutish and he doesn’t bother to watch the volume of his words.

“Lady Hinata, stay away from them. Nothing good comes from interacting with riff-raff.”

“But—”

The Hyuuga starts pulling her away. “You are above them. As Heiress it’s time you started acting
as such.”

They make it all of three feet before Hinata’s pale face reddens with something Natsume hesitates
to call anger. Her little fist comes around like lightning and nails her cousin directly in the groin.
“Those are my friends!”

He releases her with a sharp, high wheeze. Hinata wastes no time in fleeing over to them. She
nearly trips into Sasuke, tossing her arms around him. Naruto steadies them both before they topple
to the ground.

Sasuke doesn’t shrug her arms off. His brow furrows, as if pained, but he only bites his lip and
waits for her to pull away. The three of them stand there, off in their own world. Naruto and Hinata
speak in low voices, both close enough to touch Sasuke and include him despite his silence.

When the Hyuuga recovers, he’s met with Natsume’s stare. It makes him freeze, his chakra
rippling like wind over a lake. After a long moment, the silent challenge ends in Natsume’s victory
as the Hyuuga lowers his head.

If nothing, Natsume can give Sasuke this. He made a promise, after all.

“Train me,” Sasuke says, like he says every day since he started staying in their cramped
apartment.

No one brought up moving into the Uchiha compound, with its empty homes and too open rooms
and blood-stained floors. The horrors have already etched themselves into the very foundations,
and Sasuke is a ghost whenever he walks the broken streets.

So what Natsume does is take Sasuke to a field and soundly overwhelm him with Tsunami style
taijutsu. Sasuke’s body is roughly the same size as Natsume’s, and his frame is more on the lithe
side as opposed to stocky. Good for speed. Tsunami style belongs to the Uzumaki, to Natsume and
Naruto, but he doesn’t mind showing it off for this broken little boy trying to shove pieces back
into himself to become whole.

Sasuke, for all that he was considered lesser than his brother, is not stupid. He takes whatever he
can get from Natsume with greedy, devouring eyes. Observing with uncanny intent, the black of
his gaze sharpening into a panther-like ferocity Natsume recognizes.

He doesn’t pretend to understand Itachi’s endgame, but Natsume can’t wholly say he doesn’t
understand Itachi’s intent.

Sasuke is too bitter and raw for any prodding, however. He reacts poorly whenever Naruto or even
Hinata mention That Night. More than one screaming argument has been had over dinner between
Naruto, who can’t believe for a second that Itachi could really do what he did, and Sasuke, who
claims it happened right before his eyes.

The mental torture via genjutsu definitely left an impact. Too much of one, quite honestly. It drove
home a very abrupt and strict certainty: Itachi is bad. Itachi killed everyone. You need to kill Itachi.
You need to restore the Uchiha’s glory in Konoha.

Natsume doesn’t have the information to make any sort of decision. He just has his gut instinct, and
the way Itachi held him when Natsume’s chakra was sealed.

Thinking about it makes something sharp prod at the walls Natsume has constructed. So he tries
not to linger on it at all. What’s done is done. He’ll spend his time dancing around Sasuke’s flailing
hits as the boy tries to mimic the Tsunami style with Natsume’s minimal direction. He’ll pretend it
doesn’t mean anything when he can’t meet Sasuke’s eyes for more than a few moments.

The bamboo charm hanging around a chain on his neck feels like a thousand-pound weight.

Sasuke breathes out, sprawled on the dirt and more mess than child. His eyes are hot coals. He
doesn’t look at Natsume’s face, his hair, his eyes. He stares at that little charm above Natsume’s
heart.

“He killed him, you know,” he mutters.

Natsume turns away. “That’s enough training for today.”

Rinse. Repeat.

The summer heat is relentless.

All his focus is on the bokken in his hands. His arms strain with effort. Sweat flies with every
repeated motion. He’s grown better than Genma, better than the average chunin. The short
wakizashi Genma purchased for him has been a staple in his training sessions, and he’s allowed to
wear both that and the matching tanto in the field. For now, he’ll only use the wakizashi. A tanto…
Natsume swallows around a dry throat.

His true dream is to become proficient enough to use a katana. It’s a dream that might take a few
years—and inches—to be fully realized.

He pushes his muscles to the max with the long, heavy bokken. Over and over he moves, all under
the hawkish attention of Uzuki Yugao.

She never looks upon him with anything other than a blank kindness or strict direction. In a way, it
makes her the favorite of all his teachers. There are no expectations. She takes kenjutsu very
seriously, and all their conversations revolve around that and only that.

He approached her after Shisui—after the massacre—ready to train once more. Rather than ask if
he was okay or if he needed more time…

She put a katana made of live steel in his hand and told him to swing three hundred times. It was
too big for his body and too heavy to make it to three hundred with any kind of finesse. He ended
up carving gouges in the earth and in training logs while screaming, exhausted to the point of
madness. Or was it the other way around?

“I suggest using your tanto.” She didn’t ask and he never told her, but Shisui knew of Yugao and
she knew of him in return. They ran in circles that Natsume isn’t allowed to know of. “It’s better
for your current body size.”

“I know,” he replies.

He keeps training with the long bokken.

Shisui’s tanto is now his tanto, but it doesn’t feel that way yet. To touch it would feel wrong.
Natsume isn’t worthy. Not in skill or in heart. He’s terrified of mishandling the weapon and having
it shatter due to his own folly. So no, he won’t use it. Not for a long, long time.

Not until he’s better. Not until he gives Yugao a run for her money and kenjutsu becomes as easy
as breathing. The tanto that matches his wakizashi is pretty—the matte black sheath painted with a
violent sea and dangerous, if fictitious, creatures found within—but it no longer holds the same
beauty. He’ll use that one before Shisui’s, if he needs to.

Should use it, because he has it and he can’t afford to be picky.

She sighs, “Fine then. Run through the steps of the Tsunami style again.”

He does. Then again and again, until his stomach roars and he thinks he’ll die if he raises his arms
again. Yugao has him do cool down stretches before she disappears. She only ever lingers long
enough to be sure he won’t pass out.

Natsume seals his training bokken away and straps his wakizashi to his waist. Despite being a
shorter blade, it still nearly drags along the ground. He’s taken to wearing it around to get used to
both the weight and the space it takes up.

He’s so tired he wants to vomit.

Instead of wandering home, he finds himself moving towards familiar grounds. Places he used to
visit with someone else at his side. The heat and the cry of cicadas is overwhelming. He finds no
relief in the memories. When he stops by the park, he stares dispassionately at the children
screaming in joy. They smile with missing teeth and trip over their shoes with forgiven clumsiness.
The camellia bushes are empty of buds. He presses his fingers against the leaves. Without the
flowers, they look plain. Like every other piece of flora in Konoha.

For a brief moment, Natsume closes his eyes. The Konoha hitai-ate around his arm feels
unbearably tight.

He thinks he hates the summer.

Naruto is out for the afternoon. Plans with Sasuke and Hinata, as usual. Still reluctant to return to
an empty apartment, Natsume goes somewhere he’s never been before.

Yamanaka Flowers.

It’s a bright shop, well decorated and clearly cared for. They must get quite a lot of business.
Typical, seeing as clan-owned establishments get more patronage than others. Natsume only enters
because he knows that the Yamanaka are in a close ally-ship with the Nara and Akimichi, two
clans with businesses that have yet to spurn him or his brother.

Naruto is fond of plants. He doesn’t always have an excellent attention span, but for whatever
reason he’s taken to learning all he can about gardening. And it actually sticks. At this point he has
a decent collection of plants to line their windowsill and he somehow remembers how much water
each one needs and when.

They all look like plants to Natsume.

A bell chimes over his head when he steps inside. He’s hit with a sharp mix of dirt and greenery.
Plants, both flowering and not, fill every available space not meant for walking. Some even hang
from support beams across the domed ceiling. Long trails of ivy, vines, or stringy-looking leaves
would tickle a taller person’s head on more than one occasion.

There’s a single glass ornament hanging in the front window. It catches sunlight and scatters it
across the interior, painting rainbow fractals over an already colorful scene.

“Hello!” A cheery voice calls.

Young, high, and possibly feminine. It’s hard to tell with children. Immature chakra, with the
faintest hint of flowers in full bloom. Are they even old enough to man a shop? Ah—there’s
another chakra signature farther back, out of sight.

He sees a head of white-blonde hair bob from behind the counter, and then a face peers over. It’s a
young girl with wide blue eyes. Whereas Natsume and Naruto’s are reminiscent of a midday sky,
hers are bleached out and wintry. They hold no pupil, but don’t possess the milky blankness of the
byakugan. Her hair is parted to the side and held with a clip, and the very ends of it only reach past
her chin.

When she sees him, she makes an obvious expression of shock. She even lets out a sound like an
eep and seems to stumble backwards.

He walks right up to the counter. Neither of them are tall enough for their whole head to be over
the edge. “I have a question.”
“Okay!” She chirps, quickly recovering. “I’m Yamanaka Ino, and I basically know everything.”

“Does the camellia flower have any meaning?”

Ino sighs wistfully, “It’s such a pretty flower. Depending on the color it has a few different
meanings!”

Natsume thinks of white, like the flower Shisui pressed into Natsume’s hair and hands like a token.
Red, like the flower Shisui said Natsume embodied. The only two that matter. “I want to know
what red and white camellias are.”

“Uhm, well the red one is love, mostly. Or passion! So romantic. But it’s also for a noble death, so
it’s popular for shinobi funerals. So you really have to pay attention to context. And don’t give
them to sick people,” Ino babbles, a flush blooming on her cheeks. Her eyes shine. She clearly
loves flowers even more than Naruto. “For civilians they’re totally lovey-dovey flowers, but for
shinobi they’re all about bravery and strength and stuff. ‘Cause camellias only bloom—”

“In the winter,” he murmurs.

Ino blinks, the apples of her cheeks burning brighter pink. “Yeah! So they’re super hardy. White
camellias are kind of the same. For innocent, friendly love and admiration. It’s not romantic at all,
but still cute—despite also being death flowers.”

“Death flowers?”

“Yeah.” Ino nods. “Another big one for funerals.”

He doesn’t exactly grin, but the corner of his mouth curves up into something bitter. Two sides of
life, reflected in a flower. He wonders if Shisui ever studied the language of flowers for fun.

He wonders how much of Shisui he never knew at all.

“I don’t suppose you have any?”

“They’re not really in season…but I can recommend some others if you’re getting some for a
friend!”

Natsume pulls away from the counter and starts towards the door. “That’s alright. He’s not around
to receive them. Sorry to bother you.”

“Oh, uh—” There’s a pattering of footsteps. “Wait a moment!”

For whatever reason, he does. He turns to face her with one hand on the door. Ino skitters around
behind the counter before coming out. She walks with her head up, practically stomping. Pink sears
her cheeks all the way up to her ears. She stops before him and holds out a flower.

Or what he thinks is a flower. It’s a long stem, trailing from green to scarlet. A cluster of narrow
red buds that almost look more like petals cover at least half of it. Confused, he tentatively takes it
from her fist.
“What’s this for?”

“It reminded me of your hair,” she says, looking embarrassed but determined. “It’s beautiful. I’ve
never seen anyone with hair like that.”

It almost hurts to hear. He stares at her until she looks like a tomato, twirling the long flower-plant.
He can’t quite decide if it’s pretty or ugly. “What is it?”

“Red salvia.”

“What’s it mean?”

But Ino’s niceties seem to have run out.

“None of your business!” She bellows, before running back to the safety of her counter. The next
time she peers over, he’s already gone.

The streets are abandoned for the rush of wind in his hair. He traverses the rooftops with quick,
sure steps. He’s not one to really care about the meanings of flowers. Maybe Shisui was. Maybe he
wasn’t. It’s not like he can complain about which ones Natsume brings.

Shisui’s body was never recovered, so the stone they erected for him in the graveyard is nothing
but that. A stone with a name carved on it. He didn’t have much of a ceremony, with his entire clan
perishing barely a week later. Too many bodies and too many new stones.

There’s a monument for all the Uchiha clan members, every name that fell under Itachi’s blade
carved into it. Shisui’s isn’t there. He wasn’t part of the massacre, they say, so he only has a
solitary stone surrounded by Konoha shinobi that might have been dead before he’d even been
born.
Who knows, maybe he prefers that.

There’s a few other people, but they’re visiting graves far enough away that no one gives him a
second look. Natsume crouches by the flat, clean stone. Smooth, unweathered, pristine. A
sensation of dread curls in his throat at the thought of time eroding that newness. How many years
will pass before Shisui’s memory is so distant that Natsume won’t know which were real and
which were figments of his imagination?

Human memory is such a fickle thing, after all, and Natsume is only seven.

He places the sprig of red salvia on the grave. It’s nearly weightless. A strong breeze will soon
send it tumbling away.

It feels too weird to speak out loud when the trees have eyes and ears.

Today, Sasuke lasted a split second longer. He still can’t come close to hitting me, but at least he’s
understanding the flow better. He’s smarter than everyone gave him credit for. I think he’s suited
for speed, like me. The Tsunami style will be a boon to him, though it’s laughable ironic when
considering his chakra nature. I don’t know if fire or lightning style jutsu will be compatible with
the movements. Those elements are polar opposites of water.

Natsume sighs audibly and kicks at the grass. I hate ninjutsu, by the way. I try to study it, but
nothing seems to work. My chakra is too vast and trying to condense it is both annoying and time
consuming. Bigger isn’t always better with jutsu, I lack control when I can’t alter the input or
output. It would be easier if you—It would be easier if I had someone to teach me. Genma-sensei
does what he can, but water style is outside his area of expertise.

I’ll stick with taijutsu and kenjutsu for now. I can manage the ninjutsu basics…in excess. That’s
enough for me. Naruto talks about flashy jutsu all the time, maybe he’ll get more use out of all
those scrolls I’ve picked up. Speaking of scrolls, I didn’t throw out your crow summoning contract.
I haven’t signed it yet. I don’t know what to do with it, honestly.

Natsume traces Shisui’s name. I don’t know if you can even hear me. If there’s even an afterlife at
all. I like to think there is, just on account of my special circumstances. If reincarnation is real, I
hope you’re born far into the future. In a time where that dream you had is realized.

The sun starts getting lower in the sky. He straightens up. Enough time has been wasted here.

“Don’t linger here,” he mutters under his breath. Because Shisui is the type who would. The kind
of man that Natsume becomes, should he even reach an age to be considered as such—

He’s not sure if Shisui should see.

Natsume walks home while the sun is still out. It peeks over the tops of stacked buildings,
bolstering the reds and oranges of shingles and chipping paint. By now, Sasuke and Naruto will be
arguing at home. He can hear it now—their high pitched voices squabbling back and forth. Over
dinner, over who gets which blanket.

For all that they clash about That Night, Naruto’s persistence is doing some good in bringing
Sasuke out of his depressive shell. The only thing that Natsume can give him is strength. The skills
he needs to survive.

All he can do is make it so Sasuke has the power to never be hurt like that again. As Natsume
grows, he’ll pull Sasuke along with him. It’s a terrible cruelty, one he won’t impart onto Naruto. He
loves Naruto. Naruto is his twin, his brother, his everything.
He feels fondness for Sasuke.

And that’s exactly why he’ll do as Itachi said.

“Natsu-nii!”

He halts, feeling night skies and lilacs and rippling water. Hinata flushes under the curious looks
from passers-by that her call garnered. She ducks her head when she gets close, pressing her hands
together out of habit. Soft and kind.

It terrifies him.

“Hinata,” he murmurs. “You’re…alone.”

She fidgets for a few seconds. While they’ve known each other for a few years at this point, she’s
still bad at speaking out. Social anxiety. And it’s not like he paints the most approachable picture.

Especially lately.

Hinata finally gathers her courage. “I-I want…I mean, I would sincerely like it—um, appreciate it
if I could learn fuuinjutsu.”

Oh?

A flare of interest ignites the corners of his frigid gaze with color. She stares at him head on despite
her stuttering, lilac murkiness somehow bright and earnest. Natsume hums.

“Fuuinjutsu is a tedious and lengthy learning process. There’s a lot more for me to work through.
I’m not some master worthy of teaching a pupil.” He offers something like a grimace, or a smile,
and taps his fingers against the hilt of his wakizashi. “You’re also an heiress, Hinata. You could
have any teacher you wanted if you expressed interest in the subject.”

“I know,” she says. “That’s why I’m here.”

He blinks. Maybe spending so much time with Sasuke and Naruto really has changed her. Why had
he assumed her to still be the same weak, muttering child from before?

She stops fidgeting with her fingers and straightens her spine. Then in a fluid, graceful motion, she
bows before him, her head lowered nearly to her waist.

“This—This is a request from Hyuuga Hinata, heiress of the Hyuuga. Uzumaki-sama, I-I beseech
you. Please allow me to study fuuinjutsu alongside you.”

“Raise your head.” The sight makes him uncomfortable. He stares at her for a long moment, until
she starts fidgeting again. “Why?”

Hinata’s eyes grow steady, as do her hands. She clasps them together tightly, as though in prayer. “I
want to do whatever I can to protect my friends.”

He steps close. Natsume barely holds a centimeter in height over her, but it suddenly feels like a
mile. Still, she doesn’t cower. He wonders if she thinks he could never be a threat to her at all.

Like they’d all thought about Itachi.

“Alright,” he finally says. “But I want somethin’ in exchange.”

 “W-What?”

The sun sinks behind the last building, turning the streets to a muted blue. Street lamps flicker on
one after the other, the grungy yellow lights garish on their skin. “I want you to teach me how to
act like you. Like an heir.”

END OF

VOLUME ONE — SHOCK

ARC I : CHILDHOOD.

Chapter End Notes

i would apologize for the heavy-handed Itachi/Natsume parallels but im not actually
sorry.
And to make everyone hurt a little more:
Itachi: 13 (THIRTEEN!!!!)
Sasuke: 8
Naruto/Natsume/Hinata: 7
find me on tumblr! art by the amazing aquahaha!
 VOL. 1, ARC II. (devolving)
Chapter Notes

This chapter was very hard to write. Definitely not as intricate as I wanted it to be, but
it’s … well, it’s done!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

VOLUME ONE — SHOCK

ARC II: APATHY.

Hinata’s voice is quiet, but with its softness comes a lack of stutter. “You have to fold your right
toe over your left before lowering fully.”

Natsume’s knees hurt, but he doesn’t make a sound. He rises from the half-finished seiza and starts
again. Kneels, lowers while his heels are pointed up, keeps his back as straight as possible, and
rotates his ankles to hook one toe over the other before he’s fully seated.

The Hyuuga compound is the last place he ever assumed he’d find himself in. The sprawling
grounds are tucked behind walls—ones he briefly remembers from childhood. Very much like the
Uchiha compound, there’s homes, private shops, clan-only dojos and work spaces, and everyone
kind of looks the same.

The Uchiha all had dark hair that never strayed from black, blue, or brown, with black being the
majority. Not a soul had eyes lighter than ink. Everyone wore faces cut like glass, most with sharp,
unnervingly pretty features.

As for the Hyuuga…well, they’re also pretty, but in a different way. There’s a softness that clings
to their shared facial features, making most of them seem younger than they probably are. Their
hair varies in every shade of brown or black, never too light—and always, always pin-straight. As
for the eyes, they’re all some shade between white and purple.

Natsume didn’t see very many people on his way in, but he’s surprised at the lack of variation. Or
would disgusted be a better term? It’s a little strange that all of them look so alike in the face.

Hinata’s hair is actually an interesting variant. There’s no hiding the deep purple hues that neither
her little sister nor her father possess. It has to be from her mother, but Natsume didn’t bother
asking and there aren’t any photos in the rooms they’d gone through. For a house, it didn’t really
feel like a home.

They aren’t in Hinata’s room, for that was deemed ‘inappropriate’. Instead they’re in a tea room,
and Natsume is suffering lessons on how to sit. Among other things. Like manners, tea ceremonies,
how to speak properly and professionally, and even what seating order to use when guests are
over.
“You’re doing very good, Natsu-nii.”

He dips his head. “You’re a patient teacher, Hinata-sama.”

Her cheeks heat slightly at his words and she can’t seem to meet his eyes. “I-I apologize. Forgive
my familiarity, Uzumaki-sama.”

“It’s forgiven.” It’s uncomfortable to act this way towards someone that he’s always treated like
any other kid. His brother’s friend . All of it is for the learning experience, however, even if it does
feel like they’re two kids playing house. These formal personas they’ve slipped on need to hold.
For both their sakes.

Three weeks ago, when Hinata first approached him, he had no idea the extent of her family’s
issues. Now, after a harrowing talk with her father…

Well, he’s definitely not the guy’s biggest fan.

THREE WEEKS AGO

Natsume arrives at the Hyuuga compound at exactly 8am.

“I’m here to see Hinata.”

The two nearly identical guards at the gate give him dirty looks. It rolls off him easily. It’s
laughable to think he hasn’t been subject to worse. They do let him in. Just after turning their noses
up at him for half a minute and acting like the very idea of allowing him entrance brought them
physical pain.

Inside, he’s met with the blanket pressure of chakra. All the Hyuuga carry a sort of stillness to their
chakra that reminds Natsume of the night sky. Black and silent. Or like a deep well of undisturbed
water. Despite this, he can tell that none of these people actually have a water nature. No. Along
the edges of night is the crackle of ash and sparks.

He walks down the clan street and can tell that the man on the right has a fire nature, his chakra
like a campfire under a clear evening sky. A woman on the left has a lightning nature, her chakra a
dismal storm at midnight.

Hinata’s chakra system isn’t entirely developed, but he can already tell she leans heavily into both
fire and lightning. At least it’ll make training easier, seeing as she shares that with Sasuke. Naruto
is…

Hard to tell. Natsume likes to focus on the surface-level presence of his brother: tangerines,
sunshine, sea salt. Any deeper and he feels—

“Uzumaki Natsume.”

Hinata’s father is a tall, stern looking man. He stands with his arms crossed and folded into the
sleeves of his yukata. Though he can’t be very old, there are lines of stress burrowing under his
eyes that remind Natsume rather terribly of Itachi.
At his side stands Hinata, just a step behind and dressed in an indigo kimono. Her shy gaze flickers
up to meet his eyes for only a moment. The overwhelming presence of her father keeps her hunched
and faded.

“Hyuuga-sama,” he replies carefully. For as much as he really doesn’t like this guy, he can’t
actually afford to show it.

Due to the lack of pupils, it’s hard to tell exactly where Hiashi is looking. Natsume still feels the
full brunt of a dissecting stare. There’s a scowl on Hiashi’s face, but there was one there to start.
Whatever he finds after scanning Natsume, he keeps it to himself.

“Come,” the man commands. “It seems we have a peculiar situation to discuss.”

The home of the Clan head is traditional in appearance, with a wrap-around engawa and a
minimalist garden. Tall, reedy bamboo sprouts just before a tall fence, caging the yard. They sit in
a room with a low table, morning sun pouring in through open panel doors.

Both Hinata and Hiashi sit in perfect kneeling postures, while Natsume sits with his legs crossed.
He doesn’t want to accidentally make a fool of himself trying to sit seiza.

A Hyuuga clan member comes in, a band tied around their forehead. They keep their lavender eyes
lowered, serving a floral-scented tea with delicate, practiced movements. Natsume doesn’t think
he’s ever drunk tea in his life.

It tastes fine. Not overwhelming, or interesting. Mostly just like really watery herbs. He sips at it
mostly to be polite. It’s not sweet enough for him.

Hiashi is already taller—even sitting down—but he still seems to tilt his head back to look at
Natsume down his nose. “I hardly expect you to understand, but there is a balance of differences
between clans and those without. A culture that is honored and upheld only by those bound by
blood, where outsiders are rarely, if ever, permitted access to. Sharing knowledge between the two
must be a carefully mediated process.”

Natsume refrains from curling his hands into fists. “It’s not as though I’m askin’ for clan secrets.
Learning fuuinjutsu can only be a boon to your clan, with how rare a talent it is.”

“ Mastery in the art is a rarity, not an understanding of the basics themselves.” Hiashi’s brow rises
only slightly. “You’ll find the Hyuuga clan is rather adept at fuuinjutsu.”

“You’ll find that the Uzumaki are the most adept at fuuinjutsu.”

Hinata’s slight frame seems to tense, shoulders rising closer to her ears. His words had been
impulsive.

Hiashi lets the moment hang and takes a sip of his tea. “While there is a certain expectation of skill
behind that name, you yourself are no closer to the title of master than any other in this village.”

“But I can get there,” Natsume says. He doesn’t know why he’s even trying so hard. It’s Hinata
who came to him. He shouldn’t even have to deal with her condescending father. “Faster than
anyone else. Your daughter is well aware of that.”

“My daughter is not a good judge of character and can only tell when others greatly surpass her
own talent.”

Natsume’s fingers flex against his knees. Hiashi’s chakra is like a rolling storm, lightning darting
through every bone. Snap, snap, snap. It’s prickly and uncomfortable, caustic displeasure and the
barest wisp of greedy curiosity.

Instead of getting angry at those dismissive words—and the way Hinata’s stare remains on the
table, endless and withered—Natsume hones in on that poisonous thread of hunger. He knows he’s
nothing right now. No clan, despite the name, and no huge feats despite the title of prodigy. But his
potential is obvious.

It’s feared, after Itachi. There will be eyes on him. Wanting, waiting, watching, wary.

So Natsume stares into Hiashi’s blank, unforgiving gaze with a blistering heat. “My talent greatly
surpasses every other child my age. Maybe your daughter can tell that her best chance of learning is
from someone who’ll be running circles around the Hyuuga’s best fuuinjutsu users before he hits
ten.”

A flicker. Still curious, still angry—but shaken. Hiashi’s expression doesn’t change, but his chakra
wavers when he stares at Natsume’s blue eyes. Like he’s seeing something else. A ghost. He clears
his throat. “Talk is a skeletal currency in the shinobi world. Guiding the potential heir to the
Hyuuga clan in fuuinjutsu studies while alongside your own does not inspire promise.”

Natsume has the feeling that nothing will be enough for this man. Hiashi is pushing for something,
reaching into the barrel of everything that Natsume could possibly have to offer. What, exactly, is
Natsume willing to give? Hinata’s time is already limited. She goes from the Academy to her
home’s dojo, studying Hyuuga culture, history, and fighting styles. She’s only able to play with
Naruto and Sasuke outside of the Academy maybe once a week, depending on if she can sneak
over. She’s also the only clan heir he knows now.

Sasuke, unfortunately, doesn’t really count. He doesn’t know anything about how to run a clan,
behave professionally, or discuss politics. He’s also way too traumatized for Natsume to even think
about relying on the kid.

Hinata is Natsume’s current best chance at learning about the hierarchy of Konoha’s government,
clans, and power structure. And from this point of view, Hiashi knows that the Hyuuga would be
doing Natsume a favor.

He grits his teeth.

Hiashi doesn’t grin, but there’s a smugness to his chakra. “Nothing in this world is freely given,
child.”

So Natsume doesn’t look at Hinata, and he decides to be cruel. “Hinata is weaker than the other
students in her class. I can close that gap.”

A waver, ripples over still water, a cracking mirror. Hurt stings like static shocks, and Hinata sinks
impossibly lower. It tastes like pennies in Natsume’s throat. He forces the walls of ice he built to
hold fast.

“I don’t want to get anythin’ free from you,” he continues. “It’s training in return for training.
Clearly in your favor.”

For now.

The bigger a name Natsume makes for himself, the more valuable an asset he becomes as an ally.

Hiashi continues to stare at him, the frown lines around his mouth deepening. “What you are is a
double-sided kunai. You certainly don’t seem shy in flaunting your status as a prodigy, despite
your relationship with that Uchiha traitor.”

It’s a barb meant to hurt. Natsume glances at Hinata briefly, seeing twisted agony on her soft
features. Those words would probably hurt him, too, were he not utterly numb to the entire
massacre itself. As it stands, he only feels a flash of irritation. Hiashi is prying. Pushing, perhaps
more than expected.

Natsume recalls the hatred in the villagers’ eyes. He’d gotten comfortable with the lack of
maliciousness from the Nara, Akimichi, Uchiha, and even occasional Yamanaka. He can’t forget
that just a few clans did not equate to all of them. The Hyuuga have always been stalwart, cruel,
and dismissive to both him and his brother.

“It’s the nature of our village to covet prodigies,” he says robotically. The numbness has crept to
his legs and hands, bleaching out color and turning the world to ashy grays. “What’s the point in
fearing your own tools?”

Hiashi drinks the last of his tea. “Quite.”

In the end, Natsume leaves that day with a deal. Training for training.

PRESENT

Hinata doesn’t talk about Itachi. She didn’t know him well enough, as to her Itachi had always
been Sasuke’s older brother. The one in the background who was there every once in a while, but
didn’t play with them. Instead, when they train together, she asks about Sasuke.

She knows more about cooking than he does, even if she doesn’t do it often. When he tells her that
Sasuke prefers tomatoes and vegetable dishes, she slips him recipes. It becomes apparent to
Natsume that Hinata doesn’t have any friends aside from Sasuke and Naruto, and she’s not well
regarded in her clan. She has a little sister, but Hanabi is rarely around and Natsume has yet to
actually meet her.

To Natsume, the village itself is a cage. Like the towering bars within the sealed space he carries.
To Hinata, her own house is the cage. She’s a bird who’s never learned how to fly, her wings
trailing uselessly at her sides.

In the time she’s spent with her friends, she’s learned to grow. Unfortunately, more of her time is
spent here . In the solitude of an unloving home. Natsume can’t do anything about it, so he focuses
entirely on what he can learn and what he can teach.

They fall into a cycle of using each other, but Hinata misinterprets it as friendship. Natsume is
hesitant to correct her, lest it turn their sessions awkward. He doesn’t want friends anymore.
They’re hindrances. They die too easily. They’re going to hurt him eventually.

“I made this,” she murmurs. “I hope it is to your satisfaction, Uzumaki-sama.”

Today’s tea is rose hip, the taste preferable to whatever her father served at their meeting. To
compliment the tea, Hinata occasionally makes snacks. Though he wouldn’t call what she brings
out a snack, as it’s an entire cake. Strawberry sponge cake, to be exact.

She smiles at him. “I know you like strawberries and sweets.”

A moment passes. He finds his voice. “Thank you, Hinata-sama.”

After she shows him the correct way to bow for different circumstances, he has her run through
calligraphy exercises.

Fuuinjutsu and manners with Hinata, training with Sasuke (and Naruto, who demanded to join),
normal D ranks and kenjutsu sessions—it keeps on all the way past their lackluster birthday and
into the winter. Natsume runs himself dry trying to manage it all. His life becomes all about
studying and fighting. From the moment the sun just begins to rise, to far after it sets.

He tries to be there for Naruto when the Academy gets out. It doesn’t always work out. They begin
to spend less time together. A bitterness begins to fester. Though Naruto has friends, and Sasuke is
living with them , the change is difficult to manage. Especially for a child who’s only eight.

Natsume still waits under the tree for the day to end, even when Naruto gets huffy. He knows it’s
just the whims of a child who doesn’t yet understand responsibility. He knows. It doesn’t stop the
feelings of…annoyance and discontent. He doesn’t want to resent Naruto for being a child, because
they should both be children. Natsume resents that they can’t .

Today, the trio aren’t among the first to exit the building. Usually Naruto and Sasuke are eager to
leave, hating the confinement of the classroom. Yet as more students stream out, Natsume doesn’t
see them.

“Hey!” A loud voice catches his attention. A field of flowers, peat moss and earth, stained glass
windows. “It’s you!”

Someone with blonde hair and blue eyes approaches him, but it’s not Naruto. It’s a girl, and the
colors are completely different shades. She looks vaguely familiar, but he can’t pinpoint where
he’s seen her until he catches the clan symbol stitched in the hem of her shirt. A Yamanaka. The
girl from the shop?

“Can I help you?”

She comes to a stop a few feet away, another girl trailing behind her. This one with bright pink hair
tied back with a crimson band, and eyes as green as spring. Her chakra is not nearly as developed
as the Yamanaka, making Natsume think that she must be a civilian-born. He catches rain and
damp stone, tree sap, the bite of almond extract. It reminds him of Genma.

Both girls have earth nature chakra.

( “Everyday you get better at that,” Genma mutters. “How terrifying.”)

The drawback is that he is easily overwhelmed by large groups of shinobi—all these kids running
around in a big group are shining bright beacons of chakra. He has to focus more to remain
headache-free.
“You came into my shop a while ago, remember?” Her cheeks are fever-bright, her eyes
unwavering. “You’re the camellia boy! I haven’t seen you in any of the classes here, aren’t you a
student?”

Natsume glances from her to her friend, who ducks her gaze shyly like Hinata is prone to do. “I’m
not.”

“No? But—” Ino pauses, catching sight of the Konoha band wrapped around his arm. “You…
you’re a shinobi already?! That’s amazing, you must be so talented!”

Her hands clasp together under her chin. The ice blues of her eyes are placid and uninterrupted,
reflecting his image back at him. Slightly unnerving on the face of a child who seems dizzy with
glee.

He doesn’t know what she wants.

Ino leans forward, blinking rapidly. “What’s your name?”

“Uzumaki Natsume.”

Her bright expression falters for a moment, chakra wavering in confusion. “Uzumaki? Like…”

“You probably share classes with my twin,” he murmurs, still scanning the crowd for the usual
trio. He refrains from crossing his arms in impatience. Being more cordial in conversation is
another topic of studying Hinata is trying to (very gently) hammer into his head.

As it stands, he’s only doing this because the more clan connections he makes, the better.

“Really?” Ino screeches. “You’re Naruto’s twin? But you—you’re—”

He raises a brow at her stuttering.

“You’re cool! Like Sasuke!” She finally says.

How on earth she could think a kid who still blew snot bubbles and had to be forced into the
shower was cool is beyond him. Sasuke, at eight, is still very androgynous and heavily on the side
of “pretty”. His face is round and cute, while his personality is the exact opposite. Unless cool also
meant tragically depressed and traumatized…

Then again, this is probably the age for first crushes. He wrinkles his nose at the thought of it.
Luckily, he’s saved by the sight of Naruto trailing out of the Academy with Sasuke and Hinata.

He’s talking with a man—a chunin sensei by the looks of it. Dark hair tied up high, brown skin, a
scar slicing across the bridge of his nose. Natsume doesn’t recognize him. The chakra is
conflicting. Odd. The heat of fire mixed with the serenity of water. Two polar opposites, although
the fire nature dominates.

Their interaction ends with Naruto sticking his tongue out at his sensei before darting away, right
in Natsume’s direction. The man shouts, then sighs and pinches his nose. When those dark eyes
look up, they meet Natsume’s.

Natsume doesn’t hear Ino’s chattering, or the bustle of families around them. He zeroes in on the
sweat dotting the new sensei’s brow, the whites of his eyes, the baffled discomfort that flashes over
the man’s face. He’s the one to look away first.
Natsume huffs softly. Seems like he’s getting better at this intimidation thing. He dreads to think
why it’s not working on these girls.

“Who was that?” He asks when Naruto comes near.

His twin makes a petulant face. “Just Iruka-sensei.” Then he squints at Ino and Pinky. “What are
you guys doing here?”

Ino jabs a finger in his face. “What is that supposed to mean? I’m allowed to be here!”

As they argue back and forth, Sasuke steps up behind Naruto, looking for all the world like he
wants to be anywhere else. He pretends Ino and Pinky aren’t even there. Hinata lingers between the
two boys, fidgeting with her hands.

“H-hello, Ino-san, Sakura-san.”

Pinky—Sakura—returns the greeting softly.

“Hinata,” Ino acknowledges, then changes her tone entirely to something high pitched and girly.
“Hi, Sasuke-kun!”

Sakura turns as red as a tomato. When she tries to say something to the Uchiha, her words are
completely steamrolled by Naruto and Ino talking over each other. Their conversation devolves
quickly, with Sasuke practically hiding behind Hinata and Naruto.

Natsume wants to be anywhere but here. “Hey, are we going or what?”

It’s a struggle to herd Sasuke and Naruto away, especially when Hinata has to go in the opposite
direction. She waves goodbye to them before going with the same Hyuuga attendant that she
punched in the dick.

Ino stops him before he can leave. She reaches out like she wants to grab at his shirt, but he
sidesteps her reflexively. Not put off at all, she continues to look at him with those mirror-like
eyes.

“You know camellias are in season now, if you want them. You said you wanted to get them for a
friend…not like a girlfriend though, right?”

I don’t want them.

The words are on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t seem to speak them. What use does a dead man
have with flowers? It’s months away from the anniversary of his death, and Shisui’s birthday was
only nine days after Naruto and Natsume’s. Both dates are too early or too late for camellias to
bloom.

The bushes by the park have already blossomed. Spots of vibrancy in the gloom of snow. Red
petals like drops of blood, the white like plucked stars. The weight of such a flower behind his ear,
tucked between strands of scarlet hair.

Natsume of the Uzumaki, with hair like a red camellia.

It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anyone with hair like that.

Words from a silly little girl who acts like she’s never known hardship a day in her life. From a
clan known to be respectable and kind. She treats Naruto with annoyance but not with hatred, and
she’s not afraid to look Natsume in the eye. In this shitty village, people like that are few and far
between.

“Eventually,” is all he says, ignoring the rest of her question.

Eventually.

Most nights Sasuke doesn’t sleep well. He wakes from nightmares that leave ghosts in his eyes and
screams on his lips. Naruto rarely wakes. Natsume does every time.

He’s better at rising from slumber at the slightest sound, or at the presence of different chakras.
Shisui probably wouldn’t have been able to sneak in anymore.

Sasuke slips from bed one night. He trembles like a leaf, as pale as the moon that reflects off his
sweat-damp face and blueish hair. Weak-kneed, Sasuke stumbles his way to the bathroom.
Natsume rises very quietly and follows, his footsteps soundless.

When Sasuke turns to shut the bathroom door, he catches sight of Natsume and freezes as if struck.
He doesn’t scream, but it’s a near thing. A moment later and he sinks to the ground, the scare
taking all the strength from him. Sasuke cries silently on the floor, curling in on himself, desperate
to hold all his pieces together. The fear escapes too easily, obvious in his face and movements.

During the day, when he’s faced with the world and watching eyes, Sasuke is all rage and
darkness. But at night he crumples, revealing a paper boy. Glass pretending to be diamond.

Natsume closes the door behind them. He stares down at this mess dumped in his lap and doesn’t
know what to do. His life is reduced to going through the same motions, following the same
routine, and feeling absolutely nothing at all.

Gasping hiccups fill the silence.

“Why are you here?” Sasuke demands weakly.

“I think you know.”

“You don’t hate him.”

Natsume considers this. Smoke and sugar Itachi, murderer of his kin. Of children and elderly and
everyone in between. “No.”

Sasuke’s glare is pure vitriol. He cries poison and pulls at his own hair. It’s when they’re alone in
the dark that the edges of insanity become visible. One doesn’t walk into hell for hours on end
without coming back out a changed man. Or boy, in this case. Sasuke doesn’t know how to process
his trauma and Natsume doesn’t know how to help.

“I hate you sometimes.”

Natsume crouches, not quite smiling. “That’s alright.”

“Did you love him?”

 Another interesting question. “Not like you. Maybe not at all.”

“I don’t understand you,” Sasuke says, bitter and scowling. “I don’t get you. Why are you helping
me?”

Natsume grabs him by the arm and heaves him up. Sasuke’s legs still shake, so he leans almost all
of his weight onto Natsume. They go to the sink, where Natsume wets a cloth and uses it to scrub
at Sasuke’s messy face. The fight is gone, and in the mirror Natsume can see a hollowness in the
black of the other boy’s eyes. One that cannot be filled or fixed. It’s a look of death.

Not unlike the eyes of the poor animals Natsume kills to survive.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He doesn’t have a response to give because he doesn’t know the answer himself.

Then, softly, in the barest whisper, Sasuke says: “I hate that you’re like him.”

Chapter End Notes

find me on tumblr!
 VOL. 1, ARC II. (destruction)
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Sasuke’s screaming voice is what greets Natsume upon entering their apartment. He shuts the door
behind him, observing the mess of pillows and papers spread across the floor—a broken plant pot
spilling dirt into the ratty carpet under their coffee table.

Naruto and Sasuke are rolling across the hardwood, hands in hair or tangled in shirts, pulling and
punching and screaming. There’s no finesse to their fight, no sign of any taijutsu style. It’s just a
straight brawl. First blood is already drawn—stark red visible in the snarls of their mouths, staining
teeth pink.

The exhaustion that weighs down Natsume’s bones quickly ignites into something worse. Sinister
anger swells in his chest, darkening the expression on his face. He storms over to the two boys,
silent as a wraith, and hooks his hands in the collars of their shirts. He pulls hard enough to pop the
stitches, tearing fabric without a single thought.

The boys come apart with yelps of surprise, limbs flailing. Natsume shoves them away so hard
they both skid across the floor, making a bigger mess than before.

“What the hell is this?” He asks, tone icy.

He’s sick of training until he wants to vomit. Sick of walking on eggshells around the Hyuuga
complex pretending to be some well-bred dog of Konoha. Sick of picking up after his little brother
and Itachi’s stupid fucking mess. Sick of staying up late when he barely has the hours to sleep
anyway, all the while wishing Shisui could be alive to take a little of the weight off of Natsume’s
shoulders.

He’s so fucking sick of everything. He’s the one who wants to roll across the ground while
pounding his fists into the wood until it cracks. He wants to howl and scream at the sky.

Instead he looks at the two boys who are scrambling to sit up, their eyes wide and their faces
paling. Silent as they wait for his reprimand. Natsume takes a breath.

Inhale, exhale.

He lets the violence fade from his countenance, swallows the black pit of heavy-tired-angry-sad
and pastes neutrality in its place.

Fuck you, Itachi, he thinks. But he still closes his eyes to reorient, and then glances Sasuke’s way.
“What are you fighting about now?”

“What we always fight about,” Naruto grumbles.

Sasuke sneers at the blonde. “He still thinks Itachi didn’t do it. Like I wasn’t there , like I didn’t go
through that—that bullshit !”

The swear sounds odd coming from Sasuke’s eight-year-old mouth. Sits awkwardly in the air like
he’s never sworn a day in his life and it shows . He’s hurting like no one should ever hurt, the
weight of hundreds of deaths weighing him down, burned into the backs of his eyelids. Natsume is
smarter, more skilled, and more jaded. But he’s never killed a person before, not the way Sasuke
has been made to observe.

As if he’d killed them himself.

Natsume picks up Naruto and puts his hands on his brother’s shoulders. “You need to stop.”

“What?” Betrayal darkens Naruto’s face. “How could you say that!?”

“You need to stop ,” Natsume repeats. “Who killed who doesn’t matter. All those people are still
dead, and Itachi still hurt Sasuke.”

“Itachi killed them,” Sasuke mutters from behind.

Natsume ignores him. “I think you guys need to stop arguing about this. Put your energy into
moving forward. Training. The kind that doesn’t include beating each other in the goddamn living
room.” He backs away from Naruto and spins on his heel, startling Sasuke when he gets in the
kid’s face. “And you…”

Sasuke grits his teeth but doesn’t back up, even as his shoulders tense like stretched out ninja wire.
“What?”

“Don’t think you can skimp out on cleaning up. Start with the pot. You better work together.”

“Eh?”

Naruto and Sasuke have a tension lingering between them. If Natsume had the energy to care, he
would. Probably. But instead he retreats away, hiding in his training and his Fuuinjutsu. Hinata is a
good person to bounce ideas off of, because while she’s quiet she’s also observant. Her calligraphy
is impeccable already, which takes out a lot of training time.

He teaches her about different beginner seals—warming, basic barriers, smoke tags—and the
principal kanji they’re derived from. Altering each one with strings of very specific lines, symbols,
and particles that reminds Natsume a lot of…

Coding.

Just not strictly with numbers and letters. They can be utilized to make adjustments, sure, but the
bulk is line-work patterns that have to be memorized. Then adjusted. How you adjust them can be
tailored to the fuuinjutsu crafter. A lot of seals—that aren’t standard—have symbols that are part of
personal encryption. So even if you cracked a seal open, you might not be able to read what makes
it tick aside from dissecting the base patterns.

There’s a lot of memorization.

Coding .

He’s not entirely sure what that means. But he also does, in the oddest sense.

He watches Hinata carefully trace out a centralized kanji for ‘heat’, the scroll in his pocket like
lead. “You’ve basically perfected it.”

She flushes. “N-No, you’re just a good teacher.”

“Your calligraphy is better than mine.” Which mostly has to do with how poor his education was…
and perhaps still is.

Hinata shakes her head softly. “Yours is beautiful.”

He hums. It’s certainly better than Naruto’s. And Sasuke’s. Either way, she’s an easy kid to teach.
Talented and hardworking, even if she doesn’t have much of a spine just yet. He puts his hand in
his pocket, letting it rest against the scroll.

Hinata’s eyes flicker over to him, noticing the movement. “Uzumaki-sama?”

“You have a fire chakra nature,” he begins, pulling the scroll out and placing it on the table. “Aside
from lightning. Which is marginally harder to defend again because of the nature of electricity.”

Hinata’s face pales, her calligraphy brush clattering to the table. She stares at the Uchiha crest on
the scroll’s binding clasp.

He continues steadily, “It would be best to start easier. I’ll teach you seals for defense against fire.
Including ones for flame-resistance, which you should apply to your clothes. The sequence is
different depending on the material you attach them to. Fabric, metal, or paper—I recommend
altering three of the fabric particles to incorporate tougher mesh shirts.”

She is quiet, which isn’t unusual but still unsettling. It makes him want to fill the silence, and he
isn’t familiar with that kind of nervous energy. But eventually she nods and picks up her brush
again. She scraps the ink-splattered pages and starts anew, but now with a furrow between her
brow.

Natsume opens the scroll, placing the first part in her line of visibility. “Trace these new
sequences.”

She doesn’t ask where he got it from.

He doesn’t know what he would have said if she did.

The sun is setting when he leaves, Hinata’s soft-spoken farewell following him out of the Hyuuga
compound. Itachi’s gift was an unanswered question weighing the air between them. But Hinata
didn’t yet have the guts to pry, even if she was a bit stronger than before—when she’d been
nothing but a stuttering, nervous wreck of a girl.

Irrationally, Natsume feels disquieted.

The fuuinjutsu scroll was a gift, why shouldn’t he use it? He can still recall the way Itachi had
looked at him upon handing it over.

Itachi slips a scroll displaying the Uchiha crest into his palm. “You should find this useful.”

“This is a Clan scroll.” Natsume notes, not exactly questioning the decision. “Won’t you get in
trouble for this?”

Itachi—tired, dark eyed Itachi—does not smile, but his brow is soft and he looks his age under the
yellow lamplight. “I am the heir, and you are an Uzumaki.”
“YOUNG NATSUME!”

The yell is all the warning he gets before a blur of green appears before him, cartwheeling to a
stop. His senses alight with ozone and sunsets, Gai’s chakra an unrepentant beacon.

Natsume removes his hand from the hilt of his wakizashi, relaxing minutely. Gai is loud,
obnoxious, and prone to attract stares wherever he goes—just as he is now—but he’s perhaps the
least threatening shinobi to grace Konoha’s shitty dirt roads.

“Gai-san.”

“Please,” Gai says, posed with his hip cocked and a hand on his forehead. “Our bond is deeper than
the need for honorifics!”

“Gai-san,” Natsume repeats, ignoring when Gai collapses to the ground. “Did you need
something?”

The green-clad shinobi pushes back up to his feet like a spring. “Hip and cool, you prodigies are
really something! Why, I was just on my thirty-seventh lap around the village when I saw you! It’s
been quite a while since you graced our usual training grounds.”

Understatement. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen Gai in a few months. That’s just the way it’ll be
for the foreseeable future, seeing as they’re both now registered shinobi.

“Well, I’m a genin now.”

Gai’s smile doesn’t slip, but the weight of his gaze grows a little heavier. Dark eyes flicker over
Natsume’s short stature. “Ah, I remember my own genin days! I believe we were almost the same
age!”

Natsume raises a brow. “Makes sense, I guess. Wars take a toll on the workforce.”

Caught off-guard, Gai makes an expression not unlike a stepped-on chew toy, bulging eyes and all.
“Er—Yes! And now the age of wartime has fallen away, and the true Springtime of Youth is in full
swing!”

Natsume doesn’t point out how weird it is that he would be made to graduate early during a period
of peace. You only need to rub two braincells together to know that during wartime kids are
nudged into the workforce faster so they can be fodder. He’s been hammering that nail for a long
while though, so voicing those thoughts is moot. To everyone else, it’s justifiable.

Rest easy in your home, knowing the enemy was beaten back on a landscape wet with children’s
blood.

“Sure,” he murmurs.

He wonders what can be considered ‘youth’ in a world like this.

It only takes a few months for the world to change and reconstruct around him. When the chill of
winter sets in, Natsume can’t believe how eager he is to leave the house rather than stay within its
walls.
Dealing with a Sasuke that grows moodier and more volatile by the hour and a Naruto that screams
and complains is wreaking havoc on Natsume’s mental state. Logically, he knows that it’s not
Naruto’s fault for being a normal eight-year-old. Naruto’s greatest worry is if he gets desert or
whether or not he skins his knees.

He’s dealt with painful loneliness, but can’t understand how Sasuke is stuck in the echoes of his
nightmares. The worst part is that Naruto still wants to understand despite his lack of emotional
knowledge, but it comes off as pushy and the two boys butt heads more often than not.

Naruto always wants to talk. He wants to sit and air out everything immediately as it happens and
can’t stand stewing on anything for any longer than he has to. Sasuke likes to sit and think and
brood and would rather not open his mouth at all, actually.

Natsume can’t stand either of them when they get started.

It has him putting more of his hours into training. He devours fuuinjutsu, taijutsu, and kenjutsu
with a voracity that makes Genma’s stare grow heavier with each day that passes. His gaze is a
weight on Natsume’s back, and Natsume doesn’t know what it means.

He’s tired of expending energy trying to figure it out.

Usually, he’s able to get out the door before Naruto and Sasuke even wake up. He rises with the
first ray of dawn, body aching and drowsy. One day he might grow used to waking so early.

He makes it all the way to the door, hand poised at the handle, before he sighs. Agonized chakra
flickers; dying embers, cracking lightning.

Sasuke exits the bedroom on socked feet, nearly soundless. Improving, then. He has a mulish
expression—no, it flickers, from sleepy, to mulish, to blank. Round and round, like he’s still not
awake enough to decide how he feels.

“Are you going to train?” Sasuke asks.

Natsume sighs. His head aches a bit from poor sleep. At least dealing with one is better than two.
“Training, then a few D ranks. What do you want, breakfast?”

“I want to go with you. I want to learn kenjutsu.”

“Kenjutsu is a lot of work.”

Sasuke glares with burning eyes. “I can do it.”

“I know,” Natsume mutters. He’s almost annoyed at the fact. But if he’s going to drag Sasuke into
hell he might as well commit. “You can’t come today. Kenjutsu requires a master, and who I’m
learning from might not enjoy taking on two students.”

“But why can’t you just train me?”

There’s a lot of reasons why. There’s no time, for one. He doesn’t really want to, for another. He’s
not meant to teach. These days he barely has the patience to fake normality.

“Next time, Sasuke,” he says instead.

And something snaps through the air, sharp and bitter—acid-like and smoky. Natsume looks back
on reflex, caught off guard by the sudden spike in chakra from a boy who’s barely perfected a
fireball jutsu.

Sasuke looks stricken, jaw hanging. Ghoulish in the early dawn light, washed out and gray. He
turns around and slams the bedroom door shut so hard it rattles, and from within Natsume can hear
Naruto’s startled, drowsy shout.

Natsume stays for only a second longer.

When he gets to Yugao, she squints at him.

“Not enough sleep?” She asks, but her voice is neutral, like she doesn’t care about the answer one
way or the other.

Natsume likes this about her. He doesn’t want someone prying into his business when he barely
understands it himself. “I’m fine.”

“Good. You’ve already mastered the beginner’s kata. Now you need to improve your reaction time.
Tsunami Taijutsu and Tsunami Kenjutsu are what we call Lost Arts. There are little to no
practitioners of either style left, let only in conjunction with each other.” Yugao doesn’t cross her
arms when she talks the way Gai sometimes does, as if it’ll make him more scholarly. She remains
still, like a statue. “What little knowledge we have about either lets us know that they were likely
made by the same master or school, and originally intended to be taught simultaneously.”

Natsume can infer this much. There are very few Uzumaki scrolls within Konoha. Most are tucked
away from the common eye, in places only shinobi are privy to, and even then you need special
access. How Shisui got his hands on the limited scrolls pertaining to the Tsunami style is beyond
Natsume.

The Taijutsu fits better when accommodating the presence of a sword. The Kenjutsu fits better
when accommodating a sudden use of kicks and rolls. Speed, leg strength, evasive maneuvering,
close-quarters combat—the four major focuses of the combined style.

If the fact that they were titled with the same kanji for Tsunami didn’t already give it away.

“You’re already fast,” Yugao continues. “But you need to be faster, because live steel will weigh
you down. You need to be fast enough in not only the body, but the mind as well. These kata need
to match. They need to be so ingrained in you that it’s as easy as breathing.”

Speed, he thinks to himself. It comes so naturally. In his head he sees a flash of dark eyes and a
bright smile. Shisui had been fast. Shunshin no Shisui, they called him. Moving from place to place
with such skill that he left after-images in his wake.

Natsume takes out his wakizashi, the steel glinting in the early sun, reflecting pink and orange. He
takes care of his weapons better than he does himself.

Yugao draws a blade of her own, and today it’s a tanto. Shorter than his, but no less lethal. “Try to
draw blood.”

One would think that it’s both irresponsible, idiotic, and unsafe to spar with live steel until blood is
drawn, especially when their blades are as sharp and well cared for as theirs are. Of course, this is
the life of a shinobi. Bleeding during a training session, walking away with wounds, or visiting a
medic-nin is all typical. You see twelve year old genin with huge gouges in their sides from earth
jutsu they weren’t fast enough to dodge, getting their lungs pumped because they inhaled rather
than exhaled the water chakra they’d built up, screaming with burns from lightning or fire, or
cradling limbs sliced by wind.
Just another day in Konoha.

When their blades clash, Natsume notes three things.

One: Yugao is taller, her blade comes in at an overhead angle unless she’s attempting an
underhanded swing. Height is always a factor in Kenjutsu. An opponent has to adjust swings or
jabs so they’ll hit you, after all.

Two: Her height gives her the upper hand when it comes to strength. You’d be remiss to bear
down your full weight through your blade, unless you wanted it to shatter, but there is generally
more strength poured into attacks that come from above.

Three: Her strength and speed are well balanced, and she is a better kenjutsu user than him.

He would not walk away from this fight were it a real one. But he’s also been learning Kenjutsu for
perhaps a year, while she’s been honing her skills for the better part of a decade.

However.

One: Natsume is short, therefore his attacks usually make any enemy worth their salt more wary.
The range he has with his shorter arms and slender stature put him at the perfect position to go for
a gut wound—or carve out your femoral. A strike to the organs can cause a lot more agony and
increase the difficulty in fighting back.

Two: He is swiftly gaining on her in speed. In the few years he’s been training, he’s already
overtaken the skill level of others twice his age. He knows as well as she does that he is a prodigy
and she is not. It doesn’t demean her talent, obviously. He’d never think to do that. But the decade
she took to earn mastery will be three years at most for him.

Three: She is not aiming to kill. He is. That’s the only way he can turn the tide in his favor at the
current moment.

They both go for a jab. Their blades skitter off each other, sparks flaring between them. Natsume
rotates his body to sidestep the oncoming blade, and they’re so close now he could count the
shades of black in her eyes.

He slices the blade downwards, out of her normal parrying range. It’s easier to dodge a hit when
you don’t have to crouch to do so. She still knocks his blade away, wrist blurring with movement.
It leaves his chest wide open, and she leaps at the chance to jab forward again.

Like he’s dancing, Natsume throws himself back, nearly bending far enough for his hair to kiss the
ground. His free hand presses into the dirt, offering support as he switches from offense with the
blade to using his legs. His foot connects with her open wrist, and he pushes up with chakra-
enhanced strength to send himself spinning over her arm, blade out.

The steel barely brushes her forearm before she’s already dropping it down and retaliating with a
hit from her own free hand that nearly gets him in the back. He skids over the ground, regaining his
balance on the balls on his feet. He slips into a different stance. Arms low at his sides, the tip of his
blade nearly dragging in the dirt.

Then he moves.

His legs no longer burn at the ferocity of his short sprints.

He moves the blade up in an arc just before he gets to her, as though he underestimated his own
reach. She leans back only a hair, her tanto darting around with the threat of colliding with his
shoulder. It doesn’t. He drops, blade still raised above his head. One leg kicks out to stretch across
the ground and he uses it to create enough momentum to spin. A full turn, kicking up dust and dirt
under his heel. Her tanto glances off of his wakizashi and recoils sideways, just an inch away from
his body as it continues the downward motion.

He completes the rotation, blade swinging back around to cut into the flesh right above her
kneecap.

They both halt.

Natsume breathes deeply, sweat dotting his brow. Even without the killing intent, the pressure
Yugao exudes when fighting is formidable. He rises from his crouched position.

In the glowing dawn, his blood is red with more than just the turn of night to day.

“Good,” she praises. If her tone can even be considered as such. She doesn’t wince once. The sting
must be nothing to a seasoned shinobi. “Now we pick up the pace.”

Two hours later, the sunrise has faded and the sky is pale blue. He thinks it’s around eight, and his
hunger is making itself very known. They stop training, sitting some distance apart as they both
check over and clean their blades.

“Shishou,” he begins. It gets her attention, because he’s never called her that before. Barely ever
calls her sensei. “How would you feel about a second student?”

She stares at him for a moment, analyzing what little expression he wears. “It’s the Uchiha, isn’t
it?”

They work in silence for a while longer. His non-answer is an answer on its own.

“You’re too far ahead,” she finally sighs. “But I may have another option. I’ll have to ask him
first.”

They both sheath their blades, and Natsume seals away his cleaning tools. He runs through a few
stretches, knowing the faint aches he feels now will be gone in a few hours. “That’s fine.”

“Whether or not he can learn is up to him, though.” Yugao makes to leave, tossing a final look over
her shoulder. Her purple hair nearly fades into the dark of her clothes. “If he has no talent, he’s a
waste of time.”

Then she’s gone, a whisper of wind in her place.

It’s a cruel thing to say. It’s a practical thing to say. Shinobi, with their limited lifespans, must put
the bulk of their efforts into whatever skill they naturally take to. For some that’s taijutsu, for
others that’s ninjutsu. Stealth, tracking, paperwork. It’s a wartime thought process. Where the idea
of having time to gain a skill based on hard work is a dream.

Gai, however, is one of the few to break that mold. Likely due to his tenacious mindset.

Perhaps they’re ‘at peace’ and don’t need to consider the cultivation of skill on a wartime schedule.
It doesn’t matter. Sasuke is an exception. He has a noose around his neck in the form of a village
eager to swallow him whole and a brother who committed an unspeakable act that shouldn’t have
been possible.

They’re alike in that sense—in being an exception. Natsume has to do what he must to survive. He
sealed his fate the moment he displayed an awareness beyond his peers.

Konoha likes the shiniest tools.

Natsume gets home just as Naruto is leaving, the blonde running a few minutes late. He gives
Natsume a guilty grin.

“Sasuke left early!” He complains. “I would have been on time if not for him!”

“You need Sasuke to keep track of time?”

“Well, he helps,” Naruto says.

He must have learned the sass from Shisui.

Natsume is left alone in the house when Naruto leaves and takes the sun with him. His fire-bright
chakra, citrus and darkness and sunbeams, gets further and further away, cutting a swath through
the pebble-like chakra of civilians.

Natsume cooks himself breakfast. He eats. He cleans. He takes a minute-long shower just to wipe
the accumulated sweat from the morning off. It’s a routine he can follow with his eyes closed.

Then he heads out to meet Genma at the base of the Hokage’s tower at around 10. Like he’d told
Sasuke, doing a few D ranks a week is typical for a genin. Natsume is no exception to that rule.

Genma grins at him, looking far more rested than Natsume. His senbon clicks between his teeth.
“Hey kid, ready to paint some fences?”

Natsume offers a droll glance in reply.

It’s not painting fences, fortunately. Painting in the middle of winter didn’t seem like a smart idea,
especially with the light dusting of snow and frost on the ground. Instead it’s repairing the fence of
some old couple away on vacation. Eons better, since he doesn’t even have to deal with the
customers face to face. Of the D ranks he’s done, none of the customers are very happy when it’s
him who comes strolling up to complete them.

The house is squat, single-story but clearly well-loved. White brick and overgrown with ivy that’s
half-frozen with frost. It’s away from the main bulk of the city, instead in a more wooded section of
Konoha. A decent enough distance to be considered a ‘stroll’ for a shinobi.

There’s the makings of a large garden practically circling the house. Some spots are purposefully
cleared of snow, perhaps by the couple before they left or another hired genin. Only bushes with
dark leaves and plants that somehow survive the desolate wintry temperatures remain.

Most plants look the same to Natsume. His little brother seems to adore gardening. Where that
hobby comes from, nobody knows. But every windowsill in the house has a plant, sometimes more
than one.

“Tools are all here for you,” Genma adds helpfully, in a manner that is totally unhelpful.

Natsume shoots him a scathing look from his position kneeling in the snow. The man is just
leaning against the non-broken part of the wooden fence, totally relaxed and listening to birdsong
under a cloudless sky. Watching his only genin complete yard work.

The task itself is relatively simple. There’s a few boards in the fence that have started to split,
either with age or due to some undisclosed incident. He just needs to replace them. Pull out a nail.
Pull out another nail. Proceed until all the nails of one plank are out and the wood can be removed.
Fit in the new piece of wood—planks helpfully provided—and hammer the nails back in the
correct spot. Repeat.

While he works, he thinks of his current fuuinjutsu project. A lot of inspiration comes from the
scroll Itachi had gifted him. Seals based on fire resistance usually implied that the object you were
attempting to keep from burning wasn’t living tissue. Clothes, tools, paper, buildings.

The idea of creating a seal that allowed the wielder to be immune to burns via blasts of fire is
generally harkened as improbable. Impossible, even. The seal would have to be applied directly to
the skin, after all. In theory it seems simple. The subject would be skin, the effect immunity—
repellant —using a similar base pattern to barrier seals. Localized to fire. AKA: keep fire out.

The problem lies in shaping the barrier to coat the entirety of the body without just making a
bubble. Not exactly stealthy. Another issue lies in the fact that using skin as the seal’s ‘subject line’
is difficult to do when the body sheds layers constantly. He needs to figure out how to apply the
barrier to the figure as a whole, not just attached to a single layer of skin that won’t last forever.

There is an unfortunate difference between ‘repel’ and ‘reject’ that he needs to consider.

And sure, you can completely circumvent the need for a seal by applying a layer of chakra over
your body before leaping into flames or facing the brunt of a fire-style attack. But that doesn’t
always work out perfectly, you can still walk away with burns depending on both the temperature
of the fire and your compatibility with fire chakra in general—because yes, those with a natural fire
nature are more resilient towards the element.

Also, not everyone can coat their skin in chakra to provide that kind of protection. Directing it to
one part of the body is far easier, hence the concept of water and tree-walking. It’s a larger strain to
cover the full surface of the body when it’s not an illusionary construct like a henge, which is
practically a centralized genjutsu over your own image. A full layer of chakra at the same density
and thickness across the body is more chakra intensive and requires more control.

Natsume does not have good chakra control.

He is not bitter about this.

“Hey, how would you feel about a C rank?”

Genma’s voice derails Natsume’s train of thought. He blinks back into the present, realizing that
he’s mechanically fixed almost half the fence already.

“I’m sure it’ll be an improvement to completing basic chores.”

“Those basic chores are quite integral to our Village’s continued upkeep.”

Natsume refrains from rolling his eyes. “What’s the C rank? I assume you already have one in
mind, otherwise you wouldn’t bring it up.”

“Border patrol. It’s nothing fancy, and more of a right-of-passage. I mentioned it a while back,
during our survival training.”
 “I remember.” Something about political agendas and borders that were safer than others. “Are we
going to an actual border, or to one of the outposts?”

There were many scattered across the Land of Fire. Outposts were where Konoha shinobi are
stationed to provide aid to civilians, keep a rein on bandits, and watch for suspicious activity in
case any enemies manage to get past the other patrols.

The actual border is so massive, it’s far more likely for intruders to be caught partway inside the
Land of Fire than it is right at the outskirts.

“An outpost about 40 kilometers from the Kusa border. So we’re close, but we’re not on direct
border patrol.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse?”

Genma laughs, “Let’s not jinx it.”

He doesn’t look worried at all, so Natsume shrugs and goes back to work. He wants to finish this D
rank before lunch. “Whatever. When are we leaving?”

“You have three days.”

Just enough time to inform Hinata that he won’t be around, possibly figure out if Sasuke is getting
a Kenjutsu master, and for Natsume to make sure both his little menaces have food to last them—

“How long?”

Genma hums. “Two weeks. Three with travel time included. A normal stint is about three months,
so we’re lucky this is just a mission.”

Three weeks of Naruto and Sasuke trying to survive on their own. Perish the thought. And there’s
no Itachi or Shisui to check in on them. It sends a fission of worry down Natsume’s spine. But. No.
They’re not totally hopeless.

Probably.

Natsume hammers in another piece of wood. He’ll have to bring his Fuuinjutsu research so he
doesn’t get bored to tears staring at a field or trees. Maybe it’ll feel like a vacation.

Yeah, he huffs to himself. A vacation from Naruto and Sasuke’s bickering is long overdue.

Chapter End Notes

There is a new discord! A while back I did a quick poll on the old discord to see whose
POV everyone would be more interested in seeing, and Itachi, Shisui, and Kakashi
were the top three with the same number of votes. So I’m opening it up to you guys,
too. Between those options, which one do you want the first alternate POV installment
to be from?
 VOL. 1, ARC II. (borders)
Chapter Notes

Hello!! The votes are in. Kakashi's POV won by a SINGLE vote, nearly tied with
requests for a Shisui POV. Fear not, our favorite Uchiha will be next on the list. As for
now, the Kakashi POV will be in the works and, when finished, will be published as
the first in a POV one-shot collection that will be considered "Part 2" of and we
change like seasons. Keep on the lookout !!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The day Natsume is set to leave for border patrol, it’s positively frigid.

He wakes, as usual, at the very crack of dawn, before light even begins to peek over the horizon
and the sky is just beginning to grow splotchy in the west.

Naruto is curled up beside him, nose pressed into Natsume’s shoulder. He’s drooled a bit. He’d
complained when Natsume announced his upcoming departure. Mostly out of loneliness.

Sasuke hadn’t said much at all.

Now, Natsume carefully detaches a slumbering Naruto from his person and slips out of bed. He
barely makes a sound, and his little brother remains deep in a dream.

Sasuke, on the other hand, is pale in the other bed. Sweat dots his brow despite the chill of the air
—the heating gave out sometime in the night—and his face is twisted into some macabre
expression. Nightmares.

Yesterday, Natsume had gotten the name Gekko Hayate from Yugao. A teacher for Sasuke, who
was just as skilled in the art of Kenjutsu. In turn, Sasuke would not be learning Tsunami style.

“We need permission for that,” Yugao had said. “You’re an Uzumaki, so only you are able to
decide who learns Uzumaki techniques.”

He let her learn for his own benefit, just as he’d given Gai the Tsunami Taijutsu scrolls. Anything
regarding the Tsunami styles had been buried away, only unearthed somehow by Shisui, so it’s
unlikely anyone around the village has knowledge of it.

Still, he’d felt some measure of respect from Yugao when she’d spoken those words. Like she was
truly looking at him and acknowledging both the name he carried and the past that clung to it.

He likes to think he’d let Sasuke learn, should the kid ever ask. But only then. As much as he feels
bound to Itachi’s words of protecting Sasuke, as much as Natsume doesn’t want to feel, think
about, or even acknowledge that perhaps he loves —

…he loves Sasuke in any capacity, Natsume wants to hold some things for himself. Sasuke has his
own clan techniques, his own scrolls and jutsu. There’s no expectation for Sasuke to suddenly give
Natsume access to Uchiha secrets, so there shouldn’t be an expectation for Natsume to give Sasuke
any Uzumaki ones.
Natsume puts his hand on Sasuke’s clammy forehead. He smooths out the line between those dark
brows, watches the way feathery lashes tremble and shake before settling. Calming.

Sasuke’s body relaxes like a cut string.

Natsume kind of hopes that the boy does ask.

“We really need to do something about your ninjutsu.”

Natsume snorts, “You mean my lack of?”

They’re three hours into their journey, the sun climbing its way to the middle of the sky. Even
then, it’s not warm. Civilians would be hard-pressed to make a journey in this weather. Luckily,
with the help of warming seals and chakra on their side, neither shinobi feel the brunt of the chill.

Their pace is fast, Genma acknowledging Natsume’s shorter legs. They’re both clad in their winter
cloaks, muffling seals sewn into the hems so they don’t cause noise flapping in the wind. Natsume
had a bit of fun figuring that one out.

“Yeah. That.”

It’s not that Natsume doesn’t try.

Wielding chakra just doesn’t come naturally to him. He suffers from reserves that far overshadow
all of his peers, child or adult. He knows how to identify the wealth of chakra that each person
carries as easily as one knows how to breathe. Which means he’s aware that the Hokage is one of
the few to come even a shred close to what both Natsume and Naruto contain.

That, of course, could be due to the Kyuubi.

It’s hard to distinguish the difference sometimes. Almost as if the chakra from the fox is steadily
adding to their own supply.

Natsume’s been meaning to take a look at the seal on his stomach—one he’s certain Naruto
possesses too, because the feel of the fox’s chakra lingers in them both—just hasn’t had the time.

Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself. It’s half a lie. Some part of him is fearful of the beast,
though he suspects that fear is a reasonable reaction. He recalls too much of massive red eyes, red
eyes both like and unlike the ones that house pinwheels. Bars and stagnant water, yellowed in dim
lighting. Metal in the air and in the walls, in his mouth like the taste of blood.

Genma glances at him. “I suppose that even for a genius there’s areas you’d struggle with. I wasn’t
expecting it to be ninjutsu, however.”

Natsume is aware of the silent shinobi rule about where to put your efforts. He struggles so
severely just to do basic chakra techniques, it’s a waste to focus on it beyond the necessary skills.
But to most, it’s even more of a waste for Natsume to house so much chakra and not use any of it at
all.

“It’s not natural to have as much chakra as I do,” Natsume comments blithely. Genma, like every
other fucker in Konoha, is already aware of Natsume’s tenant. “All the techniques and jutsu don’t
exactly accommodate for that. You’re aware that chakra can possess a corrosive element if it’s too
dense, right?”

Genma grimaces at the idea of a jutsu made out of unrestrained, corrosive chakra. It would hurt the
caster just as much as the target. “You have a water affinity, though—”

He pauses, jaw slackening slightly. His senbon nearly falls from his lips. “Natsume, what element
is the Kyuubi?”

Natsume nearly stumbles. Why didn’t he think of that? The Kyuubi is a creature built of chakra.
Surely it must have an element? Every living creature has a chakra network. In animals it’s muted
—unless they’re summoning beasts—but in humans it’s always linked to an element. Even
civilians had a chakra nature, not that they could conjure enough chakra to identify it. If you didn’t
train, your network remained at the base level required for life.

Assuming you weren’t from a clan, and therefore afflicted by genetics. Or a Jinchuuriki since birth.
In Natsume’s case it was both. The Kyuubi and genetics from a Clan known for massive reserves.

His thoughts occasionally stray if he thinks too long on the subject.

If the Uzumaki Clan were still around, and Natsume wasn’t a Jinchuuriki, he could have been a
civilian. Maybe. According to Hinata, different Clans have different rules for their members. A
general consensus is that if a clan kid’s natural chakra levels are below a certain point, they don’t
have to attend the Academy if they don’t wish to. If they’re at the right level or above, it depends
on the Clan.

For the Hyuuga, every member except those with weak chakra reserves are at least Genin level.
They also have a natural doujutsu, though, so they’re far stricter. Hinata isn’t as well-versed in
other Clan regulations, though that’s to be expected. She’s a second-rate heir in the eyes of the
Hyuuga, and every Clan keeps their secrets close to their chest. Even if there is more shared
political information, she’s not privy to it. She’s barely in the running to take over as the next Clan
Head, so her tutors aren’t sure if they want to waste the time to teach her everything yet.

Yes, Natsume has overheard some absolute flaming garbage in the Hyuuga Compound. But he’s
learning to keep his emotions hidden. Burying them deep inside and wiping his face of all
expression. It’s hard, because he naturally finds himself wanting to snarl or frown or glare.

Is it childish impulse that makes him so expressive?

Or maybe just another point to prove his relation to Naruto, who wears his heart on his sleeve.

But back to the Kyuubi. A beast of its size made fully of chakra and wrath and whatever else—it
should have an element, right? Or, the more Natsume considers it, perhaps not. The Kyuubi isn’t
exactly a human, is it? But it’s sentient enough to speak, to threaten, to be aware of everything. On
par with a summoning beast, but more…

Worldly? Old?

The Kyuubi gives off the feel of a relic. Something untouched by time and space, and Natsume is a
grain of sand under a dangerous claw.

“I don’t know if those rules apply,” he admits slowly. He tries turning inwards anyway, despite the
flash of fear he unwillingly experiences.

The beast slumbers. That much Natsume can tell. It’s like there’s a film between worlds hidden in
Natsume’s head, and if he focuses hard enough he can press his hand to it. He knows, even without
seeing, that it’s resting in its prison of metal and water, paper seals dark with ink wrapped across
every surface.

It only feels like darkness, buzzing hot wrath, and nothingness—as though you’re trapped in a
sensory deprivation tank, staring into a vastness, an eternal void, flung into the blank cosmos with
the crushing weight of space pressing in around you.

It’s the heat that Natsume clings to.

“Nothing?” Genma asks.

“It’s just dark. But…maybe fire? I really don’t know if it leans any which way. It’s not as though
it’s human.”

Genma sighs, “Well, if you’re guessing fire then you might be on to something. Could be a reason
why molding chakra is so hard for you, since you have two conflicting sources.”

Water and fire.

It could be that. Or it could just be that Natsume sucks at it. Maybe even both, which would
probably be worse.

“Either way, I’ve been neglecting that aspect of your training. This’ll be a good opportunity to
focus a bit more on it. Water isn’t exactly easy for me, but I know a few basic jutsu I can help you
practice with.”

Natsume resolutely does not scowl, even if he really wants to. He even feels his lips twitch. He’d
rather spend the downtime of border patrol working on seals.

“Hey, don’t give me that look.” Genma grins at him. He’s totally laughing at Natsume’s suffering.

“I’m not giving you a look.”

“Yeah, you are. It’s a ‘shut up and let me do fuuinjutsu in peace’ look.”

Natsume’s nose scrunches in distaste. How would his Sensei even know that?

“If I couldn’t read you by now, I’d be a shitty teacher and an even shittier shinobi,” Genma
drawls.

They drop down to the forest floor, snow crunching under their heels. The trees are a little sparser
here, the landscape opening up into what should be soft soil and fields—now an icy wonderland.
In their own territory there’s no real worry about traveling on foot. Especially this far into the Land
of Fire. They leave footprints in the snow and don’t bother to cover them.

“You need at least a few jutsu under your belt. I don’t want you to become too reliant on
fuuinjutsu.”

“I have kenjutsu,” Natsume grumbles. “And my fists.”

“Calm down, brawler.”

They pass a half-frozen river. Chunks of slush and ice bob slightly, jostled by the moving water
underneath. Natsume glances at it, and a chill slips through his pocket of heat and makes him
shiver.
When he thinks of his own chakra, he doesn’t imagine cool, soothing tones or the balm of the tide
washing over your toes. All he pictures is the Naka River swallowing Uchiha Shisui, a stream
behind the park Naruto frequents, stagnant yellow spillage reaching his ankles, and the roar of the
very whirlpools his clan name embodies.

Natsume thinks about how he doesn’t swim. He doesn’t take tubs. When he water-walks there’s a
shrill ring in the back of his head, pulsing in unforgiving waves until his heels meet solid ground.

He is water. From his chakra nature to his bones, from the land his people are from to the very
blood in his veins. Natsume turns away from the river, glad to see that Genma is looking ahead, a
few steps in front.

“Water doesn’t mix with Earth,” Genma complains. “The only thing that could be worse is if you
had a lightning affinity. This is gonna be just as strenuous for me, honestly. I’m not Hatake
Kakashi.”

The name sounds vaguely familiar.

Hatake…

Natsume recalls the little book that had changed his life. Hadn’t there been a Hatake Clan
mentioned in there? Not much information. Something about special chakra? Or the color? Or…
something. Maybe military prowess? He honestly can’t remember. There wasn’t a Hatake Clan
mentioned in any of the recent editions of Clans of Konoha and Beyond.

Must have died out.

Well, not completely, apparently.

There’s a long road ahead—nearly four days of travel—and Natsume doesn’t want to linger on the
topic of his chakra nature or potential jutsu. So he leans into the new topic a little too eagerly.
“Who’s that?”

Genma looks at him then, his chakra wavering slightly. His eyes are dark, the overcast sky making
them look like flat stones. There’s a zing of surprise. “Oh, right.” Genma’s face is a blank wall. “I
should probably have you look through the bingo book.”

“I’ve looked through the bingo book before.”

“Yeah, ours. I mean the ones from other Hidden Villages. Those have all the entries for Konoha
shinobi and kunoichi. It’s good to get your hands on ones from different countries. Depending on
circumstances the bounty can shift if one Hidden Village hates a particular person more than
another. A head could be worth more in Iwa than it would in Suna, for example.” Genma doesn’t
stop his pace, but his cloak shifts and bulges as he moves his arms around underneath. After a
moment he procures a small book, holding it out through the gap in his cloak.

Natsume picks up his pace slightly to reach out and take it. “I’m assuming this Hatake Kakashi is
in here?”

Genma chuckles dryly. “Oh, yeah. He’s in there.”

Not sure what to make of that reaction, Natsume flips the small book open. It’s a little worn, the
edges frayed. Across the cover is what must be a stain left behind by blood. The symbol on the
spine indicates that it’s from Kiri.
He flips through the pages. Some are crinkled, as if they’d been dried out after getting soaked.
Otherwise, it’s remarkably new. None of the faces are particularly familiar. For the entires with a
Konoha symbol in the corner, he sees no faces that stick out, only recognizes clan features. Blonde
hair and placid eyes with no pupil? Yamanaka. Dark hair, byakugan eyes? Hyuuga, obviously. Tan
or brown skin, thick, sheer black hair—Nara.

Then he pauses. A little further than halfway through the book he stops on a page with the name
Hatake Kakashi. The photo is the same one that’ll be on Hatake-san’s shinobi ID, Natsume knows.
He recognizes the style and backdrop, as it matches his own. Interesting to see even shinobi ID
records were leaked. Nothing’s really safe, is it?

Hatake-san is young. Even younger than Genma, according to the year stamped into his DOB
section. No month, though. It’s not like his face gives anything away, seeing as it’s almost entirely
covered. His eyes—sorry, eye— is so dark it must be black, though it’s hard to tell from a tiny
picture. His hair is…interesting. Gravity-defying and startlingly silver, and not the kind that comes
from old age. It’s beautiful, if a bit dull on printed paper.

Natsume finds himself pinching a strand of his own hair between two of his fingers. What is it with
clans and hair? Because that kind of silver must be some clan genetics at work.

Printed under Hatake Kakashi’s name are the words Flee on Sight. And beside that is the stamped
mark of an ‘S’. A list of epithets follow.

Kakashi of a Thousand Jutsu.

Copy Ninja Kakashi.

Cold-Blooded Kakashi.

Kakashi of the Sharingan.

Natsume feels the cold bite into his fingertips. “What is this? Is he half-Uchiha?”

Genma is quiet. His answer comes slowly. “No, he’s not. It’s not my place to tell his story, but he
does have a Sharingan eye. It’s an implant. Given, not taken.”

Natsume shelves that for later. He doesn’t really care as much now. He keeps reading, glancing
over the slim details. Genin at five, chunin at six. Beating out Natsume in the prodigy department
—or it could just be because of the Third War. Hatake Kakashi also had four different confirmed
elements he used in a variety of jutsu, with speculation that he could somehow use all five. And use
them well.

Now that’s just unfair, Natsume thinks.

Most career shinobi could perform multiple jutsu that matched their affinity. It wasn’t impossible
to use other natures, but it was harder to alter your chakra into an element that it didn’t already lean
towards. It’s not unusual for those with sufficient chakra levels to have a variety of jutsu for their
affinity, and a few from one other—or two, if you’re partially adept at chakra control. In most
cases, that other element doesn’t conflict with the natural affinity.

Fire and lightning usually match well, and is particularly common in the Land of Fire. Or fire and
earth, as neither have a strict upper hand on the other. Water and wind are the rarest types in
Konoha.

Except apparently Hatake Kakashi can switch between all of them with enough ease to be notably
dangerous. Natsume can barely use his chakra, he doesn’t even want to imagine how hard it would
be to twist his water nature into another element.

Natsume purses his lips. “I suppose I understand your joke now.”

“You really sound like an old man sometimes. It creeps me out.”

Genma’s comment is rewarded with another glare.

The jonin laughs, and his elbow moves under his cloak. It’s that half-aborted movement he always
does when he wants to ruffle Natsume’s hair. Rarely does he follow through with the motion.

“So he’s an S rank shinobi capable of wielding four or five elements, and he’s younger than you,”
Natsume comments.

“This conversation is taking a hurtful turn. For your information, I can use Earth and Fire with
similar mastery, and I can at least cough out a few water jutsu. Most jonin have mastered two
chakra natures.” Genma cracks a devious kind of smirk. “So good luck with that, brat.”

Natsume huffs, turning away. Not towards the river, but to the fields at their right. “I’m only a
genin. I don’t need to worry about that.”

There’s another waver in Genma’s chakra. Almonds and earth. “Kid, you’re already at chunin
level. Your learning curve is insane. There’s no doubt in my mind you could thrash half the chunin
force already.”

The sudden praise leaves Natsume a little off-center. He doesn’t know how to react to it, because
Genma’s chakra is sure in its honesty, and warm enough to feel like affection. He feels mulish and
unable to formulate a reply.

In the face of Natsume’s silence, Genma continues. “You’re constantly training with some of the
top jonin. Do you have any idea how that skews your perception of how strong you are in
comparison to the average genin?”

He could say a lot to that. It’s not as if he doesn’t know that Gai is known as a taijutsu master, or
that kenjutsu isn’t as well used in Konoha and Yugao is considered a rare master of her style.
Genma had been on the Hokage’s guard for years, all the way back to when the Yondaime was in
charge.

His sensei couldn’t have been more than sixteen and already considered good enough to guard their
Village’s most important figure.

It’s enough to know, but understanding it is another monster entirely. Perhaps because he has no
peers, Natsume can only compare himself to those he trains with and see himself lacking. Yet, as
Genma had said, Natsume’s learning curve is ‘insane’. It’s what solidifies him as a prodigy.
Konoha’s favorite kind of tool.

In his hands, the bingo book has lost its appeal. He flips through the last couple pages and finds
that practically all the Konoha shinobi are unfamiliar, as expected. Though he does see Gai, which
is a surprise, and Genma, which isn’t.

There is only one Uchiha in the book.

Itachi’s face stares back at him from a particularly wrinkled page, the brown of dried blood
permanently marking the bottom half. He looks older than his thirteen years, haggard in a way that
shaves time off your life. The stress lines by his eyes carve shadows into his expression, while his
black gaze shows nothing. The Konoha symbol on his page is slashed through, a note near the top
announcing his status as a Missing Nin.

Flee on sight.

“Must be a recent update,” he murmurs.

He feels Genma’s gaze resettle upon him. Taking in whatever scene Natsume paints, and easily
accepting the change in conversation. “It is. That’s barely two months old.”

They are silent aside from the soft sound of snow under their feet. It hits Natsume then that it’s
really winter. Of course he’d known. Seasons change. Summer to autumn to winter.

Soon it’ll be spring, and then summer again. Buzzing cicadas and heatwaves in the distance,
twisting the air above Konoha’s dirt roads. He passes the bingo book back to Genma, who takes it
without a word. Natsume’s fingers twist around the bamboo charm hanging from his neck. The
chain nips at his skin, sure to leave indents with how tightly he holds it.

They walk and they walk and they walk, until the light leaves the sky and Genma is throwing him
more than one odd glance. When they settle for the night, he huddles in his tent under a blanket
with a warming seal and dreads falling asleep. He dreads the hours slipping away and the turn of
the earth around the sun.

After a half hour of him staring at the ceiling of the tent, he hears Genma sigh.

“What are you thinking about so hard that’s keeping you from sleep? We still have a few days’
journey to go.”

“Nothing,” Natsume mumbles. “Just thinking I should visit Yamanaka Flowers.”

The camellias are in bloom.

Border Station 37 is built into a grassy knoll partially hidden by trees. Though in the middle of
winter, it’s less grass and more ice. The snow is heavier here, at least a foot high all around. If you
weren’t looking for the Station, you’d miss it. His eyes slide off it twice before Natsume realizes
there’s a subtle genjutsu over the place.

Before the Station had even come into view, Genma had let out a purposeful flare of his chakra.
Now, when they get close enough, he holds a hand close to his chest and forms a few hand signs.

Friendly. Recovery Two. Boar. Cinders. Ring.

A sharp whistle sounds to their left, then their right. Finally, a barrier shimmers in front of their
eyes. They step through.

There are six other guards assigned here, but only three are in the building when they arrive. Two
men and a woman, all around Genma’s age. They exchange pleasant greetings, though Natsume
goes mostly ignored. He’s fine with that. Small talk isn’t his area of expertise.

The inside is dark colors and mostly wood, as is typical of Konoha. The foundation is stone, which
usually sucks heat quite rapidly in the winter. Fortunately, it’s combated by the presence of
warming seals that keep the stone at a moderate temperature. There’s nothing for the air and the
rest of the Station, but at least it’s warmer than outside.

One of the men is tall and willowy, with brown hair and brown eyes. He looks a bit sickly, but he
could just be naturally pale. His chakra is damp earth, peat moss and dust, the way the world is
after it’s rained in the middle of spring. He kind of glances at Natsume for a moment—the barest
form of acknowledgement—then saunters away to the room where the bedrolls are set up.

The woman is stocky and scarred. Part of the skin on her face is warped by a burn that wraps
around her cheek and most of her ear. Her eyes are a vivid green, while her hair is mousy brown
and shorn nearly in a buzzcut.

“Good to see some fresh faces out here,” she greets, nodding amicably at both of them. “I’ve been
surrounded by ugly mugs for almost two months now.”

Genma grins lazily, one of his eyebrows cocked up in a suave expression. “No need to worry, I’m
perfectly capable of being eye candy.”

She laughs, a husky sound that reminds Natsume of a smoker. Her chakra is similar. Ashy and
bright, like a sparkler under the night sky. Fire affinity, wildly dominating.

“Aya,” she introduces. “And the lug that just went back to sleep is Wataru. Don’t mind him, he just
got back from a patrol and likes to spend most of his time in dreamland.”

“Shiranui Genma, and this is my little protege, Uzumaki Natsume.” Genma puts a hand on
Natsume’s shoulder, dragging him forward. “It’s his first time on a real mission outside the
Village.”

Pulled from his spot in Genma’s shadow, Natsume does everything in his power not to scowl.
Maintaining a veneer of professionalism is just another skill he’ll need in the future.

“Kawabe Hatsuaki,” the last man murmurs. He’s soft-spoken, his gaze only landing on their
shoulders and never meeting their eyes. Navy hair tied back low, dark blue eyes rounded in a way
that makes him seem younger than he is. Wind affinity, amazingly enough. His chakra chimes like
a bell in the breeze. He’s the only one who offers a last name.

Natsume’s not surprised. There’s a lot of orphans in Konoha. A lot of fodder to be added to the
ranks because orphans are easy to sway.

“The other three are out running around,” Aya says, beckoning them further in with a tilt of her
head. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the layout, Shiranui, but let’s give the fresh blood a little
tour.”

Natsume doesn’t quite bristle, but finds himself a little disoriented that Aya speaks to him so
candidly. He can’t help but wonder what she’s up to. Or if she simply doesn’t care. Maybe she’s
bored.

Genma follows after her when she starts walking, so Natsume is dragged along whether he wants
to go or not.

It’s not a large space. It could probably fit ten people in close-quarters. The main room has two
tables on either side, with shelves lining the walls. A few scrolls, random weapons, articles of
clothing, three potted plants, what looks like a dirty dish—chopsticks still included—it’s lived in
but obviously not a home. Not exactly. Feels a bit too much like a storage room.
To the right is the kitchen and pantry, to the left is the room with all the bedrolls. Wataru is tucked
into one, blanket pulled nearly over his head. There are five empty bedrolls in various states of
tidiness, and enough open space for Genma and Natsume to set up their own.

At the back of the main room is a descending staircase. It looks rather ominous, with the dark walls
and stone-carved stairs, a single bulb hanging from the ceiling.

“Down here is the bathroom, armory, and party room,” Aya explains.

Natsume doesn’t ask what the party room is. She looks a little put out over that fact.

The stairs lead right into what must be the party room, because it’s got more tables, a few card
games, and what looks like a shogi board. It’s a similar set up to above, with a room to the right
and a room to the left. The right is the bathroom, which is what Natsume imagines a public bathing
house to be like. There’s a stalled area with toilets, and then an open, tiled area with four shower-
heads coming down from the wall. There’s stools, buckets, towels, and loofas—all traditional bath
house items.

Not that Natsume’s ever been to a bath house before.

“Scentless shampoo, conditioner, and soap are stocked up here,” Aya says, gesturing to a shelf
right by the door. “We just got resupplied two weeks ago, so we should be good even with you two
crashing in.”

It looks like he’s going to have to get used to a lack of privacy. There’s not even a curtain. Do men
and women shower at the same time? Is there some kind of code? Just looking at it makes
Natsume uncomfortable and he’s eight , arguably the one with the least to worry about.

“The armory is here on the left, stocked with standard weapons. Shuriken, kunai, senbon—“ she
winks at Genma without pausing, “—basic poisons and antidotes. Wire, body scrolls, basic seals,
all that fun stuff.”

Natsume peeks in and catalogs where everything is organized. His wakizashi is enough, but it’s
nice to know he can restock his kunai if need be.

“Really ain’t much, but it’s home away from home.”

Genma stretches, one of his shoulders cracking. “It’s been three years since I last came out to do
border patrol, nice to see that nothing’s changed.”

“Pretty sure they gave us better plumbing.”

“Oh? How lucky.”

On the outskirts of Natsume’s senses comes a rapidly growing presence. Three separate chakra
signatures, all coming from different directions. “Three approaching.”

Aya blinks at him for a moment, before a wash of understanding clears her expression. “Oh, you’re
a sensor. Handy. You’d make a killing out here.”

“Thanks,” is the dry reply.

They return upstairs to greet the rest of the patrol team, though it takes them some time to show.
Aya and Kawabe look impressed by his range. Or at least Aya does. Kawabe offers something like
a smile, but he still can’t meet anyone’s eyes and his chakra practically shivers with stress and
 anxiety.

It reminds Natsume a little of Hinata.

When the final three members of the patrol team finally show up, they all feel the sharp flare of
chakra each gives. The barrier lets them through, and Natsume grows a little interested in the
schematics of it. He’ll have to spend some time studying it later.

He’s sitting at the table by the kitchen when the door is thrown open. Genma is to his left, legs
stretched out obnoxiously. Natsume’s don’t even reach the ground. Aya’s in the kitchen, cooking
despite giving off the impression that she can’t, in fact, cook. Natsume really hopes she can. He’s
starving.

Having sensed them coming, he’s not startled at the abrupt arrival. The first head through the door
is blonde, a wheat-color that could nearly be deep gold. It’s a little past the ears and curling at the
ends, giving the hair soft waves. A man, or a teenager, probably around eighteen at most. He’s
conventionally handsome, with gray eyes and a crooked grin. There’s a smugness to it that
immediately sets Natsume on edge.

Seems his instincts are correct, because after the teen steps inside his eyes lock on Natsume’s form.
They darken, his delicate brows furrowing in brief confusion. His mouth twists, face scrunching as
though he’s smelled something foul.

His words are scathing. “What’s he doing here?”

Chapter End Notes

The usual links: tumblr, discord.

See you next monday!

 VOL. 1, ARC II. (barriers)
Chapter Notes

HELLO ! happy monday!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Natsume gets five hours of poor sleep that night. He has an early shift along the border and is
given ample time to rest for it—could have gotten nine hours of dead sleep had he really tried—but
couldn’t relax.

The new environment kept throwing off his sensory abilities. Konoha is a rushing swell of chakra,
bubbling with it until you’re sick on the froth. Hundreds, thousands of people, civilians and shinobi
alike, all crammed within his sensory reach. No matter where he went he was surrounded by
chakra.

That lack of presence and noise and life brings him back to four walls and nothingness. The press
of paper seals around his wrists and a scroll he can’t open in his pocket.

There’s no Itachi here, this time. Probably never again.

Just a handful of chakra signatures that he’s forced to face the brunt of, until he can read them
inside and out.

What’s he doing here?

Osamu is nineteen and high on the feeling of a recent promotion to tokubetsu jonin. Earth nature.
Sturdy and stubborn, dry dust and steel. He’d only rolled his eyes when Genma had slung an arm
around Natsume’s small shoulders—a movement he’d never done before—and gifted a smile as
poisonous as the bitter almond cyanide he felt like.

Border patrol, obviously. Have the weeks out here scrambled your head that badly?

Genma’s cool tone and relaxed body language had steered Osamu away from direct confrontation.
They all know it.

It’s weird. Natsume’s become used to the familiarity of hatred boiling away in chakra networks.
Slick and acrid. It’s almost a comfort, as if he wouldn’t know what to do without the presence of
the bitter emotion.

The other two jonin hadn’t given much of a reaction, but Natsume felt their discomfort.

Kitada Konomu, a petite woman with brown hair and dull brown eyes. Ozone and the distant crash
of thunder. Her chakra shivers upon meeting his eyes, but her face remains impassive. She doesn’t
like him, but she’s professional.

He can handle that.

Hisado Takeo. Tall, gruff, with hair and eyes so light he’s practically a ghost. At least forty and
probably ready to retire. There’s deep-set wrinkles cracking his face, making him look even older
than he is. His gaze slides away from Natsume after a quick glance, with no real emotion lingering
in his chakra, which pops like a dry fire and feels like a Konoha heatwave.

There’s no hatred, no interest. Just a passive sense of acknowledgment.

But Osamu is obvious in his dislike. It swells under his skin and leaks out in every action and stare
he levels Natsume’s way. There’s no cheerful Aya to sway the conversation either, as she heads out
with Kawabe to do the next round of scouting.

At least the food was decent.

Now Natsume wakes after not really sleeping, Genma already putting on his sandals soundlessly.
They’ll patrol a designated area from 5am to 12pm, then return. It’s monotonous and terrible, and
Natsume still hates waking up early. They ready themselves as quietly as possible, putting rations
in their pouches and double-checking their weapons.

Natsume sneaks a scroll into his pouch, but Genma’s side-eye lets him know that the movement
wasn’t unseen.

Wataru is up drinking coffee, and he only offers something of a passive stare in their direction. A
stiff nod at Genma. He’s barely said three words the entire time—when he wasn’t sleeping away.

Genma only speaks when they exit the initial barrier.

“Your hair’s a mess.”

Natsume gives him an icy look. His scarlet hair has a lot of volume to it, and when it’s painfully
early he’s never in the mood to fix the bedhead he inevitably ends up with.

“Touchy.” Genma only grins at the sullen silence he’s given. “Don’t be so miserable. Look on the
bright side! Border patrol will help us learn the limits of your sensory abilities. You know the
Nidaime was a sensor, right? He had a range that’s never been beat. People say he could find a
person a whole country away.”

“Feels impossible,” Natsume mutters. The sheer interference of nature chakra would be immense.

“Yeah, well, so does your ability.” Genma takes a route to the left, leaping to the trees to avoid
footprints in the snow.

Their heels thump softly against sturdy branches high above the ground. The trees are narrower
here, nothing like the behemoths planted by Senju Hashirama. Still, they’re wide enough to support
their weight.

At Natsume’s questioning look, Genma sighs.

“How much have you actually read about chakra theory?”

Natsume slides his gaze away. Most of his understanding is limited to what’s taught in the
academy, which is strictly about how to use your chakra, the dangers of chakra exhaustion, and the
formation of jutsu. There’s probably more, but early graduation means there’s gaps in his
education.

Anything else he learned through studying scrolls, and then giving up after failing painfully over
and over.
“I’ll take that as a ‘ not much at all, sensei!’”

Natsume grunts. “I know enough about it to use Fuuinjutsu.”

“Using chakra infused ink and specific chakra patterns doesn’t equate to theoretical knowledge,
Natsume.”

“Just tell me why you think my sensory ability is impossible. I’m sure you’re dying to explain it.”

Genma sighs in an exaggerated manner. “So prickly. I need to lay out some groundwork to help
you understand. First off, the ability to use sensory techniques is rare. It varies in skill and range,
but you already knew that. The Yamanaka Clan is actually known for producing sensor types. If
you need a sensor on a mission, eight times out of ten you’re getting a Yamanaka. They’re
naturally predisposed to the ability because of their Mind-Transfer Jutsu.

Now, recall what I just said? Ability. Not just that, but the ability to use sensory techniques. Sensor
types have a natural skill in which they can use their chakra to enter a sensory mode. Following so
far? It’s not something you just walk around and do as easy as breathing. At least, not typically.
Even the Nidaime had to concentrate to use it.”

When they first started training together, Genma didn’t know very much at all about sensor types.
Natsume recalls how Genma had very unhelpfully only offered the hitsuji hand seal for focus.
Which is the most basic, rudimentary knowledge about how to activate a sensory technique.

Natsume watches Genma’s back for a moment. There are words on the tip of his tongue.

You did your research, he wants to say, but it would come out gruff and likely snide. Even if he
wants to show his gratitude, he doesn’t know how. It leaves him uncomfortable to think that
Genma has been going around looking at how best to teach Natsume, even if that’s the man’s job.

Because now it makes Natsume feel like he owes Genma something.

“I don’t need a technique, or to focus.”

“Right,” Genma agrees. “To my understanding, if you do have one, it’s on all the time. That’s not
viable, even for someone with reserves as large as yours. You’d have to be constantly molding and
manipulating chakra consciously, and we already know you have terrible chakra control. Which
means your chakra itself is different. That leaves one explanation. Well, there’s a few theories, but
this one makes the most sense.”

“I see where you’re going with this,” Natsume interrupts. And he does. Altered states of chakra
already have a name that he’s familiar with. “You think it’s a kekkei genkai.”

Genma hums a bit, considering his words carefully. “I think…that we don’t exactly know
everything about the Uzumaki Clan. I do think it’s a kekkei genkai. I think it’s either inherited, or a
mutation—which could explain why Naruto doesn’t have it.”

Makes sense. “You don’t think it’s the Kyuubi.”

Now that has Genma frowning in thought. He slows a bit, so Natsume is matching his leaps
through the treetops. “Not exactly, but I don’t think it’s impossible that it could be giving you extra
abilities. That amount of chakra, even sealed away, is bound to come with side-effects.”

Because chakra is not meant to be bound. It exists everywhere and in everything, and it is
constantly devouring. Hungry. To consume, to be used. Natsume and Naruto are the vessels. The
very bars of the cage wrapped in seals. They are saturated by the weight of inhuman chakra.

“I haven’t noticed anything off about Naruto.”

Genma shrugs. “You’re fraternal. Might just affect him differently. Or it’s taking its time. You train
more and interact with chakra often. There’s a million ways we could spin it, kid.”

Dawn’s first rays slice through the overcast sky. Sharp, bright spots of light filter through the
treetops, making them squint against the harsh rise. There are very few leaves to soften the glare.

Natsume exhales a cloud of condensation, the cold wind curving around his face. A kekkei genkai,
huh? That’s useful. Not just for the typical shinobi reasons, but also as a bargaining tool in politics.
Konoha hoarded their Clans and the techniques those Clans specialized in with a singular voracity.
Abilities like this are what the basis of Clans were established on, after all.

The Uzumaki were already seen as useful for their fuuinjutsu, chakra reserves, and longevity. If
there was more to the clan lost to time and war, or something special about Natsume in particular—
then he can use that.

“What did you want to test?”

Genma holds up three fingers, barely looking as he moves through the trees. A creature of the
forest, through and through. “First, how large your natural range is when you aren’t concentrating.
You might already know this, but it’s possible the population density of Konoha could be throwing
you off. Second, how far you can sense when you’re focusing on it. We need to establish whether
or not your ability is fixed or malleable. Third, exactly how much of a person you can identify via
their chakra, and from what distance.”

He stops abruptly, and Natsume lands a bit harder on the next branch in his attempt to halt as well.
Genma’s senbon clicks against his teeth, glinting dangerously under the dappled dawn light. His
hands fall naturally into his pockets. “How far are we from the base?”

“I don’t know, maybe nine kilometers?”

“Who’s awake right now?”

“Wataru, Aya, Kawabe.”

Genma smirks, looking impressed. “Did you have to focus at all?”

“Not for distance,” Natsume slowly admits. “I can still tell where they all are because there’s
nothing else around but animals. Checking who was awake required a bit of focus. I had to look
with purpose.”

“Alright. Good.” Genma nods his head. “Let’s keep moving.”

Every few kilometers into their patrol, Genma will ask how far from the base they are. Most of the
distance is guesswork, based on how long they’ve been moving and at what speed. It’s when they
hit 27 kilometers, getting nearer to the end of their scout route, that Natsume can barely feel the
other shinobi anymore. He has to focus a bit before they pop up stronger, flaring like candles.
Focusing on it isn’t hard, per se. But there’s an element of concentration he hadn’t anticipated.

They reach the end of their route, thirty-five kilometers south from the base, and Natsume’s
already almost slipped from a tree branch four times. Genma tries not to laugh when it happens,
but his humor slips out in muffled snickers.

Natsume can only scowl and do his best to ignore his completely unrepentant sensei.

They halt for a break at the top of a skeletal birch tree, crouched on thin branches that creak
ominously in the cold air. Rations are pulled from pouches. Unappetizing nutrient bars and a bag
of what must constitute as a shinobi variation of trail mix. Nothing particularly tastes good, but
nothing tastes bad either.

“Alright, so thirty-five kilometers is still easy for you, but requires concentration.” Genma crunches
down on what Natsume thinks is a wasabi pea. His sensei eats all those last, because they have the
best flavor. “How about you tell me everything you can about Kitada, just based on her chakra.
Only knowledge you’re getting now, not what you already know.”

Natsume swallows around a handful of grain. He ate all his wasabi peas first, just to get it out of
the way.

Kitada is the second woman, unassuming and slight. He closes his eyes to focus, easily finding the
pinpricks of chakra belonging to the four still at the base. It takes another moment to locate Kitada.
The initial observation tells him her chakra reserves are middling. He’d assume her to be a chunin,
if he didn’t already know that she ranks as a jonin. Her chakra control is probably excellent.

Lightning affinity, though not as individualistic as the imprint he usually gets when up close. Now
it’s just a buzz of static.

“Base-level observation gives me her location, her affinity, and her reserves.”

“And if you look deeper into it?”

Natsume finds himself pursuing his lips. He narrows his focus on Kitada, until the others grow
dimmer and she seems to flare even brighter. The stormy characteristics to her chakra amplify, and
he tastes metal on his tongue. She’s still sleeping, her chakra sedentary. There’s an odd feel to it.
It’s impossible to put into words. He can only describe it as a likeness to the bulk of Konoha. The
tethered, earthy flickers that civilians possess.

“Civilian-born, or second generation,” he guesses. “Primary chakra affinity is lightning, with

average chunin-level reserves.” A pause, he senses her chakra flicker. The press of ozone grows
stronger. “She’s waking up.”

“Incredible,” Genma mutters, and Natsume opens his eyes. His sensei looks surprised. Enough that
he doesn’t try to hide it. His almond-earth chakra crests like a wave, thrumming with something
that—

That Natsume recalls. Felt it when a parent came to pick their child up from the Academy and
heard some achievement earned that day. When Shisui would ruffle Natsume’s hair after a
particularly difficult maneuver was mastered.

Pride .

Natsume’s chest pulls taut, the sensation of falling lodged in his gut. His feet and legs remain
planted on the branch, but his emotions tumble like falling leaves.
“You don’t even need to form the hitsuji hand seal,” Genma marvels. “Or connect to another
stabilizing element. The Nidaime and the Yondaime had to center themselves by touching the
ground to perform long distance sensing techniques.”

At once, ice splinters the budding warmth that had taken root. Natsume breathes easy, whatever
strange emotion that had been building evaporating immediately.

“The Yondaime was a sensor?” He asks, and his voice doesn’t waver.

Genma hesitates. The moment lingers in the air. His chakra shrinks, as if recoiling. Trying to hide.
“…yes. A very skilled one. He could also sense others over great distances, but needed to center
himself using the ground to identify specifics in certain areas.”

“You know a lot about him.”

“Yes, well.” Genma’s answering tone is thin, his smile a delicate thing. Fake. “Happens when
you’re his bodyguard.”

There’s an element of pain that strikes through his sensei, one that Natsume can’t help but notice
due to their proximity. Emotion, as far as he can tell, is not something a normal sensor should be
able to discern. From a logical standpoint, that lends evidence to their theory of it being either a
kekkei genkai or a result of the Kyuubi’s interference.

From any other standpoint, Natsume is coming to realize that he’s been taking it for granted.

Being able to tell the emotions of others doesn’t come all the time. Sometimes it’s only flashes,
sometimes it’s nothing but the imprint of their individual chakra presence. Other times it’s a valley,
a canyon, a yawning void of intense emotion that lashes out as ferociously as a corned animal.

He can’t yet tell if there’s a correlation between experience, chakra types, or simple genetics that
allows each individual he comes across to reveal various levels. What he does know is that the
easiest thing to sense, whether or not he could read their emotions beforehand, is hatred and pain.

It coats the air so firmly when he walks around the village, he’s become intricately attuned to it.

What he’s realizing now, as he looks into Genma’s deep umber eyes, is that what he’s doing is
probably a violation of privacy. One he’s never considered before. Sure, it gives him a leg up in
the shinobi world. Being able to read the emotions of someone he’s tracking, fighting, or
interrogating is like winning the lottery.

But what about the people he cares for?

Natsume could give a rat’s ass about the Yondaime. But Genma clearly knew the man. Cared for
him, probably. Admired him, definitely. And now he’s dead and Genma was the bodyguard.

There was only a body left that didn’t need guarding, and what exactly would that feel like?

Genma’s face is unreadable the way a seasoned shinobi’s always is, and he waves words away
with a dip of his senbon and a flick of his fingers. Like it didn’t affect him at all. And anyone else
might have believed it. Except Natsume, who feels that lance of pain-guilt-pain, and then feels
guilty in return because he’s seen something private.

“Sorry,” he mutters, as though the word is gravel lodged in his throat.

Genma’s hand squishes down on Natsume’s head, ruffling the already wild red locks further.
Natsume lets it go for a moment, then starts batting at the offending limb and scowling deeply. He
tries to think about what would make Genma happy. A distraction? More opportunities to talk?

So when they get up to leave and make their return to the base, he haltingly asks one question he’s
not sure he wants answered.

“About sensory types, is it more or less likely to be a clan trait? You said the Yamanaka Clan
produces a lot of shinobi with the ability, and the Nidaime was a Senju. But as far as the history
books say, the Yondaime was from a civilian family.”

Genma seems to think, taking his time as they circle through the trees and warm up their clenched,
cold limbs. “That’s hard to say. There’s a discrepancy between clan and civilian-born shinobi in
terms of natural chakra reserves and training. I’d like to say that most evidence leads us to believe
that sensory types can come about randomly. The Nidaime had an unprecedented talent for it that
other Senju aren’t specifically known to have, so it’s not partial to the Senju Clan as a whole. Yet
the Yamanaka show us the opposite—that it can also be hereditary. Best guess? It’s both. And any
kids a sensor type has is more likely to be one, but not guaranteed.”

“That adds support to the idea that my abilities are genetic, then.”

Genma, incredibly, lands awkwardly on his next jump, chakra tightly coiled. It’s the first misstep
Natsume has ever seen the man make.

“Sensei?”

Genma acts like nothing happened. “Careful, it’s icy.”

The trees are all icy, and they’ve never had a problem before. Not since his first winter training trip
and all the practice that came after. There’s a difference in chakra output for plain bark, wet bark,
and snow-covered bark. Natsume hates it.

“If the Uzumaki Clan produced a lot of sensory types, but it’s not always a complete guarantee that
the child will be the same, then it still makes sense for me and Naruto to have differing skill sets,”
he pushes.

Might as well ignore whatever that was. Maybe Genma really did slip and felt embarrassed about
it. His sensei’s emotions don’t exactly reflect that, but they’ve also faded, cutting out like bad
reception. Now it’s just the sun-warmed rocks, cyanide, sunlight filtering through trees.

“It could still be random,” Genma murmurs. But it doesn’t sound like he believes it. “What has you
so concerned about whether it’s an Uzumaki trait or not?”

Politics, Natsume thinks.

“Curiosity,” he says, and he’s not sure Genma believes that either.

“Hey.”

The late afternoon sun conjures a passable warmth in the snowy landscape. Enough that Natsume
doesn’t shy away from sitting outside the base, fuuinjutsu books spread over his lap. His perfect
lighting is interrupted by dust-and-baked-clay, dry and angry Osamu.

The teen looms over Natsume, hands in pockets and a twist to his mouth that’s decidedly
downwards. On his youthful, handsome face, the sneer isn’t as menacing as intended.

Natsume spares him a bland glance. He has a feeling the guy isn’t going away until he gets
whatever he came over for. Why can’t he just work on his seals in peace? “What.”

It’s barely a question. And it definitely comes out more rude than he’d meant, probably from the
poor sleep and general dislike of having to talk with assholes.

For a moment he wishes for Genma’s presence.

Then he quickly buries the feeling. He’ll get nowhere in life relying on others to come save him.
His sensei is inside, probably eating or showering or just minding his own business.

“I’m no coward, so I thought I’d lay the cards out for you. I don’t trust you, I don’t like you, and I
don’t want you here.”

“Feelin’s mutual,” Natsume mutters.

Osamu takes one hand out of his pocket to jerk a finger at Natsume. “Don’t think for one second
that I’ve forgotten what you are. Your fucking leash might be fond of you, but whatever tricks you
have up your sleeve won’t work on me.”

“Okay.”

“Lay off, Osamu. The kid’s like eight,” Aya drawls. She’s barely in earshot, running through a
sequence of taijutsu kata that he doesn’t recognize. Well, not entirely. It’s clearly built off of the
Academy’s standard style. Altered to suit her tastes, body type, and whatever she’s managed to
pick up during her career.

“This thing isn’t a kid!” Osamu exclaims. “You think getting on this bastard’s good side is gonna
save you when he goes wild? Look at his face. Those fucking marks. That ugly ass hair.”

“Osamu.” Aya’s tone is sharp, she doesn’t come closer, but the muscles in her arm clench. “Watch
it. You know the rules.”

Natsume has heard worse before. Not usually to his face, because Konoha’s civilians are trembling
cowards under the force of his glare. He’s also already been hospitalized by a shinobi with a chip
on his shoulder before, so nothing is truly surprising about this interaction.

Yet he can’t help but feel a sting at the comment about his hair.

He knows it doesn’t fit into the boxes Konoha has cultivated. It’s just proof that his blood has
different origins. That he doesn’t belong here. But Naruto—Naruto with his gold hair and sunny
disposition—he fits in. Perhaps brighter than others, with the colors a few shades off, but he looks
like he belongs.

In Konoha.

And that little shit wants to. He wants to walk the streets that scorn him. Would rather claw for
attention and the chance to slot into place, become a cog in the wheel, a face in a sea of faces.
Naruto wants a home in the poison.
Natsume can’t comprehend the idea that Konoha could ever be a home.

He thinks of Shisui’s praise, of a silly little Yamanaka’s compliment. The way Itachi had reached
for a lock of crimson and held it between his fingers like it was something precious. And Naruto,
the faithful little brother, who thought no other hue could be as beautiful as the one that graced
Natsume’s head.

“We’re shinobi here. All on the same mission. Don’t try to stir the pot here.” Aya’s words are
directed at Osamu, her vivid gaze brutal. She cuts a much more menacing figure with her sleeveless
shirt revealing a muscular form and the scars winding around her face.

Osamu looks away from her. His stare finds Natsume again. There’s a hollow look to his eyes—not
like Sasuke, but rather a kind of emptiness that comes from apathy. There is deep-seated rage in the
pale press of his lips. Strain and hatred in the clenched fists that rattle at his sides, all white
knuckles and flushed fingertips.

Probably lost someone in the Kyuubi’s attack.

That’s not really any of Natsume’s business.

“They shouldn’t have let something like you come out here,” Osamu hisses. He then turns away,
perhaps realizing he’s not going to get a rise out of his target. “Guarding and protecting? Who’d
trust you with that?”

Natsume watches him storm away. There’s a lot of cruel words he could spill out. But he doesn’t
really care about changing Osamu’s opinion or making the teenager feel better. They’re shinobi .

At the end of the day, he doesn’t really need a monster sealed inside him to just be one.

Aya wanders over. “I won’t apologize for his behavior. That’s on him. I should warn you, though,
that your presence makes everyone else uncomfortable. Some of them won’t show it, but some of
them might be like Osamu.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He doesn’t say something whiny and benign like ‘ I’m used to it’, because he’s
not looking for pity.

“I’m not like them,” she continues. “I don’t care what you are. You look like a really tiny kid, and
you act like a genius with a stick up his ass. I’ve met types like you before. You came here as a
shinobi of Konoha, and I’m trusting that.” Aya stretches her arms over her head, clearly ready to
return to her training. “You’re not the first prodigy, so you don’t scare me. Just don’t end up like
that Itachi kid.”

He stares after her while she resumes her kata under the shade of a white tree. Icicles hang from the
branches, glinting in the noon sun with a threatening sort of beauty.

When he looks back down at the book in his hands, he can’t seem to read it. The kanji are right in
front of him but they don’t make sense. He reads the same sentence over and over. Something
about how chakra networks interact with seals placed on the body. He has the sudden urge to throw
it far, far away.

Instead he closes his eyes and grows frustrated by his own sentiment.

He told Sasuke he didn’t love Itachi. That he wasn’t sure if the feeling could be described as such.

Natsume’s love for Naruto is a fixed existence, as infinite as the cosmos and just as deadly. His
love for Shisui had been slow-moving, then a sudden drop. A free-fall, exhilaration and
wonderment and thrill, with the knowledge that he could hit the bottom at any moment. His love
for Sasuke is a wretched thing. A cactus he doesn’t want to water. Born of a twisted understanding
of their futures and the role Natsume must play.

Just don’t end up like that Itachi kid.

Oh. He recognizes the feeling bubbling inside him.

Fright .

He’d lied to Sasuke.

Three days later and Natsume has not fully grown used to standing in the showers with other
people. He’s under the spray of one shower-head while two others stand under their own, and
there’s someone else in a bathroom stall.

Maybe only he thinks it’s awkward. Everyone else seems perfectly at ease. As if nudity doesn’t
register to them at all.

Hisado showers with quick efficiency, barely under the spray for more than five minutes. Kitada
showers in the corner, but Natsume has the sneaking suspicion that it has less to do with the fact
that she’s a woman and more to do with the fact that it’s the furthest shower-head from Natsume’s
position.

He showers quickly as well, not looking in any direction but forward. Hopefully he’ll get used to
this in the future. Which is a weird concept to entertain.

After drying off, he slips on a cloth headband to keep his bangs out of the way. They’re starting to
get a bit long—he’d noticed before the trip, but hadn’t thought to cut it beforehand. Maybe he can
get Hinata to do it when he returns.

When he walks into the sleeping area, he sees that Genma is the only one lounging inside. His
sensei’s blanket is half kicked off, and the man is flipping through a novel with a nondescript
cover. Probably pulled off the shelves in the main room.

The tension between Natsume and the majority of the shinobi here is obvious. Practically palpable.
Genma would be an idiot not to see it. He always speaks out when he sees Osamu mouthing off—
but he isn’t always around.

At the end of the day, even if Genma were to sit everyone down and give them a talk, why would
they listen? He doesn’t hold any authority over them. So Natsume doesn’t bring it up.

He can already sense the buzz of frustration in Genma’s chakra. Weaving in and out of Natsume’s
radar. There’s no need to make it worse. This is basically the same thing as just living in Konoha.

“It’s not fair that they don’t trust you,” Genma sighs.

Oh, so we’re talking about it.

Natsume frowns. He’s actually content to keep ignoring the elephant in the room. “You expected
different?”

“There’s a difference between a human and a tailed beast. Any shinobi worth their salt should
know that.”

Natsume settles into his bedroll. His small stature means there’s a lot of wiggle room. “They want
an outlet. I already look out of place. It’s an obvious outcome.”

“Outcome be damned, I just—“ Genma halts. Sighs. “Anything can crack under enough pressure.”

“This isn’t going to break me,” he huffs. It’s almost amusing to think it would. “I’m not even hurt.”

Genma remains in quiet contemplation. He looks odd without the senbon, his trusty fixation put
down for the night. “It’s alright if you are, you know. There’s strength in leaning on each other.”

But Natsume is sick of idealism.

“I have two hands, I can pull myself up without help.”

Like he knows the conversation won’t go any further, Genma changes direction. “I have something
for you. While I’d prefer it if you tried strengthening your bonds with other shinobi, I realize that
might be a tall order for someone as prickly as you.”

Almost reluctantly, he reaches into the bag beside his bedroll. From the depths he pulls out what
looks like a kunai, but it’s shaped oddly. There are three prongs. Almost like a small, deformed sai.

Genma holds it out to Natsume, who accepts it curiously. There’s a seal wrapped around the
handle, the ink stark. Immediately, he knows what it is. He’d be stupid not to know.

“Is this…”

“One of the Yondaime’s three-pronged kunai. A tool he uses—used—to activate his Hiraishin
jutsu.”

It’s a little weightier than a normal kunai, as expected. It would take a bit of getting used to. A lot
of practice to adjust grip and throwing strength. He’s immediately enamored with the visual
formula on the handle and itches to crack it open to see what’s inside.

The outward appearance looks like kanji. Endurance, love, sword. Words with no real meaning in
that order—at least to the casual viewer. You could say that it stabs at the heart of shinobi . The
true meaning of their lives, enduring love born in violence. Very poetic.

Very personal.

The Yondaime is the one who made it appear so, after all.

Which means cracking the seal open to see all the layers of ‘code’ within is going to be difficult.
Natsume might not even be able to understand half of the fuuinjutsu language used, as it would be
all encrypted via the Yondaime’s personal code.

It’s exciting.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the innocuous, tempting seal. “Why are you giving this to me? No
one’s been able to crack it.”

Otherwise they’d have Konoha shinobi flying all over the place.
 “I know,” Genma acknowledges, and his next words are strangely heavy. That flicker of pride is
back, making Natsume jittery. “But I think you can.”

Chapter End Notes

here's the usual links: tumblr discord

see you next week!

 VOL. 1, ARC II. (barriers)
Chapter Notes

Sorry if this feels like filler ;w;

See the end of the chapter for more notes

There isn’t as much time as Natsume would like to pick apart the Hiraishin seal between patrols,
meals, training, and sleep. He knows the general background of the seal itself—that it’s originally
a product of the Nidaime, Senju Tobirama, and no one had cracked it until the Yondaime,
Namikaze Minato. The only two in existence to solo it. Genma could form a four-point version but,
as the name implied, he needed three other people.

Part of it, to Natsume’s educated guess, probably had to do with chakra. The larger the distance,
the more chakra the seal ate up. Displacing space and time was not for the faint of heart.

Rather than sleep, the first night Natsume had the three-pronged kunai he pressed it to sealing
paper and let the ink unfurl as far as it would go. It had seven different matrices that implied deeper
layers, but he couldn’t yet make sense of the patterns and shorthand to unlock them. What he did
recognize were a few kanji and number orders that reflected some of the Uzumaki sealing scrolls
he’d previously studied.

Three days later, he’s brimming with questions that no one can rightfully answer, as the two men
who knew the seal inside and out are both dead.

“Is the Yondaime’s Hiraishin a replica of the Nidaime’s?”

Genma looks forlornly at the utterly empty landscape before them, every exhale a white cloud.
He’s been the sounding board for all of Natsume’s mutterings, to his eternal regret. “Not quite. I
think he redid it entirely using his own fuuinjutsu style. Probably improved it, knowing him.”

Natsume can’t really speak to that, so he just nods. “So he studied with an Uzumaki, or with
Uzumaki scrolls.”

Genma raises a brow. He doesn’t look surprised. “Astute observation.”

Natsume scoffs. “It’s easy to tell if you look for it.”

Uzumaki Fuuinjutsu is bold. The patterns look almost like art, curling and churning like the very
namesake of the Clan who crafted them. Strings of numbers and kanji hidden under layers of
frenetic strokes.

Those seven matrices are clearly altered Uzumaki designs, because they all look like pieces of art
built solely on lines and space.

Honestly, it made more sense that the Yondaime had just copied the Nidaime, because a Senju
from that time period had full access to a wealth of Uzumaki knowledge. The Yondaime lived in a
period where the Uzumaki had already been wiped out by the time he turned six.

That’s not to say that there weren’t any Uzumaki left. Natsume and Naruto are proof of that. And
they both had to come from somewhere. Even if Konoha doesn’t want to admit it.

So there were Uzumaki around during the Yondaime’s life, possibly training him—or with him. Or
he’d pilfered the scrolls and figured everything out himself. Apparently the Yondaime had been a
genius-level prodigy from a young age, so Natsume can’t rule that out.

But the way Genma had avoided a straight answer about whether it was an actual Uzumaki or just
scrolls has Natsume wondering. Clearly there’s something there.

Or is he overthinking?

“Maybe for someone like you,” Genma says. “Not everyone likes to go blind staring at lines in the
dark.”

Natsume refrains from rolling his eyes. “It’s your own fault.”

Genma sighs. Loudly. “I know.”

Morning fades away as they complete their shift, and Natsume finds himself enjoying the quiet. He
wonders briefly what Naruto and Sasuke are up to, but would rather not linger on it. Too many
scenarios pop up in his head and make him anxious. If he just ignores it all, he won’t wonder if
they’ve managed to kill each other or seriously injure themselves trying to cook.

Hinata is there, he tries to tell himself.

Hinata is not always there.

So Natsume tries even harder not to think about it.

He does his mission, avoids conflict with the other shinobi, works on the Hiraishin, and accepts his
vacation for what it is. If only Genma would stop trying to rope him into card games with the rest
of the squad, he’d be having a great time.

And yes, everything is great.

Everything is fine.

“Sorry kid, but it’s just how we do things.”

Aya looks rather apologetic, but not enough to change her mind.

Natsume had woken in a relatively good mood, all things considered. The days have started to get a
little monotonous, and maybe he hasn’t been sleeping as restfully—plagued by dreams of dark eyes
—but it’s perfectly tranquil out here so he shouldn’t complain.

Even if he’s starting to like the cold less and less.

“I understand,” he mutters. And it’s not like he doesn’t.

Border Patrol is set up on a rotation-based structure, where teams are switched around to promote
‘bonds’ and also stop you from killing whoever you’d been partnered with for the last week. It’s
very easy to get sick of someone out here, especially when it was just you and them and hours of
empty land on a patrol.

Still, his mood is completely soured now. Of course he drew the short end of the stick and ended
up paired with the bad-mouthing idiot.

Osamu looks down his nose at Natsume, sneering. He’s clearly not happy about this arrangement
either. Natsume looks back at Genma, who’s snuggled in his bedroll, brown hair sticking up from
sleeping right after showering. No help from that lump.

He wants Natsume to make friends.

Natsume pulls his sandals fully on, slings his pack over his shoulder, and completely ignores
Osamu as he leaves.

“Hey!”

The teen stomps after him, and when they get outside their sandals crunch in the freshly fallen
snow. Another storm blew in last night. Natsume’s just happy it wasn’t him on the night watch.

“I’ll take the lead,” Osamu snarks, quickening his pace to stay a few feet ahead of Natsume. It’s
not hard with his longer legs. “You barely know where you’re going, and I’ve been here way
longer than you.”

Truly annoying.

And Natsume is stuck with this guy for a week.

“You have your head in those stupid scrolls all the time. I doubt you even know which way is left
or right.”

Natsume looks at the view. Does this guy think he’s an idiot? The eight year old genin? Not that
Natsume is proud to lord around the title of ‘prodigy’, but it’s kind of funny to finally be faced with
someone who thinks he’s just some stupid kid. Yet also the incarnation of the Kyuubi? Somehow?
What a contradicting statement.

They keep on like that, with Osamu dishing out insults every once in a while. About the way
Natsume leaps, lands, moves, breathes, or looks. Literally anything and everything is used as
ammunition. It’s terribly obnoxious and enough to wear down Natsume’s vow of ignoring him
until the jonin gets bored.

“I heard you can’t even use ninjutsu. What kind of shinobi does that make you?”

Gai didn’t use ninjutsu much, if at all. Natsume’s never seen it happen. Then again, he doesn’t
really want to be compared to Gai of all people, so he just rolls his eyes at Osamu’s back.

The teen sighs, “I think you’re probably just lying. All that chakra and you can’t even use it?
You’d have to be stupid. Maybe you are. Or you’re just biding your time to attack the village
again. Who knows what goes on in the disgusting little head of yours.”

“Hey,” Natsume interrupts.

“Hah?’

“You might be too stupid to understand, but there’s this thing called shutting up. Ever heard of it?”
Osamu whips his head around, heat rushing to his cheeks so fast it must give him a headache. His
next leap is heavy, knocking loose snow from branches. “What the hell did you say to me?”

“You need me to repeat myself? Your observational skills aren’t really on par with shinobi
standards.”

Osamu jerks to a complete stop, teeth flashing behind his curled lips. He thrusts a finger right at
Natsume. “Listen you little shit, I’m your superior. You can’t fucking talk to me like that!”

Natsume tilts his head. “Am I a genin or am I the Kyuubi?”

Shifty eyes. “W-What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re asking for respect from a subordinate while calling them an all-powerful monster capable
of leveling nations in the same breath. One of those isn’t going to give a shit about your feelings
and rank.”

Osamu is close to blowing a fuse. His pretty face is flushed completely red, turned ugly in his hate
and fear. Because there’s always fear there, in the set of his shoulders and the downward curve of
his mouth. Those eyes stare like they think removing them from Natsume’s form will end in a slit
throat. He’s scared, so he lashes out.

Typical teenager.

“If you’re going to insult me,” Natsume says, giving Osamu his best dead-eyed stare. “Then figure
it out. You’re annoying.”

“You’re a freak, you know that?” Osamu hisses between clenched teeth. “I know there’s something
off about you. You’re not fucking natural. There’s no way you’re just some kid.”

Natsume doesn’t say anything to that, just gives Osamu a bland look as he starts moving again. Not
even caring that the other has to scramble to run after him. The mission is not to stand around and
argue, the mission is to complete their patrol so that Natsume doesn’t have to be around this guy
anymore.

He ignores the unsettled feeling that curls in his chest. There is something different about him.
He’s always known it. Since he was an infant too small to have memories—he’d been hyper aware
of everything. Knowledgeable where he shouldn’t be. Filled with ideas, thoughts, words,
experiences with no attachment or explanation. An understanding of what cars and video games
and airplanes were. Things that clearly did not exist.

He didn’t need someone to teach him how to bathe, brush his teeth, or cook.

He already knew the rules of stranger danger, the concept of money, the way a child should be
raised.

That wasn’t natural.

Neither was the language he’d “woken” with. Words made of an alphabet with twenty-six letters.
A language he hasn’t spoken in the entire seven and a half years he’s been “aware”.

Osamu can prattle on about how he knows what Natsume is, but the truth is that not even Natsume
knows. He must be human, right? He must be a child, right? He’s not the Kyuubi, because he’s met
the Kyuubi.
Huge and violent and dark, deep scarlet-orange, blood red eyes, mouth like a cavern of knives.
Steam for breath and a hatred so thick it was palpable.

There is a distinction between the Kyuubi and Natsume.

But that does not mean that Natsume is not a monster on his own.

And that scares him enough to run, though it doesn’t look as such to anyone else. To the world—to
Osamu—he’s trying to finish his job. But he knows, inside, that he’s pushing his legs to move,
scattering his gaze across the land and cataloging everything, focusing intensely on each inhale and
exhale. Anything at all to ignore his racing thoughts and pretend that Osamu’s words hadn’t hit as
hard as they had.

“Brat!” Osamu snaps behind him, his voice practically underwater for all that Natsume hears it.

Natsume thinks of the way Shisui had held him like something precious. How Itachi had picked
him up easily, spoken to him like they were equals, pressed his hands into Natsume’s hair and
looked him right in the eyes. Neither of them cared about what Natsume was, only what he could
be. It shouldn’t matter how he starts or what’s inside him, as long as the ending he reaches is one
beside them.

Or, that was the plan.

Not much of one now.

Natsume’s in a shit mood when he gets back. Genma knows it, Aya knows it, everyone knows it.
He showers viciously and ignores the soap suds that Osamu keeps flicking in his direction—like
the teenager is the eight year old and not the other way around. He eats his food in silence even
when Genma tries to pry conversation from him.

Eventually his sensei backs off, perhaps realizing if he pushes a little more then Natsume is going
to go absolutely hog wild and bite someone. Probably Osamu.

Even the fuuinjutsu scrolls and the lovely Hiraishin seal can’t bring him out of his funk. He spends
the entire rest of the day running through his taijutsu and kenjutsu kata until he’s sweating through
all his clothes and needs to shower again.

When he tries to sleep that night, he hears Genma try to persuade Aya into switching the Natsume-
Osamu team-up.

Her voice is a whisper, but still loud enough to hear. No volume control on her. “I get it, Shiranui, I
do. But this is his reality. You can’t keep coddling him. He’s either going to sink or swim. There’s
a lot worse out there than Osamu, and if Uzumaki doesn’t face it now then he’s gonna get eaten
alive by other schmucks who won’t stop at just insults.”

Genma is quiet. He knows it’s true.

Natsume also knows it’s true.

He shuts his eyes and even his dreams are unkind.

The seat is plastic with a cushion that feels harder than rock. He’s been sitting on it for almost an
hour now, and his butt is going numb. The phone in his hands is blinking with flashing scenes—a
video. He’s watching it but he can’t see exactly what it is. A cartoon of some sort. An…

An anime.

There’s a slight glare from the massive floor to ceiling windows, the air strip outside welcoming a
returning plane. Sun pours in, afternoon only just beginning. He hears the overhead speakers
announce a flight. Not his.

It’ll be his first flight alone. He doesn’t fly often. He’s kind of happy he won’t have his family with
him. He hates sitting next to his sister, who talks far too much and always tries to pull out his
headphones just to tell him something completely inane and useless.

More time passes. He’s on the next episode of his show. Finally, the overhead voice calls his
flight. He stands, stretching and cracking his back. The phone is tucked in his pocket, charger
stuffed away in the carry-on. He shows his boarding pass, his license, and offers a pinched grin at
the stewardess. He doesn’t like making eye contact for long.

When he boards the plane, he moves to his seat. Right by the window, just as he likes it. Able to
watch the clouds, or imagine someone flying alongside the plane. And he’s early enough that he
doesn’t have to push past whoever will be seated next to him—if anyone. Preferably no one.

He settles, carry-on placed overhead and headphones back in. He could probably take a nap if he
wanted. As he’s considering it, someone sits beside him.

That’s funny. He doesn’t remember this part.

He looks to the side, into dark eyes and a pale, tired face. Dark hair curls haphazardly in multiple
directions. The teenager—because he must be only seventeen or so—smiles widely at him.
Familiar.

It feels like he’s seeing two separate images overlayed, unable to parse which is which. This
teenager doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t belong here, on the plane, and certainly not next to—

To…

What’s his name?

“You’ve been off all day.”

Natsume grunts. “Don’t distract me.”

“At this point, I don’t think it really matters,” is Genma’s dry reply.

Opening his eyes, Natsume glares at his sensei. They’re both seated atop the Base, snow kicked
away to make space. It’s still wet and cold but Natsume prefers to be outside rather than in right
now, especially after last night’s dream.

In the waking hours, he knows that the boy who sat next to him on the plane is Shisui. But the
dream had not felt like a dream until the very last moments, because clear as fucking day Natsume
knew that Shisui didn’t belong there. Hadn’t been there, when that—

Memory?

Dream?

When that whatever had happened.

He doesn’t bother asking the question as to why Shisui was there. Because he sees Shisui’s face
more often than not in his dreams and his nightmares. The only other person almost as common is
Itachi, but Natsume really doesn’t like thinking about those too much.

Oddly, he’s more comforted by dreams of the dead than the living, because at least it feels like he
can understand Shisui—even if he doesn’t understand the circumstances of Shisui’s death.

Another terrible, horrible voice tells him that it’s the opposite. He’s comforted by the dead because
Shisui will only ever make sense as he was, and there’s no understanding to be had . Itachi, alive
and exhausted and sick Itachi, makes more sense than Natsume ever wants to admit. Just as he
reluctantly acknowledges, in the privacy of his own head, that there is a deep-rooted sense of
understanding between them.

Anything to save Sasuke.

Natsume doesn’t need to know the details surrounding the event. He already knows the only truth
he cares about right now. The reason he’s here, lingering on a barely-there promise, practically
raising Sasuke.

Itachi’s emotions could not be faked, not when they existed within his very chakra network. He
loved Sasuke more than anything. He loved Shisui. He loved—

Natsume opens his eyes and aggressively kicks more snow off the roof of the Base.

Genma stares at him with a raised brow. “Are you going to spill what’s bothering you, or should
we just quit this avenue of training?”

Sitting on a rooftop for hours trying to meditate and ‘get in touch with his chakra’ has yet to wield
any tangible results. Possibly because of how disturbed Natsume is at the moment.

“It’s a waste of time.”

“Talking? Or ninjutsu?”

“Both.”

Genma puts a hand on Natsume’s head and pushes him back into a seated position. “The answer is
neither, kid. Talking is how we learn, and ninjutsu is an invaluable skill for a shinobi.”

“Gai doesn’t use ninjutsu,” Natsume quickly replies, but it’s born out of petulance. He’s already
established how little he wants to be compared to the bowl-cut menace.

“Gai is a special case. A one-in-a-million kind of man. Trust me, I would know. He was on my
genin team.”

Natsume blinks. Had he known that? If he did he’d already forgotten. An expression flashes across
his face before he can help it.
Genma flicks his nose. “Don’t look at me with pity.”

“My condolences.”

“Stop being a little shit, I know you just don’t want to work with your chakra.”

Natsume looks away and clicks his tongue. This is why he wants to practice being stern and
expressionless—like those Hyuuga, or how Itachi had been. If no one could read him, no one
would see him coming.

Genma stretches out his legs. “Listen, I know you can do it. There’s nothing wrong with your
chakra network. You’re not the first shinobi in history to have incredible, nearly unmanageable
amounts of chakra. Our Shodaime is one example. According to all the books, the guy was
practically saturated with chakra, and he’s one of the most skilled shinobi to ever exist.”

“Good for him,” Natsume mutters.

“Try again.”

Heaving a very put-upon sigh, Natsume resumes his meditation pose and shuts his eyes. He
breathes deeply, the scent of pine and winter sharp in his lungs. The cold does help with focus.
Simple chakra exercises like putting leaves on your skin or moving chakra to different places on
your body are fine. As are henges. Genma is right, his chakra network is fine and maybe he should
be better at using it by now.

He locates his chakra after a moment. It’s like silk, but frayed. Swirling in small eddies through his
body. He inhales. Exhales. Let his chakra shift to his hands, his feet, his head. Gentle heat follows.
Sweat beads on his brow. His chakra surges and swirls. Surges and swirls. There’s salt on his
tongue.

His heart thunders. It’s water, all around and all within. The blackness of the backs of his eyelids
and the swoosh swoosh swoosh of his watery chakra gives him goosebumps. The artery in his neck
pounds so hard he can feel it against his skin. Fluttering.

There’s an ocean rising to meet him and he takes one look at it and—

Flinches.

He opens his eyes quickly, immediately wiping the sweat from his temple. The connection had
severed abruptly. He doesn’t want to look at it, doesn’t want to examine it. Can’t even imagine
gathering chakra to his lips and spewing water from his lungs, from the air around him, filling his
mouth. Can’t imagine dancing through the air with volumes of water, the crash of waves echoing
in his ears. Moving like a living thing. Seeking to drown.

He wipes his sweaty palms on his pants and doesn’t look at Genma. He just looks at the snow.

Maybe it would be easier if he was like Naruto—if he had the affinity for wind. Or like Shisui,
Itachi, Sasuke—

Fire and wrath and red.

That surely suited him better, didn’t it?

“Come on,” Genma says, his voice softer now. “Why don’t we go inside now? I think that’s
enough for today.”
Natsume’s weakness is obvious. He’s shown too much of it. It’s a secret he barely allowed himself
to touch on.

They both leap down to the ground. Genma’s hand hovers over Natsume’s head before shifting and
landing on a small shoulder.

“It’s alright,” he promises. “We’ll figure something out.”

Natsume finds that he wants to believe his sensei, but isn’t sure if he should.

Osamu’s screech scatters a roosting bird from a spindly branch. “Uzumaki! Slow down!”

Natsume sighs and adjusts his pace. “Can’t keep up?”

It’s certainly not mature for him to be matching the jonin’s antagonisms with his own, but Natsume
thinks out of the two of them he’s allowed to be childish.

Which is why he offers the blonde a pitying smirk, the kind he’s absolutely picked up from an
Uchiha. “Need a rest already?”

Osamu’s cheeks are bright from the cold and rage. If his eyes were knives, Natsume would be
dead six times over. “You’re just in a pissy mood because you can’t figure out that stupid
fuuinjutsu thing!”

“Stop paying so much attention to me, I’ll start thinking you’re a creep who likes kids.”

Osamu nearly slips from his branch. His hands dig into the bark of the trunk, chakra gouging out a
hold. He screams wordlessly at Natsume, looking ready to pop a blood vessel.

“Don’t even fucking joke about that! You ugly little shit! I’m telling you you’re stupid in
comparison to the Yondaime! There’s no way someone like you will ever figure it out!”

“Oh?” Natsume drawls, making sure to sound as bored as possible as he starts leaving the jonin in
the dust again. “And someone like you will? Do you even know the difference between a heat
barrier matrix and a warming sequence?”

Silence. Ah, sweet silence.

“Yeah, well you—“

Natsume snaps to attention. “Sh.”

“Did you just shush me? Your superior officer?”

Multiple chakra signatures appear at the edge of his senses. Coming north-west. From the border.
They’re moving with speed, growing closer with every second—though still a distance away.

“Potential hostiles,” Natsume interrupts, silencing whatever tirade Osamu had been on.

That, at least, quiets the jonin. A more serious expression takes over his flushed face. His
expression remains pinched, however. And he still looks at Natsume like he’s the scum under his
shoe when he reluctantly asks: “How many?”

Natsume focuses. One, three, seven—

“Eight,” he murmurs. “Only two with any real level of chakra that indicates shinobi training. Both
chakra natures are earth, one has a secondary wind affinity.”

He rests on the tree, hands loose at his sides. Osamu’s chakra is like a beacon beside him, he has to
look past it to the incoming group. They’re still a far distance away. Far enough that Natsume and
Osamu can alert the others and acquire reinforcements before the group even arrives at their
location.

Osamu huffs. “Two potential shinobi and a bunch of civilians? Easy work.”

“They’re both at least chunin level in terms of reserves. That’s not always telling of skill or rank.”

“I’m a tokubetsu jonin,” Osamu says, like it’s somehow as important as the Hokage or something.
“I think I can handle two shinobi. Otherwise I don’t even deserve my rank.”

“I’m alerting the others.”

Osamu huffs, but doesn’t stop Natsume from pulling a square piece of fuuinjutsu paper from his
bag. He funnels some chakra into it, until a few bold kanji form in the center. Natsume adjusts his
chakra level slightly, and the string of kanji changes from Potential Hostile Solo to Potential
Hostile Group. An identical sheet at the Base will reflect the message.

“Where are they?”

Natsume gives Osamu a glance. “Coming from directly north-west of our location.”

Osamu curses under his breath. “Kusa, then. We haven’t received any notice of Konoha shinobi
passing through this area.”

Rather than wait, Osamu takes off, snow flinging out from under his heels.

“You—“ Natsume cuts off his call, gritting his teeth. He looks back down to the paper, and flares
his chakra three times into the sheet. A bold NW appears on the paper. Satisfied, he puts it back in
his pouch and takes off after the jonin.

There’s still kilometers between them and the potential hostiles, so it takes almost an hour to get
close while moving at shinobi speed. Soon they’ll be close enough to see—and there’s no leaves to
mask their presence. Winter has stripped their greatest ally in stealth away.

Natsume hisses at Osamu, “Stop, we’re almost on them!”

But Osamu only sends Natsume a haughty, taunting look. The ache to prove himself ringing loud
and clear like a bell through his chakra. Natsume stares at the other boy, a little amazed at the
sheer audacity. The teen’s fear of the Kyuubi, of whatever unknown danger Natsume possesses, is
greater than his fear of fighting two—possibly more—unknown assailants. It’s like the idiot thinks
fighting will prove something.

Through the trees comes the group.

Natsume and Osamu halt in the branches above, silent. They’d stuck to the high branches, skilled
at moving quietly, but it’s an honest miracle that they weren’t already spotted. The group of eight
men make their way through the snow on horseback, explaining the speed. Civilians couldn’t have
kept up with the shinobi on foot.

They’re dressed in browns and blacks, sticking out like sore thumbs in the snowy landscape. How
they managed to make it this far is anyone’s guess, unless there was some part of the border more
lax than others. The men didn’t have the greatest expressions on their faces. Though civilians have
very little in the way of individualistic chakra, Natsume can still identify the darkness lurking in it.
They’re all walking bottles of sludge.

The shinobi are laced with the occasional flare of irritation. Probably not happy about the cold, if
Natsume had to infer. The two of them didn’t get to ride horses, so were stuck running through the
unforgiving ice and snow.

Osamu moves forward, and the movement is immediately tracked by the shinobi below. Yells cut
through the air. Snow drops from the branch just as Osamu does.

Idiot, Natsume snarls internally. He should have just stayed back and let Osamu get himself killed.

But how would that make him look? His first mission ends with another Konoha shinobi dead,
with him as the only witness? Yeah, like he wasn’t on thin ice already…

The horses pull up short.

“Keep going!” One of the shinobi shouts. “He can’t get all of us!”

Osamu interrupts further movement with an Earth Wall jutsu, the ground rising up in misshapen
squares from under the snow, scattering clumps everywhere and spooking the horses.

“I can play tag if you want,” he says smugly, a cocky grin on his lips.

Natsume lingers in the branches. He looks down at the ground and realizes something suddenly.
This will be his first fight with an enemy shinobi ever. He’s only trained with people who won’t
kill him. Only ever put his fist with the intent to harm into the soft nose of a civilian.

A bolt of nerves zaps through him like lightning. His heart rate kicks up. The adrenaline makes
him hyper aware of the sudden clang of steel against steel below. The fighting has already started.

Fight, he thinks to himself.

Fight.

The civilian men on horseback attempt to ride along the wall to pass around it. Natsume inhales
deeply and thinks of Naruto.

He leaps through the air, hand on the hilt of his wakizashi, and drops down in front of them. He
flares his chakra, sharp and loud and bright, a sure call to the other Konoha shinobi who are no
doubt on their way.

They have to be.

Staring down dark eyes and huffing horses, Natsume accepts the path he’s chosen. His blade slides
soundlessly from the sheath. The metal glints under the painfully bright sun, and the crimson of his
hair is the brightest color in a landscape of frozen wilderness.

He meets the eyes of the first rider. “Not another step.”

 An awkward chuckle blooms into tight, amused laughter. The men and their horses shuffle.

“You think you can stop us, kid?” The one at the front asks, his voice like gravel. His eyes are
bright, almost charming. Pity the face they belong to is weathered and twisted with a hectic kind of
glee. Those eyes look Natsume’s small form up and down with an odd kind of intent.

“Why don’t you put that sword down, and maybe we won’t trample you, Red.”

Another man, Goon #2, huffs something, his mutter barely a whisper in the wind. Something about
red. Another laughs sharply.

“It’d be a real shame if we did,” the one to the right, henceforth Goon #3, sing-songs. “You’re so
pretty. Betcha’d make a good amount of coin.”

“Shame about the facial scars, though.” Goon #4 has dark, clinical eyes. Less manic and slippery
as he stares Natsume up and down. “It’ll subtract from the price. But some men like that exotic
look.”

Natsume is almost baffled. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the latent fear he refuses to feel, but
something like a huff of amusement leaves him. The closest he’s come to a laugh in a while.

“Ah,” he says. Fucking human traffickers? “You’re making this so much easier.”

He flicks his blade out to the side and surges forth. There’s space for more red in this sea of white.

Chapter End Notes

SEE U NEXT MONDAY !!! :D

 VOL. 1, ARC II. (betters)
Chapter Notes

Be mindful of descriptions of gore, death, etc.

im too lazy to put the discord link in the notes rn but it’s at the end of a bunch of other
chapters :)) come check out a bunch of art and shenanigans AND SEE U NEXT
WEEK !!!

The first man goes down with a leaping kick, falling with a shout from his mount. Natsume finds it
easy to dance around the civilians, even in the air. They cemented their own literal downfall
grouping so close together. Each one goes down, their bodies a stack of dominoes. The horses kick
and whinny, turning frantic at all the rapid movement.

Natsume skids into the snow a few feet away. There is blood on his wakizashi, deep and dark and
turning a startlingly bright red when it drips into the snow.

He didn’t hit to kill, just to damage.

A few of the horses bolt, one man screaming as he’s partially trodden over. It’s a high, yelping
sound that strikes Natsume in the chest like a physical blow.

As much as he detests these men for what they are, he feels sick at the sounds of gore.

“You fucking brat!” Goon #3 howls, on his feet quicker than the others. There’s a glancing cut
across his cheek, sluggishly bleeding.

It’s the same for each of the Goons. They’re all left with bloody, scarring marks across their face so
they never forget what they are and where it led them.

To him.

The man licks his lips, catching the rivets of blood already pooling down to the corner of his
mouth. His teeth are red and garish when he smiles. The burst of anger is swallowed, reflecting
instead in the manic glint of his eyes. “Okay, okay, okay. It’s okay, we like them feisty too. I think
it’s more fun when they squirm and fight back.”

Natsume feels his lip curl in disdain. Smack talk? Really? Is this supposed to be some form of
intimidation? Civilians are outmatched against typical genin, there’s no way they stand a chance
against someone like him .

The others find their footing and stand, pulling weapons from their cloaks. Long knives and short
blades, the quality not nearly as good as Natsume’s own. He huffs. Human trafficking and poor
blade care?

Disgusting.

“Try not to damage him too much,” Goon #4 says, the one with dark eyes and probably more
intelligence than the rest of them. “Red hair is a commodity.”
The sound of rock exploding behind him has Natsume briefly distracted. Osamu’s chakra flares a
bit as he releases another earth jutsu. Guess he’s having a harder time than he expected.

Natsume refrains from rolling his eyes.

Movement.

The traffickers surge forth all at once, as if they think they can overpower him with just brute force
and numbers. But Natsume’s been training to hurt people larger than him since he was four, when
Shisui was the only person aside from Naruto willing to give him the time of day.

So he runs head-on towards the one at the front, Goon #3, and easily parries the weak blade
coming at him. The angle lets it skitter back and away, leaving the man wide open. Natsume sees
the pulse in the man’s throat, the pin-prick pupils and congealing blood on a ruddy face. His
wakizashi is firm, heavy, ready. He could end it now, easy as breathing, because when he moves
it’s like these men are stuck in time. Frozen. Moving through molasses.

He is too fast for them, the wolf among sloths.

But at the last moment he turns his wrist away from the motion of a jab and into the swing of a
slash. He cuts through cloth and skin like paper, fast enough to shock the body into forgetting—for
a moment—that it needs to bleed, or that it’s been cut at all.

Goon #3 wavers, wide-eyed, a hand fluttering over his front. Fabric parts, and then blood follows,
streaming down the fresh wound and rapidly spilling into the snow around his feet. It’s not a
killing blow.

It could have been. It can be, if it’s not treated.

Natsume clicks his tongue. There’s a prickling across his scalp, a haze reminiscent of an out-of-
body experience. Nervous energy. More often than not he likes to pretend he’s not affected by such
a thing. He’d like to pretend none of this affects him at all—not the blood, or the gurgle of pain, or
the sight of the man still on the ground and groaning after being trampled by a horse.

Natsume breathes in, kicks off the ground, and slams his feet into the bleeding chest of Goon #3 to
send the man spiraling back head over heels. Despite his small size, Natsume is easily stronger. His
kicks send grown men flying, his fists crack bone.

His wakizashi gleams.

It doesn’t take long to render the group of six practically comatose. Frightfully, painfully easy. The
difference between a child shinobi and a grown civilian is astonishing. Suddenly the looks of
reverence, of awe mixed with fear that Konoha civilians give their shinobi on the streets—it makes
sense.

They’re like two completely different species.

Natsume holds his empty palm out, his wakizashi slack in the other. Beneath his skin runs a
network of chakra. The sole reason for this difference. An existence that makes little sense to his
brain and his ‘previous’ knowledge. Where did it come from? How did the shinobi of today learn
to harness it? What made the divide between shinobi and civilians so large?

He jerks to the side, dodging a spike of incoming chakra.

Snow explodes around him as a body tumbles by, a flash of the Konoha standard cloak giving him
all the information he needs—if the chakra signature didn’t already.

He doesn’t bother checking on Osamu for that very reason. Chakra means life, after all. Instead he
tightens his grip on his wakizashi and faces the other two enemies.

Both nin are worse for wear, so at least Osamu wasn’t all talk. The one to the right—blue hair, tall,
gaunt features—has a clear wound across his chest and right shoulder, blood steaming. The left—
brown hair, square nose, gray eyes—is spitting a mouthful of blood and has definitely taken a few
hits to the face.

Natsume moves just as they do, because they’ve been shinobi longer than him and don’t hesitate.
The intent to finish Osamu off is easily seen in their dogged rush, only his sudden presence causes
them to alter their plans. Blue Hair manages to pull out a kunai to parry his first swing, sparks
blowing into their faces.

There’s already a difference between this fight and the one with the civilians.

No speech. No goading.

He jumps up as the other attacks with an unfamiliar taijutsu style, dodging a swinging kick and
using Blue Hair as a springboard. He spins in the air and brings his heel down on Brown Hair’s
shoulder, feeling a crunch under the force.

A hand starts to wrap around his ankle in return, and he pushes himself to curl forward as if
performing a crunch midair. Pressure is put further on the man’s shoulder and Natsume’s arm
comes down in an overhead swing with his blade. The fingertips on his ankle leave, Brown Hair
forced to desist and deflect with a kunai of his own.

Natsume lets himself get pushed back by the collision of steel, slightly out of Brown Hair’s range.
The snow makes finding his footing difficult. He’s immediately forced to drop low when Blue Hair
attempts to take Natsume’s head off with a punch that ruffles tufts of red. Both of the enemy nin
descend into taijutsu, their styles telling of how long they’ve likely been working together.

Natsume uses his speed and slight frame to grasp at whatever advantage he can, slipping through
the openings that their punches, jabs, and kicks leave. His blade keeps them wary, small cuts
already adorning their arms and legs. Messing up for even a moment will end him, he knows.
Because it’s two against one and they’re moving in obvious tandem and he still won’t go for the
killing blow.

There has to be something wrong with him, for he knows at one moment—as he slips between a
punch and a kick, spinning in a graceful arc with his wakizashi turning him into a deadly
whirlwind—that there are openings. Because he’s faster , and it would be so easy to cut them at
the ankles and sink the cold bite of metal into their thighs, past the durability of chakra-fed muscle,
severing arteries that would spill their life out in moments.

He hesitates again, and this time it costs him. A hit connects with part of his arm, and his
incomplete dodge is knocked off-kilter. He tumbles back, blasting through the snow. Immediately,
adrenaline surges through him. Dark eyes and dark hair flash across his memory.

Life. Or death.

He digs his heels into the earth and flies forward across the frigid ground. Back into the face of
Blue Hair he goes, metal screeching as his wakizashi is met with a hasty kunai.

The block is weak, his sudden speed after such a hit taking them by surprise. Natsume feels the
pain thrum and disappear under the rush of blood in his head. He knocks the kunai aside and digs
his blade into the wound already taking up space on the man’s shoulder. It clangs against bone and
the man screams.

The sound is rattling.

As if in slow motion, Natsume sees Brown Hair coming from his right. Blue Hair is white-faced
and grimacing, losing blood fast. His kunai is coming back up, intent to throw rather than swipe,
probably hoping to push Natsume back and into Brown Hair’s path.

He recalls a time that feels far off—as if it had been years and years ago, rather than more recent
than he can imagine. Genma sitting beside him, a steady wall of earth that had, for once, felt
almost oppressive. Dark eyes watching him and offering no help, only the option to sink or swim.

A rabbit’s pulse under his fingertips. Natsume had felt the thrum of life and snuffed it out. Had felt
the poison of guilt afterwards, with something so small and weak and innocent crushed in his hands
for the sake of his ‘betterment’.

There is a rabbit in every shinobi that must be killed.

They were all animals.

Easier to kill than you think.

Natsume pushes forward. He’s fast. He knows he is. He goes right back into Blue Hair’s space and
whips his wakizashi through the air so fast that it sings, a belting hum in the cold, before slicing
right through the man’s wrist and severing it. The hand and the kunai within thump into the white,
a splatter of scarlet following, coating half of Natsume’s hair and face. But there’s no time for a
scream to leave the man’s throat, as in the next moment Natsume’s wrist twists to change direction
and the blade comes back to slit Blue Hair’s throat.

He follows through with the movement, bowling Blue Hair over and rolling off. All to dodge
Brown Hair, whose eyes are wild. Chakra collects and bursts, hands twisting into a sequence of
seals that Natsume can’t parse. But he can feel the way the earth plows upwards, can sense the way
the chakra—Brown Hair’s stale, dusty chakra—is seeped into the ground. Spikes shoot up, quick
and deadly, and he dances away from the clunky protrusions.

Natsume’s breath comes hard and fast, a ringing that must certainly be imagined blocking all other
sounds. It’s just his pulse and the threat he can’t take his eyes off of.

Another spike of earth comes at him and he pushes chakra into his feet to jump high. He slips his
free hand into his pouch and feels the pinched corner of the seal he needs. Just as he lands on the
mass of earth, he brings it out and slams it down onto the structure. With a sharp flare of his
chakra, the ink activates and spills down the sides of the spike.

Natsume propels himself towards Brown Hair below, pulling the hood of his cloak up as he goes.
Behind him there’s a bright, painful flash of light. Even with his back to it, Natsume has to squint,
but he doesn’t need sight to find his target. Not a moment later, fire pours out of the seal in a rush.
It flares and licks around his form in a quick burst, pressing forward through the air just as eagerly
as he does. The force pushes him straight into Brown Hair, who hadn’t been expecting the flash
bang to instead be a gimmick to hide a modified explosion seal.

Brown Hair tried to back up after the flash, but didn’t make it far enough away before the fire, and
it crashes into him just a second before Natsume does. Roasted flesh is pierced, Natsume landing
with his feet in Brown Hair’s gut, wakizashi sunk like an anchor into the center of his chest.
Cracking through a rib cage and into the lungs.

He topples like a rock, charred and smoking.

Natsume gasps for breath as the fire fades away. The air is a war between warm and rapidly
cooling. The snow is melted and pooling at his ankles, slush and mud coating his feet. He hovers
in a crouch over the dead body, eyes unseeing for a moment, black spots in his eyes from more
than the bright lights and heat.

Then he stands, the blade pulled loose from a chest cavity with a goop-like sound. He puts a
bloody hand to his cloak, slipping it off his head. His skin feels slightly sunburned, but the feeling
is fading quickly. The heat had been unbearable for a moment, but not nearly as violent as
expected.

An odd sound that could be a croak or a laugh escapes him.

Itachi’s gift really did come in handy.

It still needs tweaking for better protection in terms of skin, but it seems like repel is working
better than reject did.

Another movement has him whirling, blade loose and ready at his side. Blue eyes slice across the
snowy landscape before settling on a figure pushing up—

Osamu, his blonde hair dark with wet snow and a splash of rust red blood. There’s a blooming
bruise over his temple, and his lips are split. Not a sound of pain leaves him, however. When he
manages to push himself up entirely, he just stands there, a crease between his brow the only hint
of discomfort. He takes in the scene—dazed, possibly concussed—but his eyes remain dark, no
hint of that rowdy, rude teen from earlier.

And the more Osamu stares, the more Natsume begins to feel the cold seep in. Winter eats the
remnant of the fiery blast and comes back twice as bitter. He feels the air practically slice his face.
Brown Hair’s flesh sizzles and pops. His corpse reeks of burnt meat. It sears at Natsume’s nose and
eyes.

Chakra signatures close in.

Natsume looks up and sees Genma coming from the trees. His sensei had been right.

It really was easy.

It’s disorienting. It happened and now it’s over. What is he supposed to do with that?

He glances back to Osamu, who hasn’t moved his gaze. The look he gives Natsume isn’t entirely
unfamiliar. It’s shadowed. Caught in a frozen moment of disturbed silence. It speaks a thousand
words, all of them variations of: I knew I was right about you.

Fear, disgust, jealousy, hatred.

Natsume feels blood drip from his hair, wetting his cloak and the mud at his feet. He is painted in
gore that does not belong to him, the proud victor.

Except he doesn’t feel pride. He just feels jittery. He breathes the same, he sees the same, he
moves the same.
Genma, Hisado, and Kawabe hit the ground.

“Status?” Hisado asks gruffly, looking at the scene with blank dispassion.

“Six civilians, two shinobi. Presumably absconded over the Kusa border,” Natsume replies. Even
that is easy enough to do.

Kawabe checks both bodies for a pulse, then takes body scrolls from his pouch to seal the corpses
away. His chakra still wavers with nerves, but his movements are practiced and without hesitation.

Genma doesn’t care to look at the bodies, or wander over to hogtie the unconscious or groaning
civilians like Hisado. He stares straight at Natsume, brown eyes roving over his tiny frame.

In an attempt to reassure his sensei, Natsume says, “I’m not hurt. The blood isn’t mine.”

The aches from whatever hits had landed have already vanished. He’s not so sure it’s adrenaline
anymore. Even the skin of his face no longer feels taut with a surface burn.

He feels remarkably fine.

Genma nods slowly. “That’s good. Did you get both kills?”

“Yes. And I incapacitated the six civilians, though that’s hardly anything to be proud of.”

Genma looks around them, cataloging the mush and the broken terrain where earth jutsu had
deformed the land. He looks over to Osamu, who’s receiving first aid from Kawabe.

“We’ll need an incident report filled out by tonight, while the details are still fresh,” Hisado calls.
He has the six traffickers lined up in a row, the snow pink and messy all around them.

Natsume asks, “What do I need to do?”

Genma cuts a sharp look at Hisado, but the man isn’t looking their way anymore. “Nothing,
Natsume. Not until you’re okay.”

“I’m fine?” He replies, more confused than he intends. He’s not bleeding, he’s not dead.

“Killing someone usually tends to make you feel the opposite, actually. You could be in shock. We
should get you back to the Base. Procedure can be explained when you recover a bit. You just went
through quite a trial—“ Genma’s ire is heavy and palpable as his gaze lands on Osamu, who’s
starting to move with the help of Kawabe. “—I’m sure with very little help.”

“It wasn’t a trial, actually. It was easy.” Natsume barely looks at the mess. He stares instead at his
wakizashi, the blade still wet with blood. He’ll need to clean it. In fact, he can’t sheath it like this,
so he presses his fingers to the storage seal on the belt that holds that very sheath to his waist. The
maintenance kit pops out and he pulls out a cloth to dab away the offending liquid. The sooner he
gets this taken care of, the better.

Genma sighs. He flicks a strand of Natsume’s hair. “You at least need a shower first.”

Strangely, there’s more guilt attached to killing the rabbits than there is to killing those men. He
wonders if it’s because they were in cahoots with human traffickers, or because he’d had to kill to
survive. Your worldview can be altered quite quickly when it’s you versus someone else, the battle
having to end with one dead. Anything is done to make sure it isn’t you.

So he showers the blood off, cleans all his tools, and reorganizes his pouches five times. Pulls a
new leaf of fuuinjutsu paper from a scroll and replaces the flash-fire seal he’d used in battle. You
have to be very careful where on your body you store seals, so you always know which one you’re
pulling out. There’s no time to think about which is which in the middle of a fight.

Now he understands that a lot more.

Even a breath—a hair— of him being a beat too slow or fumbling could have gotten him maimed
or killed. When the adrenaline begins to fade he starts feeling sick. Not mentally so much as
physically.

His hands shake so hard that he can’t even read or work through his fuuinjutsu practice. He can’t
eat, because the scent of whatever Genma is cooking makes bile pool in the back of his throat. And
he can’t really move because it feels like all of his blood has grown stagnant, the high replaced
with a shattering low.

The six civilians are detained in a separate building—or rather, a secret pit, because it’s
underground and accessed through a hidden hatch. Their wounds are patched, but one of them
dies. No one tells Natsume. They don’t need to, he can sense the blip of chakra disappear like a
snuffed out candle. It’s probably the one who got trampled by the horses. He hadn’t been in good
shape.

A messenger hawk has already been dispatched to checkpoints further in, and a team of escort
shinobi will pick up the band of criminals within a few days. Since most of them are alive, they’ll
be checked to see if they’re in the criminal registry first, then charged with the appropriate crimes
on top of ‘trespassing with intent to harm’.

Natsume already wrote his report. Signed it off. Made sure to emphasize his suspicions that they
were human traffickers coming back from a run. Aya’s been in with them, guarding or
interrogating. Probably both. There’s a lot more paperwork involved than he thought.

Genma makes him tea and he drinks that, even though he doesn’t really like tea at all. He possesses
a terrible sweet tooth, and drinking it just makes him think of Hinata and those awful etiquette
lessons. At least she made him snacks to his taste, even if neither of them acknowledged his love
for deserts.

But thoughts of Hinata just spiral into thoughts of Naruto and Sasuke.

Naruto, with his sticky kid hands, and Sasuke with his pale, dry palms. Naruto who’s never cleaned
blood from a blade, and Sasuke who’s seen more death than one should ever but has never felt the
warmth of it splash over his knuckles.

Natsume washes his hands twice. An hour later he washes them again, convinced there’s iron in
the crevices of his callouses.

Night has already fallen outside. It’s probably nearing midnight, and he should try settling down
for sleep. There’s another shift to be had tomorrow. No rest for the weary, and no pausing for
shinobi even after events such as these. He’s restless enough to go through his kata several times,
but Genma catches him around the collar before he can leave the Base.
“You haven’t eaten, and you’re absolutely way too shaken up for training right now.”

Natsume frowns at him. What he needs is a distraction, or something to focus on. He hates that
Genma is right, because his hands still shake so badly that he’d bungle half the kata and he doesn’t
want to try using his wakizashi right now.

“Fine,” he grumbles, and lets Genma lead him to one of the tables. He even takes another cup of
gross bitter tea. It’s chamomile, which is absolutely intentional. (Also supposedly a better tasting
tea, but Natsume would beg to differ. It’s plant water.)

“It’s not much of a distraction, but why don’t we sit down and run through a few things concerning
this incident.” Genma sits beside him, stretching his long legs out under the table while Natsume’s
feet don’t even touch the ground. He has his own cup of tea. A different kind than Natsume’s.
“First, I’ll touch on everything you did right. One: communicating to the Base. Two: dispatching
the civilians and initially leaving the shinobi to the higher ranked ally. Three: going for the kill.

Your sensory ability gives you an advantage when it comes to detecting trespassers, so you have
ample time to establish contact—and also ample time to wait for back-up. Which should have been
the next move once you informed us. With the enemies at such a great distance away, there
shouldn’t have been an inclination to approach them.” Genma puts a hand up when he thinks
Natsume is going to interrupt.

“You need to understand that there is a difference between recklessly heading an attack when you
don’t need to versus sudden engagement if the enemy ambushes you or is discovered in close
range. This was not one of those abrupt situations. Your team was composed of a tokubetsu jonin
and a genin with little outside experience. Of course, the blame for this decision will fall on
Osamu. He is a higher ranking officer who should already be familiar with border patrol
regulations.”

Natsume sips his tea. He’d scowl, but he finds his oscillating energy has returned to desolate
stagnation. He kind of wants to put his head on the table and hope the cool wood will remove the
headache blooming between his eyes.

Genma leans back in his seat, chakra a heavy blanket. The sharp feel of cyanide and sun-warmed
stone is a comfort—more than the tea that was likely brewed to put him to sleep. “You could have
died out there.”

His sensei’s voice is softer then, less the sternness of a teacher and more the human he really is.
The man who carried Natsume to the hospital and threatened murder just to see him healed.

Natsume looks up from the table, the heat of the tea seeping into his cold palms. Genma’s eyes are
the warmest shade of brown, and he looks odd and different without the senbon between his lips.
Odd and different but not strange and unfamiliar. And he puts a hand on Natsume’s head, scarlet
threading through the space between his fingers, a thumb brushing along Natsume’s temple with
all the kindness of a mother caressing an infant.

Words linger in Natsume’s throat. Filled with the pessimism of the world he’s observed. He could
say something biting to break this moment. Something like, I will always be under the threat of
death.

With every mission he takes. Every day that he picks up a blade instead of some civilian-oriented
hobby. The path he treads, the path that Genma leads him down, willing or not, ends in death more
often than not. And it’s not always the lucky ones who live, because is it living when you’re at the
finish line alone and cold, standing over gravestones with nothing but the passive thanks of a
civilian population holding you afloat?

“But I didn’t,” he says instead. “And I won’t.”

It’s another lie, similar to the silly promise he’d gifted Naruto. Something that no one can control.
He’ll die or he won’t, and it’ll be a mixture of luck and skill. But Genma doesn’t press because
he’s a shinobi too, one with more life experience in the field than Natsume. He’s likely buried
many friends and knows the reality of a shinobi’s short, finite life.

Genma’s hand falls away. “That headband makes you an adult in the eyes of the law. For a shinobi,
age does not hold the same weight that it does for civilians. There will be expectations set for you,
situations that call for a maturity no one thinks a child should have. But you’re a genin, and to
Konoha that’s enough.” He leans forward, a hand wiping down his face as if to dislodge some
weight. His chakra burns, wavers, fluctuates. Grief, affection, discomfort, resolve. “That’s how it’s
always been.”

I know, Natsume wants to say. But he’s thrown by Genma’s overt and covert display of emotion.
“What…are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying—“ A gusty exhale. “I’m saying I wish you could stay where I can see you. For just a
while longer.”

“But I won’t.”

“I know,” Genma says. Resignation is a cloud between them.

It’s funny that Natsume is realizing now that perhaps his assumption is wrong. Maybe not
everyone is seeing him as some grown, capable, weird prodigy that can be compared to an adult.
Maybe some of them do look at him and see a child, with one or two missing teeth and knobby
little knees and pudge still clinging to his face.

Maybe Genma isn’t seeing him like Shisui either, who had grown up a child prodigy in his own
right and couldn’t see where childhood ended and that lifestyle began. Natsume had always been a
‘little brother’ figure to Shisui, yet still a shinobi in the same breath.

Genma tilts in his chair, closes his eyes briefly, and presses his lips together like he needs to hold in
more secrets. He doesn’t see a little brother. He sees a child.

That night, Natsume falls into a rough, partially drugged sleep. His dreams are glimpses of gore,
speckled snow and crimson pools. The sickness of the day invades even his unconscious mind,
until he wakes in a cold sweat, feeling hot and unnerved.

The blanket is twisted around his limbs and he feels trapped by both it and the four walls he’s in.
His stomach riots.

Natsume stands on wobbly feet and makes too much noise as he tumbles out of the sleeping
quarters and then out of the Base itself. Morning dawn spills watery light through the trees,
blinding him, beating him over the head like a sledgehammer to the skull. He vomits in the snow,
hands on his knees. It’s mostly liquid bile, tacky and sharply bitter.
The gagging takes a while to stop. By the time it does he’s sticky and freezing, the sweat from the
night frozen in the winter air. His eyes burn and ache and water from the force of his vomiting. But
he doesn’t cry. He refuses to, even in his moment of weakness.

Footsteps at his side draw him out of a daze. The chakra is earth and dust. Not Genma’s, who had
the dawn shift and probably left the Base an hour ago. Natsume stares into the eyes of Osamu,
who’s sporting a black eye and a fat lip. His head remains wrapped in a bandage. The swelling has
gone down considerably, despite none of the shinobi at their station being a full medic-nin.

“What do you want?” Natsume asks, his throat raw. He’s too tired for this. He’ll give the guy
another black eye if he has to sit through some verbal shit being flung at him right now.

“You saved my life, even if that wasn’t your intention,” Osamu admits stiffly. There’s no trust in
his gaze. His chakra doesn’t waver. It’s arid and blunt. “I fucked up and not everyone gets second
chances out here. My being alive doesn’t make me like you. I still hate you. I think you’re
unsettling and I don’t trust your intentions.”

Natsume wipes his mouth.

Osamu grits his teeth, then points directly at Natsume’s shaking frame and the pool of bile burning
into the snow. He isn’t nice, and his voice is unkind, yet he says, “But no Kyuubi is doing that.”

And dawn breaks into day.

 VOL. 1, ARC II. (untethered)
Chapter Notes

Hello!!!!! Sorry there was no update last week, I was at an anime convention. We’re
back to our regularly scheduled Monday night updates !! Can’t believe the second arc
is already almost over !!!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“There are other uses for chakra, you know,” Genma says.

Natsume sits in the snow, the sunlight warm overhead. The Base is at his back, the forest before
his eyes. It’s mid-morning, after another night of restless sleep. He’s been dreaming of Naruto
lately. Wondering if the little ball of sunshine that used to be a gummy baby is still alive and
whole.

“If your natural affinity is no good right now, it’s not impossible to try a complimentary one. Like
wind or lightning, in your case.”

“Or fire.”

Genma shakes his head. “You’d think so, because it’s weak to water and therefore should be easy,
but that’s not it. Your chakra affinity would smother any attempt at changing the nature from water
to fire. Making it just as hard—if not harder— than if you attempted to try earth jutsu.”

Natsume furrows his brow. “But some people have conflicting primary and secondary affinities.”

Like Naruto’s new Academy sensei—the one with the scar and swirling fire-water chakra.

“Yes, they do. But that’s inborn. If it’s not naturally occurring, then it’s not natural, ya get it?”
Genma sniffs heavily and rubs his hands together. They’ve been sitting outside for hours now, and
the cold is starting to wear on him. “Before you ask, no—nature transformation kekkei genkai
don’t apply to the usual rules. They’re fusions of elemental chakra, not multiple affinities.”

Natsume hums. He understands the basics of chakra theory, but there’s a large gap in the
information taught at the Academy—or rather, the information he managed to acquire during his
short stint there. For one, was no one going to tell him that there were actually three different
classifications for kekkei genkai? Or that there was a difference between a hiden technique, a
kekkei genkai, and a kekkei tota?

Originally, he’d assumed that clan-specific jutsu—like the shadow manipulation of the Nara Clan
—were kekkei genkai. Now he knows that they’re actually hiden jutsu. Which means it can be
taught outside the clan itself, should a person have an affinity for whatever the technique requires.
But hiden techniques are coveted with utmost secrecy.

“Do you know for a fact that you don’t have a secondary affinity?”

Natsume closes his eyes against the glare of sunlight off white snow. If he looks within and
concentrates, he only feels the writhing ocean, the tempest, the whirlpool. And it always makes
him too nervous to take a dive and see if there’s anything else at the bottom. He’s tried more
chakra paper, but it always just droops in his hand, soggy and turning to mush.

“I don’t think so,” he mutters. He won’t even touch on whatever chakra lurks behind bars.

“Well!” Genma claps his hands sharply. “Then why don’t we try a few different techniques and see
if anything sticks? There’s also genjutsu, which doesn’t require nature transformations, and
summoning.”

Natsume freezes.

Genma’s eyes are on him. Heavy. Searching. “You have a summoning contract, don’t you?”

“How do you know that?”

“Because Uchiha Shisui was not a hard man to read when it came to you.”

Natsume grits his teeth. Yes, of course he has the scroll. He’s barely removed it from his person in
all the months that have passed. It stays in a storage scroll, safe and tucked away until he can
decide what he wants to do with it. And every time he opens it, contemplating whether or not he
should sign it, Itachi’s name glares back in crisp, dark ink.

Just below the washed out kanji that used to form Shisui’s.

When Natsume doesn’t respond, Genma asks, “Are you going to sign it?”

“I don’t know.”

He really should, all things considered. It’s another weapon in his arsenal. Crows are smart, crafty
creatures. Loyal, too, with good memories and a knack for spy work. He’s never actually seen
Shisui or Itachi use them, but then again he’s never truly seen either of them in combat.

Genma knocks a hand against Natsume’s shoulder, like he thinks it’ll rattle loose all the thoughts
that the genin keeps close to his chest. “You don’t have to decide now, but I think you should keep
it close to you. And don’t give it away, or let anyone who isn’t already aware know that you have
it.”

“Why?”

Genma twiddles his senbon between his fingers. “I think you know why.”

Right.

That name in bold ink.

If anyone else formed a contract with the crows, it would be easy enough to use them to track Itachi
down. Natsume feels rather silly. He hadn’t considered such a thing. Because at the end of the day
he’s never really thought about Itachi getting caught, or Itachi coming back.

As if it isn’t a possibility at all.

Genma’s hand comes again, with an easy camaraderie that Natsume hasn’t dodged in a while. His
voice is low, muffled even out here. “You think about him a lot.”

It’s not a question so much as it is a statement. As though Genma’s able to peer into the dreams
that Natsume has at night, when the dark eyes and hair don’t belong to someone dead. Dreams of
Itachi always end with one of them balancing on a knife, his exhausted brain spinning parallels
mixed with stained glass imprints of a world he hates waking up to.

It’s funny that Natsume thinks about Itachi now, when the older boy is far out of reach, as he’d
never done it nearly as much when they’d been side by side. Itachi had been a—

A sticky piece of candy.

Wedged on the delicate paper page that made up Natsume’s life. A hard candy, probably. Dropped
by clumsy hands and then ignored. But then—suddenly—someone pulled it off the page, not
realizing it had melted with time, and it tore a gaping hole far larger than the piece itself.

What a strange thing; for an innocuous little presence to cause so much damage.

He never had to think about it. Didn’t have time to process. But when Shisui fell, Natsume turned
—as if instinctively—to Itachi. Finding himself trusting far more than anticipated, like he expected
Itachi to catch him, too, so at least they could fall into grief together.

And for a moment that is what happened.

“I do,” Natsume finally says. Because Itachi is a world of what-ifs and maybes.

Silly stray thoughts of could-have-been’s, where they picked each other up and acted as humans do
when death strikes. Death hurts, death is inevitable, Natsume knows he’s one of a million others
who have experienced its sudden attack. It stabs at him even now, and will for some time after, but
the fact of it won’t kill him.

He just thinks it would have hurt a lot less if someone looked at him and thought, ‘ Oh, in this
moment we are the same.’

Genma makes a sound. Possibly one of consideration, possibly just to make a noise in the silence.
“I’m sorry.”

Natsume doesn’t know what Genma could possibly have to apologize for. The truth is that neither
of them have any power over the situation. In the eyes of Konoha, Itachi is the worst kind of scum.
A serial killer in an entirely separate way from shinobi. They think he snapped. That he’s a
monster to end all monsters. That he had no capability for emotion at all—how could he? To kill
his parents, his cousins, his aunts, his entire clan. Infants, children, elderly.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Natsume huffs softly, a bitter kind of smile twisting his mouth. “He
can’t come back from that.”

“It matters to you,” Genma presses.

Natsume recalls grief, emotion, adoration—the swell of familial love that Itachi felt for Sasuke and
Shisui. The quiet way his face would never really change, but his chakra would. He knows, with
ease, that Itachi might have killed every single one of his clan members.

(Somehow. Potentially. It still seems impossible to have killed so many who were also skilled and
also possessed the sharingan.)

But Natsume also knows that Itachi wouldn’t just do it. Not for no reason. Not for something as
simple as ‘power’, or ‘snapping under pressure.’ If it was that, certainly it would not be his own
clan that he’d release his anger on.

It would be Konoha.
Right?

“I’m the one with sensory abilities,” he finally says. “And I’m not an idiot. What more is there to
talk about?”

Genma leans back on his hands, palms sinking into the snow. He looks out to the barren trees
stretched before them. “I think…we can talk about whatever you want. As long as it helps you.
There’s a lot to learn about the differences between love and duty, and what you’re willing to
sacrifice to uphold one or the other. Our Will of Fire is born out of the need to provide prospects of
a future filled with love. In turn, the burden of duty is ours.”

Natsume wonders how many times he can say that he never wanted that duty before even he gets
sick of hearing it. But rather than complain, he listens. Because the topic seems a little random.
Love and duty, love or duty. Directly after talking about Itachi.

He wonders how many others have… thoughts about the Uchiha massacre. How many people
knew an Uchiha? Were the friend of one? A lover? A teammate?

How many knew Itachi?

Natsume can’t be the only one to think it strange that not a single person noticed the death of
hundreds within their own walls before the act was already complete.

Genma must have his own suspicions, just as Natsume does. But neither can truly discuss it, and
neither will likely ever be told why. The story has already been spun. Everyone has already been
told ‘the facts’. The Council has already spread their version of events far across the lands. He
knows he should really stop pushing, should stop thinking about it. He doesn’t yet have the power
or the sway needed to go against something like Konoha. Yet Genma’s words pierce parts of
Natsume’s brain that had grown icy and gray after Shisui’s fall.

The Will of Fire. Born of a need to provide a future filled with love and peace. Duty or love, duty
and love.

Itachi, who craved peace.

“Anything you want to talk about?” Genma asks.

“No.”

It’s the only response he can give, and they both know it.

The rest of the border patrol mission is slow and uneventful. The criminals are picked up by
reinforcements and taken away to face trial and punishment, then the days pass easily without their
poisonous presence.

When Natsume and Genma head out, Natsume actually receives a farewell from each member
there. With Aya the most boisterous about her goodbye, and Osamu only giving him a stiff nod.

He’s also no closer to deciphering the Yondaime’s Hiraishin. It would be a lot easier if he had
access to the man’s notes. Literally any would do, related to the Hiraishin or not, because at least it
would give him more of the Yondaime’s personal shorthand to investigate and compare.

“Not possible,” Genma replies when Natsume asks. “The Yondaime was a Fuuinjutsu Master, and
all his notes and research reflect that. It’s the kind of stuff that could bolster or destroy nations. As
far as I know, all of his work has been sealed up by Master Jiraiya. He’s either carrying it around,
or it’s gathering dust in the vaults. You’d need special permission to access it.”

A look is given, one that narrows Genma’s dark gaze. He considers Natsume for a long moment,
something aside from the senbon balancing on his tongue.

“What?”

Genma hums, “I was just thinking that maybe you’ll get to see it someday. Sooner than we think.”

“Your faith in me is astounding,” Natsume dryly replies, pretending he’s not feeling weird and
gooey at the semi-compliment.

“Ask Hokage-sama about it if you want.”

Now, that’s probably the last thing Natsume wants to do. His dislike of the man is pretty set in
stone at the moment and nothing at all can change that. Perhaps only time. He just can’t bring
himself to trust the intent of the old man, not after everything that’s gone down. It’s very clear that
shinobi, and Natsume, are only pawns in his mind. Pieces that the Hokage might be reluctant to
lose, but willing to toss away if it meant protecting Konoha’s soft underbelly.

Cut-throat.

Yes, that’s the word Natsume was looking for. Maybe the Sandaime is someone trusted to uphold
peace, but he’s not someone you can trust to spare your life. That’s the kind of knife’s edge that
Natsume detests.

He drops the topic when they begin their journey back. Thinking about the Sandaime for too long
makes him irritable, and he’s already feeling tense. He just wants to curl up under a blanket in his
own apartment, the familiar chakra signatures of his twin and freshly-orphaned mooch soothing
him to sleep.

Sage, it would be the dream to be able to relax by a window while it rains, wrapped in a blanket
with a steaming mug by his side and a book in his hands. He wants that kind of future so badly it
hurts. Wants a library in his own house and too many blankets to know what to do with. Funny
mugs and plates that matched. Different places to curl up and sink into for impromptu naps or just
because he can.

Maybe somewhere away from other homes. In the woods or by the beach—if he can ever get over
his reaction to water.

He thinks that dream of his, of a home that is truly a home, filled with personal comforts and
wants, is quite similar to the one from before . That part of him that wants to read books and sketch
faces and enjoy rain storms had traveled from one life to the next.

Natsume swallows and focuses on where he’s putting his feet.

He has a feeling he never reached that goal, and he’s not too sure if he’ll reach it in this life either.

(It’s both odd and not that he accepts this idea of having lived another life before this one. He’s
always known too much, and always been aware that this knowing isn’t natural. It came from
somewhere. And the more he studies Fuuinjutsu and chakra, the more he realizes that the existence
of ‘souls’ is fact in this reality. Which makes the idea of reincarnation not impossible.)

The reality is that shinobi don’t seem to be allowed to enjoy comforts, and someone like him even
less so. Their blankets are threadbare and worn, their floors freezing and their furniture half-broken.
The single couch in their living room is cracked down the middle and sags when you sit on it.

“Think you still have a house to go back to?”

Natsume startles at the question. Then he looks at the sly expression on Genma’s face and frowns.
“Don’t even joke. It’ll be a relief if there isn’t more than minimal damage.”

He’s pretty sure neither of them know how to do laundry at all, let alone bathe properly. The house
will probably smell like must and mold. If it hasn’t been set on fire.

Hinata— he thinks to himself as Genma laughs in clouds of hot air— it’s all up to you.

On the journey back Genma attempts to teach him jutsu using other chakra natures. Just the most
basic ones, starting with lightning and wind. Not more than a crackle of sparks leaves his hand
when he attempts the basic shock jutsu. He has to consciously focus on the nature transformation,
which is incredibly hard to do when you’re already bad at chakra control. Wind isn’t much better.
He doesn’t make more than a simple breeze, and that’s after ten tries with no result.

His chakra refuses to budge when it comes to the earth jutsu he bullied Genma into letting him try.
Natsume concentrates until he’s sweating even in the chilled air. His chakra is too fluid, too eager
to seep and soak. It refuses to harden into concrete shapes. There’s no result aside from exhaustion
and annoyance.

“If you thought that was hard, then there’s no way that fire will work,” Genma comments.

There’s a day’s worth of travel left and Natsume is so sick of chakra and jutsu. He’s more annoyed
at himself for being so bad at it. Maybe being a prodigy isn’t such a good thing when he’s used
to…well, being better already at everything he tries.

Except this.

Which sucks.

“I want to try anyway,” he replies stubbornly. “I need to see where I stand for each element.”

“You’d be better off just focusing on your water affinity.”

“Sensei.”

Genma puts his hands up. “Sure, sure. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though. It might be even harder
than earth. Fire affinities are common in Konoha and its clans—or at least the ones who’ve been
rooted here or in the surrounding area for the past few centuries. But you’re an Uzumaki. Probably
the farthest thing from a possessor of any affinity that doesn’t have to do with wind or water.”

Still, he shows Natsume how to do a basic Cinder jutsu, which is mostly used to start small fires.
There’s luckily only one hand seal needed, he just has to twist his chakra towards his hands and
complete the nature transformation.

At first, Natsume shuts his eyes to better focus on the chakra moving through his body. It’s a
torrent of energy, wanting to barrel towards his hands and flood the area before him. But he reigns
it back, bit by bit, though it takes over twelve minutes of him sitting in silent concentration before
he gets the right amount to trickle down.

Genma breaks his silence. “Don’t be disappointed if you don’t get it. Fire is finicky, almost as
dangerous as a lightning affinity. It can just as easily burn or kill the user if they aren’t careful. For
how common the chakra nature is, fire is one of the harder ones to master—the Uchiha were
always the envy of everyone else for their skill with it.”

He says it quietly, wistfully. Like he’s remembering someone specific. Natsume doesn’t doubt it,
he’s sure nearly everyone in the village knew an Uchiha shinobi at some point.

But he also hears what Genma is saying between those casual words.

You’re not an Uchiha.

Natsume’s chakra nature leans the other way entirely. He’s clinging to fire, to scraps of anything at
all that have to do with Shisui—and even Itachi. Natsume is self-aware enough to know that this is
just a product of grief. He’s trying to emulate dead or lost loved ones as a way to hold on, blah blah
blah. He knows, okay?

He knows.

But he still wants to wield fire so badly. Even when he knows he should love the water he came
from.

Natsume exhales. His fingers spark with heat, and his breath doesn’t come out a cloud of air—but
rather ash. His chakra transformation twisted too much of water into a boil. It’s there, just on the tip
of his tongue. Just within reach.

Then there’s a burst of smoke and sound like a firecracker going off, and he’s pushed back on his
butt. Ash coats his tongue and his fingers smart like they’ve been smacked or dipped in water
that’s a tad too hot. He coughs out black specks and Genma pats his back consolingly.

“You were only supposed to transform the chakra by your hands,” he says helpfully.

Natsume looks up from under his bangs and scowls at him. He wants to say it’s not his fault that
the nature transformation had bloomed up and out with no warning.

“But hey, you did it!” Genma grins, still clearly teasing. “That’s more than what you got with
earth!”

“Hm.”

For all that water is superior to fire, or that the two elements clash, it had felt oddly…

Similar.

Both wanted to consume. One desired to drown, the other to incinerate. Both had gaping maws
ready to spring shut and swallow. The taste of ash lingers bitterly in the back of his throat. It
doesn’t feel like a secondary affinity, not by a long shot. It took a far shorter time to transform the
nature to wind and lightning. Fire is difficult and reluctant. Foreign. Devouring. Weak and oozing,
like it’s trying to be oil rather than flame.

Still.

He looks down at his reddened fingertips. A flicker of excitement appears, just as suddenly as the
recent explosion. He thinks he can get the hang of it if he tries.

The apartment is still standing when Natsume arrives. That in itself is already a good sign, but his
worry doesn’t end until he opens the door and sees what’s left of the interior for himself.

Amazingly, it looks like the furniture has survived.

And his house has gained more moochers, based on the five chakra signatures gathered around the
table eating sweets they probably aren’t supposed to.

Naruto’s blonde head perks up, like he has a built-in radar for Natsume’s presence. “Nacchan!”

His little brother practically vaults from his seat at the kitchen table, chair clattering to the floor.
His arms fling out wide and he crashes right into Natsume with a cry of glee. He’s warm and
breathing, heartbeat pattering and blue eyes glimmering like he might cry. The sheer adoration that
pours from his chakra is enough to make the breath catch in Natsume’s throat.

Natsume feels off-kilter, mechanically putting his arms around Naruto and hugging tight. Naruto—
sunshine, tangerines, sea salt—fits around him with the ease of a puzzle piece clicking into place.
The other half to complete the whole. When he pulls back, Naruto’s smile is just as bright as his
chakra, and Natsume feels his heart stutter in his chest.

Ah, he really had missed his brother more than he thought. He missed that little baby who used to
crawl after him, missed those pudgy cheeks and tiny fingers curling around the hem of his shirt.
Even Naruto’s obnoxious whining was beat out by the high laughter and boyish excitement.

It’s odd, because they’re the same size and Natsume can’t forget that he’s not supposed to be the
parent—but he feels like one now, when all he wants to do is pick Naruto up and twirl him around.
The way Shisui did.

A little bit of madness from the early days creeps in.

My baby, Natsume thinks. Because no one else will care for him.

Suddenly, he understands Genma’s words a little more.

Love and duty, love or duty.

Natsume will take a thousand missions that end in his hands coated in blood just to have Naruto
come back into his arms like he’s the best person in the world. Like Natsume is his whole world.
He hugs Naruto one more time before letting go, remembering belatedly that they have an
audience.

“I missed you so much!” Naruto exclaims, and he’s close to blubbering. “But I was totally a big
boy and super responsible and nothing bad happened at all!”
“I don’t believe that for a second, but the house isn’t ashes so I’ll take what I can get.”

Sasuke comes down from his spot at the table much slower than Naruto. He grumbles and picks up
the knocked over chair, too, which is a lot more initiative than Natsume expected.

“You’re back,” Sasuke says lamely. He puts his hands in his pockets when he approaches, trying to
look nonchalant. But he’s still too young and inexperienced to hide the way his dark eyes have
brightened, darting over Natsume’s form in quick, obvious glances.

“I am,” Natsume replies. “And it looks like you have guests over. Have they been helping you pick
up around here while I’m gone?”

The three left at the table finally come over.

Hinata is faster, her cheeks flushed and her milky gaze wide. She’s so obviously happy to see him
that it makes Natsume’s stomach feel weird. Whatever formalities they’ve been using with each
other disappear entirely when she grasps at his sleeve in greeting.

“Natsu-nii, I’m glad to see you back safe.”

He nods and finds himself not shaking her off. A blonde leech on one side, an heiress on the other.
“Yeah, thanks.”

He’s lucky he doesn’t really blush easily, because all this attention is starting to unsettle him.

“Natsume-kun!” Peat moss, flower fields, stained glass. Yamanaka Ino looks at him with sparkles
in her eyes, cheeks flushed apple red. “Can you believe Naruto and Sasuke-kun don’t know how to
do laundry?”

Sakura—Sakura? Yeah, that sounds right. Sakura is a wisp of earth behind the bright girl, her green
eyes glancing up at him every so often. She stands a bit behind everyone, nervous energy palpable.
She mumbles something of a greeting, but it’s lost under Ino’s babble.

He huffs, involuntarily finding the corners of his mouth curling up. “I’d be more surprised if they
did know.”

Ino clasps her hands together and lets out a sugary giggle.

“We didn’t ask for your help!” Naruto grumbles.

“Yeah? Well maybe I just didn’t want to smell you in class!” Ino snaps.

Sasuke sighs and looks to the side, as if used to this. The two blondes end up huffing and puffing in
each other’s faces, calling each other silly names like ‘doo-doo head’ and ‘stinky butt’. Hinata
moves to tug at Naruto’s sleeve instead, while Sakura is fumbling at the back of Ino’s shirt.

It’s loud and bright, filled with familiar (and slightly less familiar) chakra signatures. He’s still
exhausted, and he still feels the mission linger in his thoughts like a shadow. But at the moment he
knows he prefers all this noise to the four walls and chill of the border patrol group.

Sasuke wanders over, still trying to act uninterested. “We should spar.”

Natsume raises a brow. “I just got back and you’re already looking for more training?”

“I’ve been learning kenjutsu from Hayate-sensei.” Sasuke's shoulders come up a little. It makes his
cheeks look rounder, his face more youthful. “I wanted to see where I stand against you.”
“You’re a million years too young to think you have a chance against me.” Natsume peers at
Sasuke’s arms. They look a bit stronger, a few bandages peeking out. Good. He’s taking it
seriously.

“I’m older than you!”

Natsume rolls his eyes. “I’ll spar with you some other time, Sasuke. Tomorrow, maybe. After I
turn in my mission report.”

“Okay,” the boy acquiesces, a lot faster than Natsume expected. His inky eyes are burning like
coals. He looks eager, hungry. A spark of something ignited within him.

Another smirk pulls at Natsume’s mouth. He turns away from Sasuke’s devouring stare and back to
the gaggle of children messing around in the living room. They’re now running around smacking
each other with the worn-out pillows. “Kenjutsu is fun, huh?”

The muscles in Sasuke’s forearms jump, hands flexing in his pockets. He seems to chew on the
words for a moment. “Yeah, it is.”

“I’m glad.”

Maybe it’s the time and distance that’s making Natsume feel like being nicer. Just for a moment.
It’s not like he can be brutal a hundred percent of the time. That would be way too straining.
Natsume’s already balancing on a tight-rope as it is with everything else on his plate.

He’s cruel with purpose.

Protect Sasuke. Make him strong. Make it so no one can ever hurt him again.

Yet even cruelty can wane and slip away. There are times when a moment of happiness furthers
growth more than another push. Natsume doesn’t want to take away every shred of happiness
accessible to Sasuke.

He just doesn’t know how to be part of that happiness while leading the boy to a painful future.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Sasuke’s expressions brighten. His eyes glimmer, pink flaring at
the tips of his ears and nose. His chakra—ash, heat, static, darkness—is giddy for a moment,
before being swallowed down by the weight of despair that continues to linger like a cloud. It’s
followed by a determination that edges on mania.

Snap, snap, crack, zap.

Flashing like electricity from a live wire.

“You ruined my hair in front of Natsume-kun and Sasuke-kun!” Ino screeches, breaking the odd
shift in mood. Her white-blonde hair is sticking out to the side, cheek red with an apparent smack
from a pillow. She lets loose a war cry before leaping directly at Naruto with her hands out to
strangle.

He screeches and forgets about the pillow entirely, tripping over it in his haste to hide behind
Hinata.

Natsume huffs out a breath and tugs at his bamboo charm necklace. As much as he did miss this,
he just hopes it won’t be noisy every single day.
 Natsume wakes a second after Sasuke does.

It’s to the sound of rustling sheets and a sharp breath. Sasuke sits up in his bed, moonlight exposing
the sweat and terror that mars his cherubic features. Natsume watches from the other bed with his
eyes half-shut, Naruto curled on his right side like a koala.

Nightmares are familiar, especially Sasuke’s.

The Uchiha looks over at them, but he doesn’t notice Natsume’s state of awareness. Sasuke
watches for a moment as his breathing settles, face in shadow as he turns away from the window.
The room is a bit chilly, with the heater still giving out more often than not. His rapid breaths
occasionally come out as condensation, and soon all the sweat cools and makes his little frame
shake.

Rather than run to the bathroom or roll back over to sleep, Sasuke does his best to quietly slip from
the bed and tiptoe over to Natsume and Naruto.

Natsume keeps his breathing even. He wants to go back to sleep so badly. Curse his shinobi
training. He has half a mind just to open his eyes and ask the other boy what the problem is.

Sasuke lingers by the edge of the bed, hesitating. Then, slowly, he reaches out and presses his
fingers to some of Natsume’s loose scarlet hair fanning out across the pillow. He doesn’t grasp at it
or try to pull, just lets his tiny fingers thread through it. His stare is intense enough that Natsume
begins to feel a little uncomfortable. The boy’s chakra is a dark tangle.

Then Sasuke pulls away. He climbs back into his bed with his back turned to the twins and his face
to the moon. His shoulders begin to shake.

Natsume closes his eyes fully and hopes to fall back asleep soon.

Chapter End Notes

You can check out the Series (and we change like seasons) description for links to the
discord and my tumblr!
 V. 1, ARC II. (unwound)
Chapter Notes

There’s 15 minutes until midnight it’s still Monday . . .

Absolutely love all the comments I’ve been getting, you guys really make my day. I go
back and read them all the time to keep me motivated

Sasuke falls back with a thud, skidding across the dirt of the training ground. His little arms
tremble with the aftereffects of their collision, the boken in his hands nearly dropping.

He looks tired. Sweaty.

Exhilarated.

Natsume stands, his own training boken held still and strong. Not a dot of sweat permeates his
brow or slips through the red threads of his hair. He controls his breath and makes minimal
movements when they fight. Sasuke moves slower than anything Natsume is used to.

But his foundation is there.

Sasuke seems to take to kenjutsu like a duck to water. More often than not he’s out training with
his boken, swinging it around and bullying Naruto or Hinata into being moving targets.

He’s clearly outmatched next to Natsume, who eyes the boy’s exhaustion and decides to call it a
day.

“Alright, pack up. You’re not gonna get anywhere fast if you overwork yourself and end up in the
hospital.”

Sasuke huffs, the gleam finally leaving his eyes. What a little monster he is, so eager for the dance
of blades. Natsume relates. He loves kenjutsu as much as one can in a world where it’s used for
murder.

The Uchiha stands slowly, not asking for help or even holding out a hand. He pushes himself up on
two feet, chest heaving, and only then does he reach out. Two fingers splayed further than the rest.

The seal of reconciliation.

Natsume exhales softly. It’s just a training match. This kid really is too serious. That’s not to say he
doesn’t like that about Sasuke—it certainly makes it easier to train someone who’s practically
willing to die for it. But it does leave a bitter taste in one's mouth.

He connects their fingers. Sasuke’s are boiling and damp with sweat, his ink eyes like pools of
liquid steel. Not dissatisfied with his loss in the slightest despite his competitive streak. They hold
for a single moment, while Sasuke’s heart rate finally settles. Then release.

Their hands fall away.

Natsume is not a goal to this little monster, he’s a stepping stone. A resource.

Good.

“You need to be faster,” Natsume says.

Sasuke nods. “Okay.”

Natsume doesn’t have whatever strange connection to Sasuke that Naruto has. He can’t fully read
the whims and thoughts of the other boy, or understand him on an intrinsic level. He cheats his
way through walls using his sensory abilities—and because Sasuke wears his bruised heart on his
sleeve. The anger is easy. The wrath, the determination, the unsettling mania that comes with
violent trauma and a dangerous fixation. Sasuke lives, eats, sleeps, and breathes for the idea of
murder.

That, Natsume can see.

And that, Natsume will cultivate. He’ll leave Sasuke’s heart up to Naruto and Hinata.

“Let’s get going. You stink.”

Sasuke frowns and the tension falls away. He’s still young enough that his face looks petulant and
chubby. More of a pout than a glare. “Tch.”

He can’t even retaliate, because Natsume is already walking away. “Don’t let your boken drag on
the ground.”

“H-Hey!” Sasuke scrambles after him, bruised arms holding his boken aloft. “Natsu!”

He settles back into the routine of training himself, training Sasuke, and training Hinata. For the
next month there’s a shift, like everyone is finding their footing and shooting off in different
directions.

Natsume will come home from training and find Naruto and Hinata with their heads together,
muttering over fuuinjutsu. Sasuke will be in the kitchen, bullied into cooking dinner while
pretending he isn’t listening. Any knowledge is useful knowledge to that kid, even if he doesn’t
have as much of an aptitude for fuuinjutsu as his two friends seem to.

Or it’ll be Hinata, Ino, and Sakura painting their nails and talking in a circle at the low table,
despite this being the Uzumaki household. But Natsume can’t blame Hinata for not bringing her
friends to her own house. The Hyuuga compound is imposing. Strict. Filled with harsh, traditional
lines and overbearing observers. It would eat a civilian-born like Sakura alive.

The boys always made themselves scarce when the girls were together. Occasionally they could be
found roped into some activity, but Sasuke’s aversion to simpering eyes in his direction made him
hide behind Hinata more often than not.

On rare occasions, Sasuke will be alone when Natsume returns.

He’ll be laying on the couch as if taking a nap, but his eyes will be wide open. Unseeing. Natsume
knows that Sasuke skipped out on afternoon classes on those days.
Natsume won’t say a damn thing, either, because he doesn’t have the words to make it better.
Sasuke slips in and out, a fish in a stream, his fingers twitching against the couch cushions. Sticky
spring air flowing in from the window. Then Hinata and Naruto will walk in, hand in hand,
muttering between themselves or laughing—Naruto, bright and loud, Hinata, soft and clear—and
Sasuke will shudder into place, slipping back into his skin.

Sometimes he doesn’t even realize Natsume has been there the whole time.

It’s one day in mid-spring that Natsume comes home to only Naruto.

This is not typical. If there’s one, there’s another—usually Sasuke, who has nowhere else to be but
here or training. And if he’s training, then Naruto is following and trying it out too, never one to be
left behind. So Natsume pauses when he walks through the door, spotting his little brother
scribbling away on sheets of paper.

He’s surrounded by crayons, all in various states of wear and tear. His chubby face is scrunched up
in concentration, though it breaks when he notices Natsume.

“Nacchan!”

“Where’s Sasuke?” He finds himself asking.

Naruto shrugs. “Dunno, he wanted to go be alone or something boring. I wanted to hang out with
Hinata, but she has some weird clan stuff to do and her dad is a huge meanie and won’t let her
skip.”

“She is the clan heir.” For now, Natsume thinks. Hopefully she’ll be able to keep her place and not
get booted out of the spot by her younger, apparently more talented sister. Then again, he’s never
really thought about what Hinata wants. Does she even want to lead her clan? Or is she just trying
to prove that she’s worth something?

“Whatever,” Naruto scoffs. “So I decided to doodle.”

“Instead of class work?”

Naruto looks skittish. “I don’t have any.”

It’s a lie, but Natsume doesn’t call him out on it. “Sure. What are you drawing?”

Excited, Naruto leaps into an explanation about the entire collection of art he’s created. Each
image showcases very poor renditions of what possibly could be his friends—in that the blobs at
least all have hair colors and styles that are recognizable enough—living out various future dreams.
Naruto as Hokage, Sasuke as some secret ANBU member, Hinata in what must be a kimono, but
it’s clearly drawn from memory so it looks like she’s wearing a square. Natsume isn’t sure if that’s
supposed to showcase her status or some other thing she hasn’t disclosed to him.

There’s even one or two of Sakura and Ino, with lots of flowers.

If there’s one thing that Ino and Naruto have bonded over, it’s plants. When they aren’t swiping at
each other, they’re talking a mile a minute about flowers and soil and moss. For hours. Sasuke,
Hinata, and Sakura will even leave them to their own devices while they babble back and forth.
Though Sakura can still barely contribute to the conversation, at least she isn’t spoken over when
it’s just Hinata and Sasuke.

Natsume sits beside his brother and listens carefully. Naruto’s eyes shine as he speaks, his foxy
grin turned wide and sunny. He’s so eagerly looking to a dream he thinks is tangible. Some far-
flung life that exists there, just waiting for him to grow into. It’s moments like these, though
Naruto’s shoulders are thin and his face is round and his hands are tiny, that Natsume sees echoes
of the idealist that Shisui was in the planes of his brother’s face.

The realization settles awkwardly in his throat. Stealing the words from his tongue before he can
even think to speak them. He just watches. Wonders. The two most precious people in his life are
mirrors of each other. One with pale skin, dark hair and eyes, frozen over by death. The other with
warm brown skin, light hair and eyes, bursting at the seams with the weight of the sun.

And they both look up and out, to somewhere beyond Natsume’s view.

“Hey, Naruto,” he says, interrupting his brother’s stream of words. Naruto turns his matching azure
gaze to him, as if sensing whatever Natsume is about to say is important. “How would you like to
sign a summoning scroll?”

Naruto furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“Animal summons.”

“I’m not that dumb, Nacchan!”

Natsume huffs softly. “Crows. Shisui’s summons. I have the scroll. You can sign it, if you want.”

Naruto grips the crayon in his hand. It’s violet, two shades too dark for Hinata’s eyes, but the only
one that’s close enough. His nails dig into the wax and paper. “Shicchan’s summons?”

Natsume nods.

“And—“ Naruto’s face is more contemplative than expected. Blank and knowing in a way that
always unsettles Natsume. He really thinks, sometimes, that maybe Naruto does have sensory
abilities. “—Itachi-nii’s summons, too.”

“Do you want it?” Natsume asks again, speaking around the lump in his throat that threatens to
choke him.

His little brother breathes for a long while. Watches the sun reflect on motes of dust floating
through the air, swirling in a breeze that sneaks its way through a wedged open window. His eyes
are impossibly big, reflections of the sky set in a child’s face, and they wander from the room to
the shoddy little drawing of a figure with dark hair that whirls around like a cotton cloud, half-
buried beneath the picture of himself in a Hokage’s robe.

“Yeah,” Naruto says. “Obviously! Why don’t you?”

Natsume tries not to show how stricken he is by that question. There’s no answer to give. “I do
want it.”

“No you don’t.” It’s a statement. Naruto stares at Natsume like he can peer into his head. “That’s
alright. You get swords, I get birds. Then one day, when you want them too, maybe I’ll let you!”

Then Naruto laughs, a broad smile on his face. It creases his eyes. Someone like him belongs in the
sky. Belongs to the sky.

Natsume swallows.
Maybe he will want the crows one day. Maybe he won’t. He pulls the scroll from where it’s sealed
away in his pouch and places it on the low table, on top of Naruto’s drawings. It opens easily.
Eagerly. As if it can sense what’s about to happen.

“How have your chakra lessons at the Academy been going?”

Naruto makes a face. “Er, well. It sucks.”

“Yeah,” Natsume agrees. His next words come out in a rush. “It really does. But you’re gonna need
to learn how to channel some into the summoning. The more you use, the bigger the summoned
creature. You also need blood—ah, and I’d rather you not try summoning anything until we’re at
the training grounds and have supervision.”

“But I can sign it now?”

“Yeah, Naruto. You can. As long as you promise not to try summoning anything.”

Naruto huffs, “I don’t even know the hand seals for it! Stingy!”

Natsume decides not to tell Naruto that there aren’t really any hand seals. It’s chakra gathered to all
five of your fingers and then expelled—with the presence of blood as an offering, of course.

They roll the scroll open, revealing lines of watered out kanji and katakana, names that mostly
begin with Uchiha. All dead, all except one. Stark black ink.

Uchiha Itachi.

Naruto stares at the katakana, eyes roaming over it. As if he can’t read it. He holds up his crayon.

“No.” Natsume grabs his hand, amused. “You need to sign it in blood.”

“Ugh, all this blood stuff is kind of creepy, ya know?”

Yet Naruto presses his thumb to a sharp canine and splits the skin without even wincing. He’s had
worse skinned knees and more mishaps falling from branches and rooftops than most other kids.
He has to reopen the small wound multiple times, the flesh healing over too rapidly and not giving
the right amount of blood.

It takes a few minutes before his name is spelled out in shaky katakana, and Natsume marvels at
the fact that Naruto’s handwriting has gotten a lot better. Must be all the fuuinjutsu studying with
Hinata. Naruto’s not great at doing it on his own, but when he has someone else there to push him
along and match his pace, he does a lot better.

“There!” He exclaims, another sunny grin on his face. Naruto waves his hand as if to brush off any
remaining blood, but the wound has already healed for the final time. The blood on the scroll
seems to dry and solidify into the same deep, dark ink shade as the name above it. “Ahhh, now I’m
really excited to summon a crow! When can we do it? Later today? Tomorrow?”

Natsume pushes Naruto’s face away when his little brother starts clambering too close. “We’ll see.
I’ll ask my sensei first and see what he thinks.”

“Ahhh! That could take forever!”

“Suck it up.”

Naruto clicks his tongue, a habit he most certainly never had before. He’s more aware than others
give him credit for when it comes to figuring out what actions will get him what he wants.
Whining won’t work with Natsume, so he cuts it off quickly. He still mutters complaints under his
breath, but that’s just the residue excitement speaking.

“Congratulations,” Natsume says dryly. “You now have crow summons. What do you want for
dinner to celebrate?”

Naruto perks up immediately. “We can celebrate!?”

“Sure.” The current stipend they receive for being poor, lonely orphans has been halved since
Natsume graduated. Now it’s Naruto getting money in exchange for his continued attendance at the
Academy, and Natsume adds to the pool with whatever he makes doing missions. A few recent D
Ranks have at least warranted a single night out. Especially if it’s just going to be the three of them.
“Once Sasuke gets back we can head out.”

Evening is already approaching. The warmth of the spring day is vanishing reluctantly, sticky
humidity lingering. The sun is close to dropping below the walls and the sky has already begun
turning hazy orange and purple.

“I want to get ramen,” Naruto announces. “There’s a place me and Sasuke went to when you were
away! It’s sooo good! And the old guy there is really nice!”

Naruto has always had a proclivity for ramen. He devours the packaged noodles bought from the
store at a disturbing rate.

Natsume feels his lips turn down a bit in confusion. “Where’d you get the money to buy actual
ramen from?”

Not that ramen is especially expensive, but it certainly isn’t the cheapest food they can get.
Especially for two boys that probably ate their weight in it. Unless they used Sasuke’s clan
money?

Could he even touch that yet?

Perhaps in controlled bursts.

Sasuke doesn’t come to him from clan business, despite them both being in similar boats. Whatever
the ‘Last Uchiha’ is dealing with when it comes to finances, land, taxes, and stipulations, he deals
with it on his own. Somehow. Or, at least, Natsume hopes he’s dealing with it.

“They gave us a dis—dispensable! We were really hungry. They said they heard our tummies
growling.”

“Discount.”

“That’s what I said!”

Natsume chuckles softly. Always the same, that one. “Alright, we’ll get ramen. What’s this place
called?”

“It’s called Ichiraku, and it’s two streets away from our favorite conbini!”

Which is only their favorite because they receive the least amount of flack for actually being there
and buying food. Either way, at least this Ichiraku place is close. He might’ve urged Naruto to
choose something else had he said it was in a district on the other side of the village.
The scroll is wrapped up and sealed away again. No mess and no fuss. Naruto moves on from one
topic to the next, still chipper. As if he hadn’t practically signed a piece of his soul away to animals
that might not even like him. Natsume can’t see why they wouldn’t like Naruto, though, because
the blonde is too much of a crafty, free-flying idealist for them not to take shine to him the way
they apparently did to Shisui.

Guess time will tell.

Sasuke returns sometime in the next half-hour and, despite the slightly sour expression on his face,
doesn’t complain when he’s told they’re going out to eat. He just follows them, letting Naruto
babble in his ear while passively paying the least amount of attention.

Naruto doesn’t seem to care, because Sasuke hm’s and hn’s at all the right moments.

The trio make their way through the streets, lights flickering on overhead as the sky grows
dimmer. The sound of crickets swells, even with the closet field blocks away.

Natsume keeps his eyes forward, content to ignore the warring feelings inside him. He focuses
instead on the beacons of chakra beside him. Heat lightning and tangerines. It took him weeks to
come to the decision not to sign that damn scroll, and Naruto took minutes. He’s not mad about
that.

Just confused.

He wants to follow through with Shisui’s wish, but the idea of crows doesn’t sit well with him. Not
because he thinks they’re bad summons—they’d probably suit him well—but because something
about them doesn’t…click.

Maybe his thoughts are too tied up in smoke, feathers, sugar, fire.

There’s no place for ice, salt, sand, sea.

Ichiraku is not so much a full restaurant as it is a stall, made of bright wood and smelling of broth.
They’re all short enough to walk right under the white and red banners, and despite the open
entrance there’s a rise in temperature when they enter the space. It’s homey, in a way, with well-
used but well-loved seats, sparse decor, and a handwritten menu. There’s a teenage girl behind the
bar, dressed in a white uniform with her brown hair pulled back under a bandana.

When she spots them, her face lights up with a smile.

For a moment, Natsume doesn’t know what to do. Naruto and Sasuke walk a step past him before
he remembers to keep moving. There’s nothing fake about her grin. That’s what shocks him the
most. She doesn’t put on some customer service smile and cringe inside at their presence. He
knows because her tiny, civilian, candle-like chakra flickers with warmth, and she looks at them
like they’re cute kids.

“Welcome back, you two! And I see you’ve brought a new friend!”

At her words, another person comes in from the area in the back hidden away by another fabric
screen. It’s a portly, kind looking man in another white uniform and hat. When he smiles, his
crows feet and the lines by his neck become more pronounced. Furrows carved by frequent
expressions of happiness. “My new favorite customers!”

Naruto eats up the attention, bouncing his way to a seat right at the bar. It takes him a few hops to
get on, and his feet are high above the floor when he finally settles. “Hello! We’re back! This is
my brother, Nacchan!”

“Natsu,” Sasuke corrects.

“Natsume,” Natsume corrects.

The two other boys roll their eyes.

Naruto waves a hand. “Same thing.”

Both servers are cordial. Neither one calls Natsume or Naruto names. They don’t kick them out.
They don’t even frown when they think the boys aren’t looking. They’re perfectly nice the entire
time.

Natsume breathes in and out. Deep inhale, long exhale. It takes a moment for his shoulders to
loosen. Naruto’s happy voice helps. It filters in and out of his head even if the words don’t stick.

“And what can I get you, Natsume-kun?” The girl—Ayane? Ayame?—asks, meeting his gaze
without flinching. “Are you a big eater like your brother?”

“Not quite as terrible,” he replies. He doesn’t want to splurge too much anyway. “I’ll just have
miso ramen, with chicken.”

Naruto sticks his tongue out. “Bleh, how boring! Old man, gimme a shoyu! No, two! With extra
pork!”

Teuchi-san just laughs. “Oh? Coming right up!”

Ayame turns to Sasuke. “And you? Same as last time?”

Sasuke nods, glancing away from her open face. “Shio.”

When their food does come, Natsume notices that his bowl is—for one—huge. It doesn’t look like
the standard bowls he expected to see at a restaurant. Did all ramen come in this size? And the
amount of meat is a lot more than expected.

The steam wafts up to his nose, carrying the bold tang of miso. He feels his mouth water. The other
two boys have already started digging in, eating like wild animals. Drops of broth splatter a bit, but
every noodle lands in their mouths at least.

The first bite is good.

Delicious, actually. Savory or sweet, his two favorite categories. This absolutely falls into the
former, and it’s incredible. Nothing at all like packaged ramen with its powdered flavors and
skimpy additions. The soft-boiled egg splits in his mouth, still hot and tasting of soy sauce. He
finds himself eating faster than usual, even though he knows he should savor it. Meals like this
won’t happen often on their current budget.

Noodles, bok choy, chashu. He shovels it all in until his cheeks puff out and he thinks he might
have burned his tongue. Within him, a tide of emotion swells. It batters forth, unprompted and
without reason, pressing at his lungs and eyes until he thinks he might cry.

He keeps eating instead.

Sasuke and Naruto shove at each other. Laugh. Talk and quip and banter. The servers join in. The
paper lanterns shine gold over his fingers. The back of his neck is sticky, the tips of his hair curling
up.

It’s going to be summer soon.

“I’m going to sign you up for the chunin exams,” Genma announces.

Natsume looks up from the fence he’s painting. It’s late May, and the heat is already enough to
make him paste cooling seals to his clothes. Konoha summers are vicious as usual.

White paint splatters by his shoe as he pulls his brush away.

He knows there’s a chunin exam held twice a year across various villages. One in the summer and
one in the winter.

“Oh.”

Genma looks amused by this answer. “I realize you don’t have a team, which is why I’m telling
you so early. Usually I wouldn’t make this announcement for another month if I was leading a
normal genin team. But I’ve just got you, which means you’ll be paired with scraps.”

Scraps isn’t exactly a nice term, but it’s used to describe the leftover members of a squad when one
or more advance to chunin.

“You’ll need to familiarize yourself with the other two beforehand, so you guys don’t mess up
anything that has to be performed as a squad. If you’re lucky, you’ll get two who were already
former squad members. It’s easier to integrate into a half-built dynamic. If you get saddled with
two from separate squads, it’ll be a lot more work,” Genma continues. “One, because it means both
of them are the last of their former genin squads to get promoted. A lot of bad blood comes from
that. Two, it means that you have three—probable—strangers shoved together and told to make
nice in a short amount of time.”

Natsume isn’t sure either will be better or worse for him. It’s likely that having a pair join him will
make it easier for them to gang up on him. Two strangers…well, nothing brings people together
faster than a shared hatred.

He only sees himself as the odd one out in either scenario.

Unless the genin are like Aya, and don’t care about what he is as long as he’s on their side. That’s
ideal, but a lot less likely the younger the shinobi. The young ones seem to hate him the most.

But an older genin might hate him too, just for the fact that he’s eight and already taking the exam.

Everything is swallowed by hate in the end.

Natsume goes back to painting the fence. “When will you know who my squad members are?”
“Not for another week. That is—if you even want to.”

He pauses at that. “You mean I have a choice?”

Genma sighs softly, “Yeah, kid. Of course you do. I can choose not to recommend you. If you
really don’t want to take the exam, I’ll tear up the form right now. But…”

“But?”

“Staying at this level is holding you back,” his sensei admits. “You aren’t a genin when it comes to
skill. If you linger here, you’re going to hit a plateau. Your skills will stagnate if you don’t get
access to better materials, jutsu, and weapons. That’ll only happen if you advance.”

Natsume quirks a lip, flashing his teeth. There’s no amusement in the expression. “Yeah, well, I
suppose the genin resources at the library and jutsu department have started drying up.”

“Not that you use those jutsu resources.”

“Tch.”

Genma laughs, a bit brighter than before. His shoulders lower and he tilts his head back. The sun
flares across his face, softening the sharp curve of his jawline and glinting dangerously off the
senbon held between his lips.

Haltingly, Natsume asks, “If I move on to chunin, will that be…it? For you. As my sensei.”

“Hmmm, no. It doesn’t have to be. We’re technically registered as apprentice and master, so the
dynamic is a bit different on paper. You can keep learning from me if you want. I can stay off the
extended duty roster.” Genma’s eyes glance at him briefly. He won’t ask anything of Natsume.

Not a thing.

Natsume knows this immediately by the set of Genma’s shoulders and the wrinkle between his
brow. If Natsume becomes a chunin, he answers to no one but Konoha. An apprenticeship after the
fact is a formality they’d have to re-register for. Just so Genma wouldn’t get shoved on away
missions lasting months—at least not without Natsume being added on.

It’s been increasingly obvious over the last few months that Genma cares for him. Wants Natsume
safe, protected, in sight. Even though it’s not possible. He wants to help. Wants to provide
whatever he can until Natsume far surpasses him.

Which hasn’t happened yet. Meaning Natsume still has more to learn, and no reason to refuse the
offer. But Genma won’t ask him to accept it, because Genma has given more protection and more
freedom to Natsume than he probably should.

“That sounds good,” Natsume says, occupying himself once more with the fence. This D rank is
taking longer than it should. “As long as you’re willing to actually teach me.”

Genma doesn’t exhale sharply, or act as though a weight has lifted. His brown eyes turn molten
gold in the slips of sunlight that catch in his irises, and he smiles with his teeth. His chakra is the
same sturdy wall it’s always been.

“Sure, sure. Maybe we’ll make a ninjutsu specialist out of you yet.”

“Don’t get your hopes up that high.”

“You never know!”

Natsume shakes his head. Forget ninjutsu specialist , if he could perform at least one good jutsu
he’d be ecstatic. “I think I’ll focus on the actual chunin exams first, before we get carried away.”

Genma scoffs. “You not becoming a chunin is a losing bet.”

Never say never.

“Where’s it being held this year?” It can’t be Konoha, he’s pretty sure it’s too soon. Unless there’s
bad blood again and they’re going Konoha-only this time around.

Genma doesn’t look at him. His stance is casual, but his eyes have moved away from the sun and
returned to dark earth. “Ah…this time? Amegakure.”

Oh, Natsume thinks to himself. Of course. One of the most water-based nations on the list.

More paint drips down into the dirt.

 VOL. 1, ARC II. (unburdened)
Chapter Notes

Sorry this is late i forgot it was Monday time doesn’t exist i have adhd

See the end of the chapter for more notes

His dreams are watercolor paintings. Photographs left in the rain. His fingers press smudges into
mirror condensation. There’s an image he faces, slipping through his fingers when he tries to grasp
it. An unwinding of his sense of self.

He stands in the snow. Red, pink, sharp white.

He stands on hardwood, on tile, on carpet.

“I thought it was mom’s!” His sister says. “How was I supposed to know?”

He snaps back, “Stop assuming everything in the house is fair game!”

He’s in the bathroom, staring into dark eyes. Steam, the scent of leave-in conditioner. Banging on
the door.

“Stop using all the hot water! Hurry the hell up!”

He’s kicking stones on the sidewalk, the sound of a plane overhead. A single street-light flickers,
the pole buried under stickers and graffiti. It’s been broken for months now. A neighbor hollers
hello from the driveway. His dad answers.

Backwards. He slips backwards. Into a stream not made of water, but rather of color and memory.
It moves too fast for him to see anything more than the occasional glimpse. He tumbles without a
sense of up or down, a young adult, a teenager, a child, a—-

Oh?

Backwards. Further back. Where do you go once the stream is reversed to the end, the tape wound
back to the start? What is beyond, what is before?

He lays in the dirt. The sky is dusk. The world’s at war. He’s an adult again. Or is he? This body is
hard to sense, to feel, to understand.

He is quiet. Growing quieter.

Oh, he’s dying.

He’s in the snow again. It’s still silent. He meets the eyes of a not-yet-man, face bloody, blonde
hair caked in sweat, expression twisted.

I know what you are.

Natsume wakes up.

Naruto and Sasuke’s soft breathing fills the small room. The moon cuts long slats of white light
over their mussed sheets. Sasuke’s skin is porcelain, glowing under its glare. Naruto’s hair is pale,
washed-out gold. An unsettled feeling presses at Natsume’s insides, as though another layer of skin
is growing underneath. Growing too big for the outer layer. He scratches at his arms and slips from
the sheets.

He stands between the beds, sunshine in one and moonlight in the other. His eyes track the ink-
dark bleed of Sasuke’s hair across the frog-print pillow. Tilting. His world is tilting.

There is something knocking at Natsume’s head. And Natsume wakes up, but he wakes up from
what?

He stares at Sasuke some more. There’s another image there, if he looks with eyes that aren’t his.

But he can’t hold it, can’t see it, because they aren’t his eyes anymore.

Natsume presses a hand to his forehead, thumb to the pulse by his temple. He feels sick. There are
clearer memories of Before now. Then, in that last fevered splash of dream within memory within
dream—

It wasn’t Before.

Before Before?

Natsume grips at his hair, pulling red strands taut between his fingers. The thoughts won’t remain
streamline. They jumble and sink into each other, until it’s all he can do to cling to his name.
Natsume opens eyes he didn’t realize he shut and catches sight of Sasuke once more. His little hand
is curled into a fist by his face. His jaw slack.

The moon blurs the edges of his features.

Images stack, stack, stack.

Exhaustion swells against Natsume’s eyes, until he’s mechanically slipping under the sheets beside
Sasuke, breathing in the fire-smoke-static chakra. He is.

He.

Natsume.

Right.

His eyes shoot open when the sound of breathing changes. Sasuke sits up with a flail, his cheeks
burning ruddy. His glare is a thousand volts of lightning.

Natsume sits up slower, head far clearer than it had been hours ago. It feels like a dream within a
dream occurred. But he’d really walked over here and slipped next to Sasuke like some kid who
had a nightmare.

Sasuke’s lip juts out. He gets out of bed first, the tips of his ears red. Somehow, Naruto is still
completely unconscious, not a care in the world.

“I’m not Naruto,” Sasuke seethes, then leaves the bedroom.

Natsume looks over at his little brother. The sun is bright over his skin and hair, warm browns and
yellow. There’s drool on his pillow case. Cute.

Sasuke isn’t Shisui, either.

“What’s wrong with me?” Natsume mutters.

Well, he has memories of a past life. That he already knew. Or at least figured out. There’s plenty
wrong with him due to that, concrete memories or not. Someone really messed up his reincarnation
cycle. His brain is like a sieve.

Natsume gets up, huffing at the sound of Sasuke storming around in the bathroom. You’d think
Natsume stabbed him in his sleep with the way he’s acting. The little brat used to cuddle with
Naruto!

Not that…well, not that it wasn’t weird. Natsume and Sasuke don’t do that.

They aren’t kind to each other.

Which has Natsume thinking—who exactly had his brain conjured last night? Who did he seek
comfort from? Why Sasuke?

“Naruto, get up!” Sasuke screams from the next room. “Hinata’s already here, idiot!”

Naruto yelps, jolting awake. “Whazzat? Huh? What time is it?”

It seems they’ve all overslept.

Natsume runs laps around Konoha like his life depends on it. It almost does, seeing as he’s being
chased—er, followed—by Gai. The loud, exuberant man is crowing loudly about youth, power,
and happiness when it’s only seven in the morning. If they were near a residential area, they’d be
receiving death threats by now.

“One, two, one, two! We’re making excellent time, Natsume!”

“Hn.”

“Cool as usual, my young friend!”

Natsume feels limbs burn. It’s a good kind of feeling. He doesn’t think he liked running in his
previous life, but now the sensation of wind on his skin is freeing. He feels nothing but calm. His
heart in his ears, the ground beneath his feet.

“I hear Genma is nominating you for the chunin exams!”

Everything Gai says is in exclamation points. It’s exhausting. Still, Natsume hums in
acknowledgement. “Has he been telling everyone?”

“It’s admirable that he brags about you! You’re a lovely student, Natsume. Why, it’s always a joy
to teach you in our short moments together! I, too, feel the need to declare my pride!”

Natsume nearly trips over his own feet. Which would not have been good at the speed they’re
going. He feels an uncomfortable flush start from his chest and rise up his throat. Truly awful.

“You’re being dramatic,” he mutters.

Gai bounces easily beside him. He’s started cartwheeling again. “You sell yourself short!”

Natsume doesn’t know what to say to that. It might be best not to even try, because Gai sure as hell
won’t let it go. Arguing is too tiresome. Let the man think what he wants.

“I’m still behind in ninjutsu and chakra control. I have the basics down and that’s about it. Barely
that.”

“Chakra isn’t everything. Well, it is. It’s the core essence of life! But!” Gai grins with all his teeth,
the sun glinting off white. “What I mean is that chakra isn’t everything when it comes to strength
and power. Diligence and hard work, now that’s the true path to tread!”

Gai, despite having a perfectly healthy chakra system—fire (and lightning), like a typical Konoha
native—has never utilized any jutsu or genjutsu, to Natsume’s knowledge.

“You know,” Gai continues, his voice quieting for a moment into something not quite serious, but
definitely contemplative. “I didn’t have any talent with chakra as a child. Flopped the Academy
entrance exam because of it! I surpassed my former self using taijutsu alone, and my dedication to
the craft has led me to where I am today. Konoha’s Green Beast, master of Taijutsu!”

He finishes his speech with a cheesy pose, halting in his run. Natsume quickly overtakes him and
the man screeches when he realizes Natsume hadn’t bothered to stop at all.

It only takes him a second to catch up. “What I mean to say, young Natsume, is that whether or not
you choose to dedicate time to cultivate your skills in ninjutsu, it’s not the only path open to you as
a shinobi.”

Occasionally, Gai will say something that actually surprises Natsume in an utterly different way
than usual. It’s typical to be shocked at the jonin’s clothes, personality, and choice of haircuts, but
his words?

Gai?

When those flashes of wisdom appear, it makes Natsume wonder how Gai can stand proudly in
Konoha’s shadow. He lived through a war and still came out sunny and grinning. There’s probably
something wrong with him, more than just the sense of style.

“I suppose,” Natsume finally says, because Gai is clearly waiting for a response. “What lap are we
at?”

“Ten more to go!”

“Right.” What twenty-something has that kind of energy? Is Gai on drugs? Sage, Natsume really
hopes Naruto and Gai never meet.
“You’re not as subtle as you might think, Uzumaki.”

Hiashi stares down at him. (As usual.) There’s a faint lift to his right eyebrow, almost unnoticeable
to the undiscerning eye.

The monthly meeting with the Hyuuga Clan Head to discuss Hinata’s progress is always
harrowing. And annoying. Natsume is better with his etiquette and manner of speaking every time,
yet Hiashi still acts like he’s some miscreant picked off the street. Or rather, he looks at Natsume
like he’s thinking it. The chakra is more often than not telling a slightly different story.

Apathy, intrigue, complexities too deep for Natsume to understand or parse. He assumes Hiashi
hasn’t even settled on his own thoughts of Natsume just yet.

Natsume returns the look with a simple tilt of his head.

Hiashi folds the scroll containing Hinata’s progress report. He’d barely glanced at it. Natsume tries
not to feel even more annoyed. He has to painstakingly write that shit out every month and he gets
the feeling that the man just chucks it in a bin without a care.

“Registering a Clan requires ten members at the least, and a unique skill, kekkei genkai, or
technique worth Konoha’s time. There is only you, and your brother—who possesses subpar talent
in the basics of the shinobi lifestyle.” Hiashi’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his
milky gaze grows weightier. A pressure is exuded, one that prickles at Natsume’s skin. “I hope you
aren’t seeking to use the Hyuuga as a stepping stone, especially through ridiculous daydreams of
marriage.”

Natsume nearly barks out a laugh. As it is, he doesn’t quite stop a scoff of disbelief. “I’m not
interested in marrying into the Hyuuga.”

Hiashi hums like he doesn’t believe a word. “Hinata is quite fond of you. She has yet to grow any
sense of steel will. She would be easy to manipulate. Soft.”

The last word is uttered like a curse—or with as much emotion as a Hyuuga can actually emote.
Which isn’t too much. But Hiashi’s chakra flickers in something like disappointment-distress and
Natsume has to bite his tongue before he snaps something sharp and disrespectful.

“I don’t have any interest in your clan.” He leans forward slightly. “But I am using it as a stepping
stone. Just as you’re using me.”

A breath of air slightly heavier than the last. Something that could pass as amusement. Hiashi
waves a hand and one of the sliding doors on the other side of the room opens quickly. A Hyuuga
—branch member—comes in with a tray carrying a tea kettle and two cups.

She serves them in silence, performing a perfect tea pour. Natsume isn’t half as graceful with it.
Breakable pottery is foreign in his hands now. He’s used to wielding weapons.

Neither speaks until she’s disappeared back to wherever she came from, door sliding shut with a
faint click. Hiashi sips his tea like he has all the time in the world. Great Sage, Natsume is so sick
of leaf water.
“I had no true suspicion that you were interested in my eldest.”

But you still had to ask?

Hiashi tilts his chin slightly as he looks at Natsume, giving the impression that he’s looking down
on the younger in more ways than one. (Again, as usual.) What’s with these old men and their self-
centered need for power trips? “But matters of the heart often matter little to those with certain
ambition.”

Love or duty?

Natsume hates how quickly his mind sinks into the bog of confusion that question creates. He
narrows his eyes at the older man.

“I’m not pursuing Hinata. Or anyone in the Hyuuga Clan. I don’t need her to get what I want.”

“Confidence,” Hiashi murmurs. “Or arrogance.”

“I suppose we’ll see.”

They both drink more tea.

Hiashi bringing up Clans and the legal requirements necessary for the formation of one did catch
Natsume off guard. Not to a startling degree, but enough to shake him a bit. He probably should
have expected that, being in a shinobi village. He already sucks at hiding his thoughts, and part of
the population picks people apart mentally and physically as a job. Still, he’s not keen to know that
there’s a chance the Hokage is aware that he’s looking to push his ‘Uzumaki Clan agenda’.

Information about Konoha Law is public access, so he’s spent the past few months researching on
and off. A majority of the documents are written by the Senju. Specifically, over half of them were
penned by the Nidaime, Tobirama. It’s clear that the Shodaime relied heavily on the words of his
Clan as a whole, and that reflected in published works. The issue that prickles at Natsume’s
consciousness is how lacking any Uchiha collaboration was.

For a village that prided itself on being the peaceful outcome of a bloody history between two
clans, not much actually reflected that. It’s almost like the Uchiha surrendered to the Senju,
becoming vassals instead of partners.

The village didn’t stay solely Uchiha-Senju for long, either. There was a whole slew of Clans—
previous allies of the Senju—ready to join. Which meant there had to be an established law,
governing force, and system of justice. One that didn’t completely infringe upon inter-clan issues,
while also enforcing Konoha as the one with the final word.

Hiashi is correct. Applying for the official status of ‘Clan’ and reaping the benefits that come with
it requires ten or more members. Natsume is already certain he has the ‘unique skill’ aspect already
covered. The Uzumaki Clan is documented as a Clan with longevity, large chakra reserves, and
exceptional talent in fuuinjutsu. There’s large gaps in the information available, which makes
Natsume think that there’s even more potential abilities he could have inherited.

There’s also his natural sensory ability. Whether that’s spontaneous or hereditary doesn’t matter,
because he has a high chance of passing it onto his future children. That’s what makes it more
valuable.

That’s what makes him more valuable. Because he doesn’t have the slightest clue as to what
percentage Uzumaki he is, and there aren’t exactly many of them around anymore. Any genetic
enhancements from that part of him will die out a few generations down the line.

There are, as strange as it sounds, reasons that Clans have multiple ‘families’ and ‘branches’ within
themselves. Or, at least the Clans that have bloodline advantages—dojutsu, kekkei genkai, etc—
do, because they need to be able to ‘breed’ without actually being straight up incestual. He recalls
a brief conversation with…with Itachi, where the older boy had said his mother and father were
from two different Uchiha branches, and likely barely shared any relation. Lineages were carefully
tailored in old, traditional Clans. Arranged marriages were the go-to, so that no one stepped out of
line and the bloodline ability could remain cultivated in a healthy manner. New genes were selected
with precision and to keep the DNA pool diverse.

And you always married into a Clan, not out. Didn’t matter if you were a man or woman, you took
the Clan name or left it as is.

Natsume doesn’t want to use another Clan because that means the threat of relinquishing his name.

What he does want is the Uzumaki Clan property that Konoha no doubt holds. The fuuinjutsu
scrolls that are probably collecting dust because no one knows how to decipher them, the jutsu,
weaponry, and potential summoning scrolls—he knows Konoha has to have something.

First off, the Shodaime’s wife was Uzumaki Mito. Uzushio had been Konoha’s sister village. The
sharing of information had to be frequent and vast—not to mention the fact that if anyone picked
Uzu clean after the corpses had cooled, it was probably Konoha. Riding the tailwinds of battle a
little too late, but not late enough to take the leftover prizes.

“You realize what your only option is, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he replies. The smile on his lips is not kind.

Because there’s always a way to get a leg up in the shinobi world by doing something dubious and
unethical. Such as signing away the futures of children you hadn’t yet created.

The Clan Restoration Act is a footnote in Konoha Law. It applies only to Clans that had already
been established, then dwindled in size. Whether from a massacre like the Uchiha or the natural
progression of time. You can petition for it. Put your name out and declare that you will do x-y-z to
restore honor and all that happy-go-lucky shit that got your foot in the door. Because a Clan is only
a Clan when it has enough people and an output of talent, skill, or power that Konoha deems
useful.

He tries to imagine the moment some shady fucking shinobi put a pen in seven-year-old Sasuke’s
pale hand, looked him in those blank, haunted eyes, and told him to sign if he wanted to keep his
fucking house.

“How many kids do they want you to have?”

“I don’t remember.”

(Because he’d been too out of it to even realize what he was doing.)

Now Natsume is walking into the same trap, but this time on purpose and with his head held high.
Because he doesn’t actually care about the CRA. Natsume doesn’t entirely know what to expect of
his future—it’s still up in the air— but he’s leaning towards leaving when he’s strong enough to
drop-kick the Hokage. By then, a slip of paper with his signature on it won’t mean jack-shit.

Unless there’s a binding aspect to it…but he can’t imagine anyone in Konoha currently has that
kind of talent in fuuinjutsu. Maybe Jiraiya, but the sannin is likely in the middle of nowhere right
now.

Natsume isn’t eager to see him again. That man was unbearable before, he’ll probably be twice as
bad now that the Uchiha he’d tried to tease ended up killing the rest of them.

Either way, binding vow or not, Natsume has to do this.

He needs to shake this fucking village up at the roots.

Hiashi’s cup clatters softly as he places it down. He doesn’t ask about Natsume’s thoughts, or
whether he understands what he’s getting into. There’s not even a question as to why. Why give in
to a Clan Restoration Act? Why is he so desperate to have the Uzumaki Clan status returned to life?

Then again, as a Clan Head, maybe he doesn’t think it an odd thing at all.

“Next time we meet, I expect your appearance to be more befitting.”

“Of course,” Natsume grits out. Still insufferable. As if he has the wages for a formal kimono.

June ninth.

Sasuke spends the entire day in bed, no amount of prodding moving him from the sheets. When
Naruto pushes too far, the Uchiha starts spitting and screaming, wild-eyed and ready to pummel
Naruto in a manner that might actually draw blood.

Natsume has to separate them and drag his little brother out of the house. Naruto is sensitive and
bullheaded, so seeing Sasuke in pain and being unable to help hurts him. He starts crying loudly in
the middle of the street.

It’s Itachi’s birthday, and to be quite honest it doesn’t feel like a special day at all. Sure, Natsume’s
mind lingers for a moment on the unfinished gift he’d long since kicked under the bed, but that’s
about it. Birthdays don’t have much meaning. It’s not as if they ever really celebrated with Itachi.

But Sasuke is utterly beside himself, foaming with rage and returning to that terrible state of mania
that usually leaves him as a husk for days after. Natsume doesn’t know how to help. He’s a bit
ashamed to say that he turns tail and runs whenever these breakdowns happen.

He thinks they actually scare him a little. His body always feels hot and cold. His hands tremble.
The violent, whipping emotion and chakra exuding from such a small, tiny boy makes Natsume
want to curl up and separate himself from everything.

If he didn’t pull Naruto outside, he’d probably have crawled under the sink just to feel more
compressed and whole.

The air does some good. It’s hot and humid, and breathing is like sifting through pea soup.
Naruto’s sweaty hand grips him tightly. The blonde is going to be dehydrated if he keeps crying.
But they walk and walk until Naruto finally stops, and both their stomachs growl for food.

It’s hot, yes, but they clamber onto the stools of Ichiraku Ramen and end up scarfing down
steaming bowls until the backs of their shirts are soaked with sweat. He doesn’t feel like crying yet.
The sweat burns his eyes enough to pretend he is.

July third.

“Natsume-kun!” Ino’s bubbly voice is soaked and faded, buried under waves.

Yamanaka Flowers is a world of stained glass sunlight and bright color, a sliver of pink cutting
across Ino’s young face. The glare and glimmer of wind chimes and glass decorations burns, and
he blinks languidly to remove spots from his vision.

She keeps smiling at him, keeps talking like she thinks he can hear her.

When he woke up he didn’t feel like this. He told himself it was just any other day, like Itachi’s
birthday. One after the other. But it’s the one year anniversary, so isn’t it expected that he be
respectful? He should honor Shisui’s memory, even though the very idea sickens him. Having to
honor someone who’s dead. What fucking honor is Shisui given in this village? He doesn’t even
have his name scratched into the Uchiha monument, because according to the records he killed
himself days before.

Sasuke woke up screaming every day the past three weeks and he nearly choked out Natsume with
a grip on his shirt, seething and moaning about how he hates summer. He hates it.

You and me both, kid.

The camellia flowers never bloom in the heat and the days drag on. Their fan barely works and the
AC unit gave out three years ago. Summer is empty promises and more death than Natsume has
fingers and toes.

A poisonous grin flashes across his mouth.

I hate summer! Sasuke had screamed.

Natsu. Sasuke calls him.

“Natsume-kun?”

Ino’s voice doesn’t jolt him into awareness, but it clears away some of the fog. She’s closer now,
having come around the counter that she still can’t quite see over. Her blue eyes stare at him
inquisitively, so unlike Naruto’s that Natsume finds himself relaxing. He can’t handle Sasuke’s
screaming and he can’t handle Naruto’s crying. A roaring black sea and a storming sky.

She is glass.

“I need flowers,” he says. “For a gravestone.”

“Oh.” She seems smaller all of a sudden.

He feels it in the waver of her chakra—he’s worrying her. Funny. He didn’t think they were close
enough for her to care. Or is that just how normal children are? Giving pieces of themselves away
without thinking or looking?

“We don’t have camellias in bloom.”

“I know. What about those red ones from before?”

She flushes crimson. “No! Uh, I mean—I…I don’t know if those would be appropriate! I’ll find
you something else!”

She rushes back around the counter and into the doorway behind, presumably to wherever the
storage room is. He stands there, still and quiet, not quite able to feel the floor beneath his feet.

It doesn’t hurt, strangely enough. He’s not in any more or in any less pain than he usually is. But
there’s a sense of absence that threatens to overtake him. The world slips through his fingers like
grains of sand. Like streaks of sunlight through painted glass. Like he’s in the dirt looking up at the
sky at dusk, and he’s dying.

He follows the course of vivid color, over unfurled buds and wide leaves. A slash of green glints
off of white-blonde hair as Ino surges back into the front area.

“Here! These are the last bunch we have for the season!” She holds out a small bundle of red and
white flowers. “Red peonies, white carnations, and daisies.”

He takes it carefully, afraid to crush the plastic and fragile stems within. He doesn’t like the way it
feels. Alive and bright. “What do they mean?”

“Um, well, red peonies are for respect and honor. White carnations are—they’re, um,” she pauses,
hesitant. “They’re love, innocence, and sorrow. It’s one of the most popular flowers for graves.
And weddings.”

“Those are two very different things.”

She puffs out her cheeks, hands moving to her hips. “It’s all about the setting and interpretation!”

“Hm.” He doesn’t really care about the meanings, honestly. But the more she talks the more real
everything feels.

It’s July third.

He has a meeting with Genma tomorrow about the upcoming chunin exams. In a few more days
it’s the anniversary of the massacre. He’ll miss Sasuke’s birthday at the end of the month. He
might even miss his and Naruto’s, depending on how long the exams take.

The wrapping around the flowers crinkles softly under his grip, reminding him to remain soft with
his touch.

“What about the daisies?” He finds himself asking. The petals are startling white, and the
protruding yellow center looks almost like dandelion weed. They aren’t as special or pretty looking
as the other two.

She smiles at him, brighter than the stricken expression from before. “That’s a secret!”

Well, whatever.
He pays and leaves, her cheery goodbye following him out. It’s already mid-afternoon. He’d spent
the majority of the day moving around like a slug, wondering why it took so much effort just to
exist.

Now he walks the familiar path through winding dirt streets. Past the park they used to play at, the
rows of camellia bushes that won’t bloom for months yet. Past the tall fences of different
neighborhoods, until the buildings peter out and the land becomes mostly hills and trees.

The graveyard is a sight to see when you crest the last hill. Rows and rows of stones, all leading to
the massive monument with even more names carved in it as a symbol of remembrance. Many
different KIA stones lingered across different training grounds, to honor and remind those in the
profession of the potential consequences.

Shisui is not on a KIA stone, or a monument. He gets a little square grave that no one else seems to
visit.

Children regularly clean the place, so at least there’s no cobwebs, moss, or leaves scattered around.
Natsume certainly doesn’t visit enough to keep it maintained. It’s not like Shisui’s body is actually
underneath. They apparently never found it.

So he’s really just sitting here, giving flowers to a rock.

He brushes away an imaginary smudge and places the bound stems carefully. He adjusts the
positioning a few times as if it actually matters. These flowers will rot in a day and be swept away
by some kids soon enough.

Shisui, he thinks, because he’s no good at speaking out loud, I hope you moved on.

Genma speaks to him as normal. He doesn’t treat Natsume like glass, even if his insides kind of
feel like that. Broken bits stabbing him. Fragile and ready to crack further until turned to dust.
Genma puts his hand on Natsume’s shoulder and smiles wide with eyes that don’t quite match.

“I’ve got your team.”

And he brings Natsume all the way to Training Ground 16, the one with the big lake in the back.
There’s two people waiting there, standing in awkward silence. It’s not the kind of silence that
comes from two people who actually know each other and just don’t feel like speaking. These are
two strangers—must be, Natsume thinks, because when they get closer he sees the difference in
age.

The younger is probably around thirteen, young enough to have probably just bombed the last (and
his first) chunin exam. The boy is lanky and clearly just starting puberty, holding himself like he
doesn’t recognize his own limbs. He looks like most Konoha natives. Tan skin, brown hair, dark
eyes. And he can’t seem to hold anyone’s gaze, his chakra—sharp, static, ozone—flickering with
nerves. Blue shinobi slacks and a matching short-sleeve shirt, with a tan vest zippered all the way
up to his throat. He wears wristbands and has a scroll hooked to his belt.

The other one is probably closer to eighteen. Her black hair is cut in a severe bob, and her eyes are
a dusty orange. There’s a smattering of freckles over her cheeks, and a scar on her right shoulder—
bare in the tank top she wears, though the majority of her arms are covered by disconnected fishnet
 sleeves. Her clothes are black, half mesh, and form-fitting. Her chakra is flickering flame, unruly
and biting. She sneers at him in distaste, already riled up at the mere sight of him.

Great.

“Alright,” Genma says, smiling as he claps his hands. “Temp Team Thirteen! Why don’t we
introduce ourselves? Let’s start with you, kid.”

“Uzumaki Natsume. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Maybe a little more energy next time, old man.”

Natsume does his very best not to elbow Genma in his very reachable side.

“U-Uh, I’m, um, Unagi Urara,” the other boy stutters.

The girl glances at Genma briefly before gritting out, “Sawako.”

Natsume glances between the stuttering mess who probably doesn’t have enough skill to reach
chunin and the girl with a clear chip on her shoulder for still being a genin when she probably
thought she shouldn’t be.

He’ll consider it a win if neither of them try to stab him during the duration of their team-up. Low
expectations mean he can’t be disappointed.

Genma looks down at Natsume, smirking. “I think you guys are gonna get along great.”

END OF

VOLUME ONE — SHOCK

ARC II: APATHY.

Chapter End Notes

* the bit with Sasuke makes more sense in Japanese. He’d be saying some equivalent
of “kirai wa natsu” . . . “I hate natsu” as natsu = summer… and . Natsu. Am I over-
explaining . U can tell me I promise kjSLKD
 VOL. 1, ARC III. (unfathomed)
Chapter Notes

We’re BACK BABY !

I’ve been super busy with a bunch of writing events, but now I’m able to get back on
track! Sorry to keep you guys waiting, and sorry if this chapter is mostly exposition.
:C

See the end of the chapter for more notes

VOLUME ONE — SHOCK

ARC III: GAMES.

It’s getting easier to leave.

No one’s home when he does, and the mid-July sun scorches across his shoulders as he walks to
the gates. Sasuke’s birthday is in another week and a half. Natsume isn’t entirely happy about
missing it, but he’ll have to get used to that.

Missing things, that is.

This birthday in particular is a sore spot, however. It’ll be the first real one after the massacre,
since Sasuke had spent his eighth in the hospital.

Sometimes Natsume can’t wrap his head around the fact that Sasuke will only be nine, with him
and Naruto following shortly in October. Nine is such a strange number. Old and young in equal
measures to Konoha. He should feel like they’re all children, but he doesn’t.

Natsume is tired instead.

They don’t have a lot of money to throw around, but Natsume still bought that little menace a gift.
A blade cleaning kit for a blade Sasuke doesn’t yet possess, still too inexperienced for live steel.
Maybe in the next few months, with how eagerly the Uchiha takes to kenjutsu.

It’s a middle ground for them. When they can’t get along, when the air between them becomes too
strenuous and awkward, when they meet each other’s eyes and feel the same sense of displacement
—they have kenjutsu.

Sasuke might be older by a few months, but he’s not like Natsume. And there’s no way Sasuke is
anything like Shisui or Itachi.
So Natsume can’t understand why he’s been seeking out the Uchiha when the stress crosses too
many lines. Just to glance at and affirm the boy’s presence can sometimes be enough. Maybe
Natsume’s trying to replace what he’s lost. Or maybe it has to do with the life beyond the Before.

Then, still, perhaps it has to do with the fact that Natsume can’t do this alone, and he needs
someone else to step up to the plate and fill these too-big shoes with him.

It doesn’t have to be Sasuke.

But it might as well be, with the future in store for the brat.

The gates of Konoha loom before him, casting wide, dark shadows over the dirt road. Genma leans
against the border post, chatting idly with two of the chunin on duty. One has a bandage wrapped
over his face, the other wears some kind of turtleneck shirt pulled up to his chin. Turtleneck looks
so distinctly Konoha native that he and Genma might as well be brothers. For a moment Natsume
thinks that they are—but their chakra says otherwise.

“Ready to head out?” Genma calls upon noticing Natsume’s arrival.

The two chunin guards peer at him with vague intrigue. Younger than Genma, but probably not by
much.

The Amegakure border is almost directly west of Konoha. In the middle of summer, the weather
only gets hotter the further they go. The humidity rankles all of them, lingering in the air with a
weight that makes them sluggish.

Natsume’s hair is growing a little long—he can’t recall when he last cut it—and the ends now
reach his shoulders, defying gravity and frizzing terribly as the days go by. About three hours into
their journey he’d tied it up in a short, puffy ponytail just to keep it off the back of his neck.

Nearly a week later and he’s deliberating just taking a kunai to it.

Personal annoyances aside, Urara and Sawako come with their own brands of bothersome.

Urara is terrified of bugs and makes that very known multiple times while they’re darting through
the trees. Cicadas spook him to the point where he’s tripped at least six times just flinching away
when he notices one. He’s sweaty and jittering out of his skin with nerves, which isn’t
exceptionally annoying, just kind of uncomfortable.

Especially since a lot of his attention is on Natsume and he’s very bad at hiding it. You’d think the
Uzumaki was the eighth wonder of the world with how often Urara is just watching with his
electrifying chakra snapping in awe.

Then there’s Sawako, who talks too much and too loudly, and burns her fingers nearly every time
she starts a fire. She likes to do everything by herself and refuses to wake up immediately in the
mornings. For someone older than both her teammates, she definitely doesn’t act like it.

Genma just rolls his eyes and does his best to prepare them for entering a gray nation.

“Remember the ground rules when we cross the border,” he says, and repeats the information
several times during their journey just to hammer it home. “Amegakure is a small, underdeveloped
nation that barely has a functioning hidden village. The climate is wet and a lot of the landscape is
still recovering from the last war. You cannot stray beyond the regulated areas.”

Sawako snorts, “We’re not kids. What, ya think we’re gonna get lost?”
“No, I think there’s a high chance you’ll be mugged, murdered, or sold into slavery if you don’t
stay on your toes and in the correct location.”

Urara nearly gags in fear and almost slips from the next tree branch. Natsume has to catch the kid
by the elbow and haul him upright. It’s a comical sight considering Urara is easily two heads taller
than him.

“We’re shinobi,” Sawako says, though her voice is less haughty. “I doubt street rats are gonna try
their luck.”

“It’s not just the civilians you have to worry about. And you’d do well to remember that even
shinobi have been pickpocketed before. Sleight of hand isn’t bound to one lifestyle over the other.”

“W—But, um, why go if it’s so…so dangerous?” Urara stutters. He has a habit of pulling at his
ears when he gets anxious, which he’s doing now.

“That’s the point,” Natsume mutters.

Genma grins. “Exactly! You’re a shinobi. Such is life. It’s perfectly dangerous, and they also get a
lot of money funneled their way for hosting it. Business booms when a bunch’a tourists show up.
Not gettin’ cold feet, are you?”

Forget about cold feet, Urara looks like he’s turning green. Still, when his eyes meet Natsume’s for
the fortieth time that day, he lets his jaw shut with a click and doesn’t mention anything about
running away. Even though his whole body vibrates with the need to leave.

He’s the last person Natsume would consider a shinobi. In fact, there’s not much hope that the kid
will pass. Or even make it out of this alive. It’s a miracle he made it through the previous exams—
then again, they were in Konoha last, and it’s less likely to die in your own village’s exam than any
others.

Sawako eyes Urara with no small amount of disdain before leaping forward to leave them behind.
Her hair sticks up a bit in the back, puffy in the heat. She never seems aware of her own bed head.

“This’ll be a first for me too,” Genma says. “I’ve never been in the heart of Amegakure. It’s not
exactly a popular country.”

Yeah, a country ravaged by war and stuck between a bunch of antagonistic nations definitely
wouldn’t make a good tourist destination. Especially if it’s known for its rain and mud. It’s odd to
think that Suna is right below, a desert land that rarely sees precipitation. All the humidity and
moisture must just get blown up north.

The only similarity to Suna is their need for food trade. Amegakure is so drenched it can’t support
proper crop growth, while Suna is the opposite. At least the huge desert nation has the resources,
skills, and money to build greenhouses and aqueducts.

If Amegakure is as poor and decrepit as Genma said, their resource management must be dire. How
did they even feed their own citizens? What was their government doing? Did they even have one?
They must, if they were allowed to host the chunin exams.

“Who’s in charge in Amegakure? Do they not have a Kage?”

Genma shakes his head. “No, only the five great nations have recognized Kage. There are some
smaller nations that use the title for their leaders, but they aren’t acknowledged by any Land’s
Daimyos. As far as I’m aware, Ame has a council system in place.”
“How’d you not know that?” Sawako sneers, glancing over her shoulder briefly. He’s not confident
she knew either.

“Didn’t exactly have time to learn the whole curriculum.”

Early graduation means a lot of self-study and a lot of catching up in random areas you didn’t
realize were mandatory in standard shinobi education. Natsume doesn’t like not knowing, but it’s
hard to fill in all the blanks when he doesn’t actually know what’s blank.

Sawako clicks her tongue. “Right. Can’t forget that you’re a fuckin’ prodigy.”

He doesn’t have to be a sensor to feel the poison she’s practically spitting his way. Her candle-light
chakra burns like jealousy, acrid smoke sticking to the back of his throat. Sour notes spill easily, so
much so that it’s practically painted across her face and the tense set of her shoulders.

She has a lot of pride for someone with not a lot of skill to back it up. Even in the short time
they’ve spent together, Natsume can tell that she’s rather abysmal at controlling her fiery chakra
and generally resorts to smashing her way through with her fists. She is kindling to her own chakra.
But at least she can cast a few jutsu, even if they burn her more often than not.

Incredible that he got saddled with two genin with the two most dangerous chakra affinities.
Neither of them had the correct training or personality to control it.

“Oof, tension,” Genma mutters.

Natsume shoots him a glare.

“I—I didn’t know that either,” Urara stutters.

Sawako snorts, “Well if it’s an incompetence competition, you’re definitely winning.”

“Alright, alright, loosen up.” Genma claps his hands sharply. The smile on his mouth is too perfect.
He’s never felt more like a teacher or mother looming over their shoulder. “We’re not here to fight
each other, we’re here to be a team. None of you losers want to keep being genin, do you?”

Sawako splutters. She gets herself so worked up that she bites her tongue halfway through yelling
her head off at Genma, while Urara just sighs like an eighty-year-old man. For once, Natsume finds
himself relating to the nervous wreck of a boy.

He doesn’t have high hopes for this team.

Genma helps Sawako with her fire jutsu. She struggles to control the endlessly hungry flames
licking at her fingertips, the wrathful edge of her personality hampering her concentration. Sawako
can blow sparks and cradle soot in her palms and when she screams her throat spits roaring flames.
She’s better with her fists, and Natsume can’t understand why she wastes her time learning
something she’s obviously not good at.

Genma helps Urara learn a simple lightning jutsu. The boy spends hours yelping as he’s lightly
shocked by his own chakra, fingers growing red and shaky until he’s told to rest. He cries a lot,
especially in his sleep, but Natsume prefers him over Sawako. Because there’s something about
how the kid sniffs and clearly doesn’t want to be here, yet continues practicing even though it
stings.

Maybe it reminds Natsume of himself, in a terrible way.

You just keep trudging on, whether you want to be here or not.

At least Urara has more skill in chakra control than Sawako. Unfortunately he’s a bumbling fool
otherwise, unable to move silently or mask his footsteps, and he reacts too excessively when
startled.

It’s more horrifying to think that these two actually passed the initial Graduation Exam. How low
was the bar?

Natsume focuses on his own skills without the aid of his sensei, because he already performs
leagues above the other two. And when the weather turns from muggy to egregiously moist, they
reach the border to Amegakure.

Their first greeting is a rainstorm. The trees have thinned out considerably, replaced with hills and
rocky outcrops. Under their feet the dirt road turns to muck, clinging to their sandals. Most shinobi-
grade clothes are partially waterproof, so the water slides off of them for the most part. Until it
doesn’t, because the rain doesn’t exactly let up even as they file through the border check.

The guards stationed at the ramshackle checkpoint look bitter and gray, with washed out features
and matching expressions of boredom. Suggestions of poverty already appear in the slanted way
their station leans, the roof patched over at least twice and the walls made of different grains of
wood. The man who stamps through Natsume’s travel permit has fingernails crusted with mud and
a scarf over his mouth.

The gray eyes peering from deep-set sockets linger on the vibrant crimson of Natsume’s hair, the
boldest thing around for what seems like miles. He passes the documents back over, fresh ink
drying quickly. A stamp-seal proving legally granted passage.

Natsume files it back in his pack, skin crawling. The chakra in here is muted and dull, the
thunderous sound of raindrops on the tile roofing making his head ring. Everyone else gets their
paperwork in order without much fanfare. Natsume can’t help but think that there are eyes on him.

Genma’s hand brushes over his head, knocking water droplets from springy spikes. “We’re all set.
Ready to brave the rain?”

Natsume hikes up his shoulders and nods without a word. He keeps thinking about what Genma
said days ago—about getting kidnapped. About slave traders.

The idea that slavery and human trafficking existed isn’t as outlandish and surprising as he
anticipated. The Before had that too, even if it had never been an obvious part of his world. It was a
horror story, a ghastly thing to tell your kids to protect them from strangers, though entirely laced
with truth.

Now he works in a profession that frequently deals with such things. A profession that puts him in
front of people who look at his hair and his face and his name and think, oh, I want that.

It hadn’t crossed his mind at all before that last C Rank. Now he’s over-aware of men who stare
too long. Over-aware of the glaring crimson of his hair that he never sees reflected anywhere else.
A commodity—isn’t that what they’d said?
Genma speaks up when they’re about an hour out from the border. “We‘ll be watched at random
intervals during our journey to their village. Natsume, I trust you’ll be able to let us know if we
have any eyes on us.”

He grunts.

Genma raises a brow. “What’s wrong with you?” Then, quieter, “Is it the rain?”

“No,” Natsume quickly says, before the line of questioning can be continued. “I’m thinking about
the ramifications of killing Ame citizens.”

All three of them pause to stare at him.

“You’re…what?” Genma asks.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sawako exclaims.

That came out wrong.

Natsume mutters, “I meant in the event that we run into traffickers or violent criminals.”

“Oh.” Genma looks relieved. “Is that all? Yeah, it probably wouldn’t look good for us, sure. And
maybe I’d rather you aim to incapacitate over straight up kill, but I’d much rather deal with a bit of
political fallout over having one of you potentially trafficked. Assuming that’s what you’re worried
about.”

“It’s better to be prepared in case any incidents occur.”

“No one’s gonna want your ugly mug,” Sawako complains. “You worry too much.”

Urara looks pale again. He starts tugging on his ears. “But what if we do get trafficked? What if
they try to sell us for our organs?”

Genma sends Natsume a look. A ‘ now look what you did ’ kind of look. A ‘ you know that kid has
anxiety, Natsume ’ kind of look. “They’re not gonna want a bunch of scrawny genin, even if you
are the easier targets.”

“That doesn’t sound believable at all,” Urara murmurs.

“Did you guys forget that I’m going to be with you basically the whole time?” Genma asks. “I
promise I’ll rescue you if you manage to somehow get kidnapped under my watch.”

Sawako eyes him. Something about that bullheaded pride of hers makes it difficult for her to admit
that anyone could be the slightest bit better than her at something. Even if that person is almost ten
years older than her and a jonin. She doesn’t look impressed by his promise.

“I can feel your disbelief and it’s insulting.”

“Sorry!” Urara yelps.

Genma rolls his eyes, senbon snapping to the side. “Apology not accepted. You two will be fine.
Weak genin or not, you’re both run-of-the-mill Konoha natives and you look it. Not exactly gonna
have ‘em lining up to take you away. Sorry to burst your bubble.”

“Hey!” Sawako snaps.

Urara puts a trembling hand to his chest. “Oh, thank the Sage.”

Natsume glances over at Genma, the man’s eyes resolutely forward. Even when he walks like he
has not a care in the world, there’s a strain of tension in the press of his mouth against that piece of
steel he never stops chewing on. Natsume doesn’t even need to look at the subtle distress leaking
from earthy chakra, flickering and flaring as though muddled in the rain.

“And me?” He asks.

Genma turns to him then, water dripping down his hair and face, sticking dark stranded to the back
of his neck. Most of it is protected by his bandana, leaving his face clear and drenched. There isn’t
much of an expression on his countenance as he pretends to think about his answer. “Let’s say…if
you weren’t as strong as you are, I wouldn’t have signed you up to come.”

Another snort, once again from Sawako. Her chakra writhes. Somewhere between uncomfortable
and jealous, bitter and disgusted. “What would they want him for?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Urara asks, voice surprisingly strong. It startles even him, and he flushes up
to the roots of his hair. “I—I mean…he looks like…like that, you know?”

Is that supposed to be an insult?

“As if! No one’s gonna want someone with scars all over their face.” She turns away and begins
stomping loudly through the mud.

Genma’s hand knocks against Natsume’s shoulder. “Nothing’s going to happen to you while I’m
here. We really won’t be spending a lot of time around the civilian population. I don’t want you to
get riled up thinking we’re gonna be looking over our shoulder at every shadow.”

Natsume huffs. His hair clings to his cheeks, the rest tied up and turning into a very soggy ponytail.
Droplets slip under the collar of his shirt, mud cakes over his sandals. “We’re shinobi, we already
do that.”

“Well, you’re not wrong.” The jonin sighs, watching Urara trail after Sawako like a drenched duck.
“Do you think those scars make you ugly?”

“Weird thing to ask an eight year old.”

“What, too insensitive?”

“Probably.”

“Like you care. I think they make you look like a cat.”

“I don’t think they’re ugly,” Natsume replies loudly. His fingertips slip over his damp cheek,
feeling the groove of oddly straight lines carved into his face. “I forget about them. Besides, Naruto
has them too.”

“That’s good. Wouldn’t want you to develop a low self esteem before you even hit puberty.” Then
Genma straightens his hand out and holds it horizontally by Natsume’s head, as though measuring
his height. “Maybe when you hit it, you’ll finally grow taller.”

Natsume smacks the jonin’s hand away. “That’s usually the point of puberty.”

The rain begins to come down harder, thunder booming in the distance. The sound ricochets across
the overcast sky. Whatever waterproofing their clothes originally had is not enough against the
deluge. They’re soaked through entirely, four shinobi traversing the landscape like drowned rats.

Natsume doesn’t mind it. The rain isn’t the same as a body of water—and his chakra calls to it all
the same. He isn’t unfamiliar with loving something just as much as you fear it.

They make their way further into the country, where the scattered towns are few and far between.
Some are better off than others, but everywhere they go they feel eyes watch them from windows
and doors. A miasma of mistrust and disgust clogs the air. It scratches at the edges of his
awareness, heavy for something coming from pinpricks of civilian chakra.

Even Sawako is silenced by the attention.

Each area they travel through they’re greeted with silent hatred. It’s increasingly obvious that the
townsfolk despise shinobi.

It becomes more densely populated about a week in, when they’re approaching the location of the
hidden village. Every so often throughout their journey, Natsume would feel distant chakra
signatures observing their travel, making sure they never altered their destination. The sky clears
up in intervals, the longest for about a day and a half. The temperatures alter from hot to cold
frequently, and the wind always batters their tents so viciously it’s nearly impossible to sleep at
all.

Natsume is stressed, exhausted, and extremely relieved to see Amegakure appear over the next
rocky hill. The village is corded off and surrounded by high walls of stone and metal. The
buildings stretch up high—so far up that mist and clouds weave between them. Everything is dull
and colorless, steel and rust. Massive pipes and grates intersect in the streets and through buildings.
It all looks connected, not unlike the human body’s nervous system.

The entrance to the village is open, massive gates looming ominously over them. There’s no casual
travel in or out as they approach, and beyond the gate it looks almost deserted. A metal box just
inside the entrance houses a few steely-eyed shinobi. Genma tells Team Thirteen to pull out their
paperwork before approaching.

“State your business.”

Genma steps forward and hands over his documents. “Team Thirteen of Konoha here for the
Chunin Exams.”

A man with his hair tucked under a thick bandana takes it. His face is lined with age, his jaw with
silvery stubble. There’s pockmarked scars on his cheeks and over his nose. His fingers rifle
through the papers before grunting. He stamps beside the first ink seal-symbol they’d gotten at the
initial checkpoint.

The three genin follow suit, one at a time, with limited conversation between them. The Ame nin
aren’t talkative or friendly, and Natsume feels their latent rage like a nipping flame. They are even
less enthused to see Konoha shinobi on their soil than their civilians. Even a decade out from the
war.

Or perhaps because it’s only been a decade out from the last war and they’re still struggling here,
left to rot by the five nations surrounding them.

When they’re all set, the Ame nin turns to Genma and says: “Council Hall is three blocks over and
to the right. Red awning. Can’t miss it.”
Leaving the entrance isn’t much more of a relief.

Stray animals covered in more mud than fur skitter through alleyways. Civilians in the streets
dodge them, their stares wide and pointed and lingering on the slip of metal proudly displaying
Konoha’s symbol. The antagonism swells and ebbs like a living thing. The rain nearly burns, a
constant thrum that envelops everything and anything it touches.

It feels loud here, despite the lack of voices.

A headache blooms behind Natsume’s eyes.

“Where are we going now?” Sawako asks.

Genma practically shouts over the rain. “The Council Hall! We need to register our presence
officially so we can be directed to our lodging.”

For a place with a history of hating the great nations and shinobi—for understandable reasons—it’s
a wonder they’re even holding the chunin exams at all.

For a few years after the war, almost all villages that produced shinobi kept to themselves, not yet
ready to send their fresh genin to once-hostile lands. Even now there’s a lot of bad blood, causing
more out-of-village genin to go home in body bags than on their own feet. Typically, the chunin
exams were such a time consuming event that the five great nations resorted to hosting them.

But it wasn’t exclusive to them.

If you had a military system consisting of shinobi and the approval of the Land’s Daimyo, any
hidden village could apply to host the event—especially since any hidden village could send their
genin out to take the exam anywhere else.

It would have cost a lot of time and effort to put it all together, yet here Amegakure is. Struggling,
drowning. Doing whatever they can to bring more money into their economy, even if it means
letting those they hate walk right through their gates.

They follow the directions the man at the gate gave them and soon come to see the red awning
through the downpour. The lights along the metal buildings and shops are glaringly bright to cut
through the mist, but they still don’t do much to illuminate the streets once the sun begins to set.

Natsume shivers once they enter, the Council Hall almost painfully silent after exiting the rain. He
brushes a seal on the sleeve of his jacket and steam begins to waft off his body as the fabrics rapid-
dry. It stops the chill, but doesn’t help much with the state of his hair.

“That was awful,” Sawako spits. “It fucking sucks here.”

“I’m c-c-cold,” Urara stutters, his teeth chattering and his fingers nearly blue.

Genma stops just before entering the building to wring his bandana out under the awning. He looks
at it in distress and great reluctance, then forgoes putting it back on. The sopping lump is
regretfully tucked into one of his pockets. “When we get wherever we’re staying, I’m taking the
first shower. Sensei privileges.“

The building is relatively empty. The lobby is wide and showcases two wings on either side of a
long staircase that ascends to the next floor. There’s a sign at the first step directing all those here
for the chunin exams to go right.
The right wing has a few different offices, the doors shut tight. Yellow light flickers overhead, a
faint buzz gnawing at their ears. Their shoes leave muddy prints behind, joining a mess that’s
already tracked across the floors. At the end of the hall it opens to a room that almost resembles the
mission assignment office in Konoha—a spacious area with a row of desks and tired chunin sitting
behind them, looking especially aggrieved to be there.

There’s one other team present, their headbands engraved with the symbol for Kumo. The tension
is thick enough to cut as they wander over to an available desk. Natsume feels the weight of the
Kumo team’s stares. Team Thirteen probably looks ridiculous to their eyes. Three mismatched
genin of different ages that barely look at each other.

At least all eight of them look utterly bedraggled after their trip though the rain.

Natsume glances at the other team as discreetly as he can. The sensei is a short woman with dark
skin. Her face is youthful enough to make her age impossible to determine. Somewhere over
twenty, at least. The razor cut of her cheekbones is nothing compared to the poisonous glare of her
bright gray eyes. Her white hair is braided tight and close to her scalp, the ends just reaching her
shoulders.

Two other genin—the kunoichi and the shorter of the two boys—have white or off-white hair as
well, both with skin just as dark as their sensei’s, if not darker. Their eyes are all different colors,
however, and the shapes of their faces don’t speak of relation at all.

The kunoichi is the tallest of the genin, her eyes a deep plum purple. She’s dressed in fishnets, a
short-sleeve bodysuit, and has a white armor piece over her chest. A burgundy sash around her
waist hides a belt filled with various pouches.

She stands out the most to Natsume. Her chakra is bright and popping. Wind, free-spirited and as
powerful as a hurricane. She’s the one to watch out for.

Her two teammates have lightning chakra. It crackles under their flesh like pop rocks.

The short one with the off-white hair and blue eyes is dressed in heavy black clothes that nearly
swaddle him. He’s leaving a puddle on the floor and looks miserable. His scowl reveals a flash of
white, straight teeth, one of the canines missing and only just starting to grow back.

The taller boy is about an inch shorter than the kunoichi, his hair a soft honey-blonde plastered to
his scalp and sticking haphazardly to his forehead. His visible skin is covered in freckles; the rest
hidden by a dark gray shawl and soaked charcoal pants, tucked into standard shinobi sandals. His
eyes are dark enough to call black, and his gaze is steady when he inevitably catches Natsume
looking. They watch each other for a moment, the boy’s electric chakra flickering with nothing
more than curiosity.

They look like children. Twelve or thirteen, the beginnings of acne on their skin and not all their
adult teeth grown in. Their hands are larger than his but still small, their faces still round and
chubby.

Natsume turns away. The headache returns. A pit opens up in his chest, yawning like a black hole.
Devouring. To think he’d feared everything Konoha stood for. Thought about running. Dreamed
about being born somewhere else. The world outside its gates and forests is exactly the same.
Sending children not yet grown into their skin and bones to battle. To learn how to kill and how to
die.

A sudden helplessness overwhelms him.

 Genma speaks with the chunin at the desk, his words white noise in Natsume’s ears. He doesn’t
really hear what’s being said, or understand the lame joke his sensei tried to crack to lighten the
mood. Ame is oppressive and damning and soaked in hatred and pain. It won’t bend to the
practiced smile of a Konoha shinobi.

Natsume exhales. Child soldiers everywhere. A disease consuming the entire continent. A concept
of normal he can’t understand.

He’s starting to regret coming here and he wishes, rather childishly, that he could see the two boys
he left behind in that shitty apartment.

Chapter End Notes

I have a twitter now !! !! @spideywhites

 VOL. 1, ARC III. (wild)

Natsume doesn’t sleep perfectly through the first few nights.

Ame is a loud city despite its silent streets. The hotel they’ve been put up in until the Chunin
Exams begin is in the center of a district that only bustles in the evenings. Everything smells of wet
metal and earth, a stench not unlike blood. He hates the way it settles into the rooms, filling every
corner. Filling his lungs with every breath.

The chakra here is odd. It seems to rain from the sky, saturated in the ground and buildings,
clinging to every drop that touches the iron-wrought city. Natsume knows of nature chakra, but this
is intense. And oddly familiar, in a way. He can’t quite…explain it.

It doesn’t feel real at times.

The tension makes him less talkative than usual—not that he was very talkative to begin with.

In the scant week they have before the exams begin, he chooses to stick close to their hotel. He has
a few texts sealed away on fuuinjutsu and water jutsu, but is reluctant to pull them out when it feels
like there are eyes on them constantly. Bringing delicate work into another nation isn’t the smartest
of ideas, even if it would have staved off his boredom.

There’s a bar just across the street from the entrance to their hotel, one with a soaked gray banner
that never quite dries, and a stray dog in the alley beside it. Patrons will toss scraps to it frequently,
which is why it seems so accustomed to human presence. Natsume can still count the ribs under
that matted fur. Looking at the dog from the window makes him ill.

“You’ve been cleaning your blade for two hours,” Genma comments.

Natsume glances up, hands stilling. His sensei hovers at the open door, shoulders damp from the
faint drizzle outside.

“C’mon,” Genma continues. “Let’s get some food. A little team bonding exercise.”

“We’ve been team bonding for three weeks,” Sawako mutters crossly.

Urara leaps up from his futon. “I-I’d like food! But we…won’t go far from the hotel, right?”

Genma raises an eyebrow. “Are you still worried about getting kidnapped?”

“No,” Urara lies.

Sawako snorts.

Seeing as their camaraderie hasn’t improved in the long journey here, Natsume doesn’t see it
getting better anytime soon. Their personalities clash far too much, they’re all at different stages of
maturity, and they all, presumably, have different goals.

Natsume—isn’t quite sure what his own is. He doesn’t entirely care about what it means to
become a chunin, but he knows that it’s necessary to rise in power if he wants to be worth
something. Being chunin will aid him in his efforts to establish a sense of power. A foothold, if
you will.

Urara doesn’t have much drive at all. It’s unknown to Natsume what the kid is even doing here.
Here being in the shinobi field at all.

Sawako is brash and prideful, to a detriment. She’s a teenager, so some of the behaviors are
explainable, but she’s also in the wrong business if she decides to keep acting the way she does.

Genma rolls his eyes. “You guys are all awful conversationalists. This is why we need to have a
decent bonding experience over a bowl of hot food in a nice restaurant. To set the mood. Much
better than a campfire in the middle of a rain storm.”

The setting probably isn’t the reason they never managed to get along or get to know each other,
but Natsume begins putting his blade cleaning supplies away all the same. All the moisture in the
air has him more vigilant to any possible damage. Even though he hasn’t actually used the blade
since they arrived.

Genma brings them to a restaurant that looks equivalent to one of the dessert bars in Konoha’s red
light district. Despite the appearance, there’s no scantily clad servers of any gender wandering
between tables. The interior is actually quite nice, warm wood accents off-setting the steel exterior.
There’s a collection of traditional low tables with cushioned seats, along with a few booths with
more modern seating. The scent of roasting meat and tea washes away the iron tang from outside.

A woman in a green kimono greets them, her hair gray with age. She tries very hard not to look at
their headbands as she brings them to a traditional table, one of the few available. It’s quite busy at
this time of day—lunchtime in full swing.

After removing their shoes, the other three slump down into informal positions, while Natsume
finds himself descending in an all-too-formal seiza, Hinata’s lessons ingrained in him. He sits with
his back straight, ignoring the flare of surprise that ripples through the civilian woman’s meager
chakra.

Her eyes are oddly pointed as they observe him, flickering from the placement of his hands to the
precise positioning of his feet. Then she lowers her head at a graceful angle and promises to return
shortly with tea.

“Jasmine, please,” Genma calls. Then, to Natsume, “You’re shaping up to be quite the little master.
Guess those lessons with the Hyuuga heir are paying off.”

“She’s an efficient teacher,” he replies.

Ruthless when she wanted to be, too. Or maybe she was just so accustomed to being taught through
brutal repetition that it didn’t seem odd to her. His thighs had never burned more than when he was
made to practice getting in and out of seiza for two hours straight. Hinata was so, so disciplined. It
pained him to think that the cost of that discipline was her childhood.

She acts with a grace that seven-year-olds don't need and shouldn’t have. Perfection in her duties as
an heir…just…

Just not enough skill in the violence demanded of an heir to a shinobi clan. She would have fit
perfectly in the Daimyo’s court, or as a civilian merchant’s daughter. It might be a cruel thing to
think, because it was surely echoed in the thoughts of the rest of her clan. They all thought her
sister was better suited.

Hanabi. Just a few years old and already taking to the shinobi lifestyle the way clan children are
expected to. Hinata told him snippets about how proud she was of her little sister. Hanabi was
strong. Hanabi spent hours in the dojo. Hanabi is already getting better at balance and speed and
Hyuuga-oriented kata.

Hanabi is just about three years old.

It’s incredible, they all say.

Natsume can’t help but feel that three years old is disgustingly young to be so skilled, so filled with
potential. But clan kids are different. Clan kids are overdeveloped. Clan kids are built for power.
Made for it. Bred for it.

Itachi had been like that. Is like that. The youngest, the strongest. Shisui was always so eager to
talk about his cousin like a proud mother. It drove Natsume crazy sometimes.

“What?” Sawako asks, her orange eyes darting between them. “What are you talking about?”

Genma flicks through the small menu, shrugging nonchalantly. “Maybe you’d have your answers
if you talked to each other.”

Natsume gives his sensei a deadpan stare, which is very obviously ignored. Three genin who are
clearly abysmal at social situations in three different ways aren’t going to get along just because
Genma keeps throwing them all together. At least, probably not.

“Are you…marrying into the Hyuuga?” Urara asks quietly.

“What?” Sawako gapes.

“What?” Natsume blinks. “No. Why would you think that?”

Urara shifts in his seat and twiddles his thumbs. “The Hyuuga are real—uh, really scary. And a big
clan. I didn’t think they, um, you know…”

“Associated with non-clan riff-raff?” Natsume finishes dryly, nearly offering a smile to match the
arid tone. “I don’t think they usually do. They’re almost all just as stuck-up and insecure as you’d
imagine. Obsessed with their own image and internal power.”

“Sage,” Genma mutters under his breath. “Tell us how you really feel.”

Sawako huffs, “What are you doing with that Hyuuga heir, then? Everyone in Konoha knows
they’re the most uppity clan after—“

Silence.

She clears her throat. “They always walk around with sticks up their asses and never give anyone
the time of day. And they all look the same. It’s creepy. And their eyes are weird and sca—stupid
looking.”

Natsume will give her that—she’s not entirely wrong. The Hyuuga are almost obsessive in their
traditional ways and iron-clad internal dictatorship. It’s one thing to be protective and respectful of
your clan’s teachings and culture, but the Hyuuga take it to a level that is…stifling.

It reminds him of a cult, actually.

Still, he feels a tinge of indignation at her comments on the Hyuuga’s eyes. Purely in Hinata’s
defense. She can’t control the way her byakugan looks just as Natsume can’t control the scarlet hue
of his hair. They’re symbols of their respective clans.
He elects to ignore most of Sawako’s complaints. “We have a mutual understanding. An exchange
of knowledge.”

“Right, ‘cause you’re sooo special.”

Genma sighs. “Kids, can you lighten up?”

“I’m just sayin’ it like it is!” Sawako exclaims. “He’s just some nobody, but he’s getting special
treatment! Canoodling with the Hyuuga clan of all people? He’s like five!”

Their server returns before another word can be said, a tray with a tea kettle and ceramic cups in
her arms. She places everything with precise, practiced movements, pouring them each a cup of
steaming jasmine tea.

“Your orders, dear customers?”

They each rattle off an order—Urara taking a few extra moments to frantically look through the
menu before stuttering out his desire for Soba.

Natsume gets beef udon, despite the option of ramen being present.

Naruto would probably throw a conniption if he knew his twin chose it over ramen.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, just loud enough for the server to hear.

She bows, the serving tray tucked to her chest. “Of course. Your meals will be out shortly.”

Genma raises a brow once she leaves. “Was that keigo?”

“Hm. Hinata’s been drilling me in teineigo and sonkeigo.” It’s a lot more difficult to speak without
his typical accent. To pronounce things politely requires additional verbiage and kanji, all
depending on context and who you’re speaking to. It’s utterly exhausting. There’s so much
memorization he’s almost sick with it.

Growing up in an orphanage and on the streets of Konoha, especially in the southern half, meant
that his manner of speech was dreadfully informal. He was ‘raised’ close to the southern shopping
district, providing a melting pot of slang and speech inflections. Nothing about his original use of
language sounded particularly…

Educated to the standard of a ‘lordly’ position.

So yes, it was annoying and definitely classist and absolutely stupid, because he could get his point
across with a twang to his words just as well without—but the culture of Konoha was so steeped in
tradition that he’d be seen as an idiot otherwise.

And right now he didn’t have a lot of room to stand.

So he’s practicing his keigo whenever possible. Has turned his ‘ what’re ya lookin’ at?’ Into ‘
What has captured your attention?”

He doesn’t even want to be a ‘lord’. He’d very much like to never speak to the Daimyo or the
Feudal Lords at all, thank you. Because they fucking suck. A bunch of fat pigs who’ve never seen
strife or war beyond the checker pieces on a map. All the while—as they sleep in their castles with
the privilege to throw away mountains of food—the children of their lands die in battle and starve
in the streets.
Sawako, strangely, doesn’t look angry so much as she looks confused. “I don’t get it. You’re acting
like you’re some clan kid. What’re you even hoping for? People like us don’t get close to them.”

Them.

Like clan shinobi are completely different from civilian-born shinobi.

She’s right. Mostly. In both natural disposition and talent, as well as privileged knowledge, shinobi
from clans have the upper hand. It’s very rare that a civilian-born shinobi ever reaches the same
heights without putting in immense amounts of effort. That is to say, they work twice as hard to
reach the same level—and they do, of course they do. There are plenty of jonin, and probably
ANBU, who aren’t from clans. But they have to claw their way to those positions while clan
shinobi are practically handed their promotions. Because the more clan shinobi in the field, the
more fear-mongering can be used as a tactic against their enemies.

And, as stated, clan shinobi are built different.

Civilian-born shinobi are three times as likely to fail during the initial genin tests after graduation.
Natsume only knows this because both Gai and Genma like to talk a lot, and they tend to rant
whenever he asks questions about civilians. Expected, seeing as both of them are from families
that, while not made up of wholly civilians, aren’t clans by any means.

Natsume looks at Genma briefly. It’s obvious neither of the other genin have heard of the Uzumaki
Clan. His sensei looks back, offering what might be a small shrug.

He asks, “You don’t like clan shinobi?”

“They get clear favoritism,” Sawako says.

Urara looks uncomfortable, but he doesn’t try denying it when eyes swing his way. All he offers is
an awkward grimace. “She’s…not wrong. The, um, the students in the Academy from—from
clans…they’re better.”

“Sure, they can start ‘better’ than civilian-born students. But it’s not impossible to catch up to them,
or even surpass them.” Natsume doesn’t really know why he’s arguing.

Maybe it’s because he knows Hinata, who doesn’t fit into the mold of ‘talented’. Maybe it’s
because he knows Gai, who’s infinitely stronger than most. Maybe it’s because he himself is a
‘clan kid’ and there’s a weird fluttering feeling of guilt in his chest.

Not because he had any semblance of a good, normal, helpful childhood. But because he’d be an
idiot not to acknowledge that he’s better than most his age. Better than a good chunk older than
him, too. Natsume is talented. He has the inherited disposition of a clan kid, just without the
accompanying knowledge to help him hone it.

He’s also aware that Naruto doesn’t have that, not entirely.

Naruto is filled with natural athleticism, but his body seems to fight him when he tries to learn. It
takes him twice as long to memorize kata than it does other students. He can’t control his chakra—
he’s even worse than Natsume, but he’s also learning at an Academy-level—and Naruto currently
has the worst aim known to man.

Sure, Natsume has to train hard, but he picks up concepts faster than most. He’s already overtaken
Genma when it comes to using a short sword, and they’ve only been training the better part of a
year. He knows what people think when they look at him.
Genius.

And all he can think about is Hiashi’s cold, reflective gaze. Those pools of lavender drilling into
Natsume’s skull as Itachi’s name fell from his lips.

Sawako sneers. “We can’t all be like Yondaime-sama.”

Genma’s chakra wavers.

Ah, Natsume knows by now that the late Yondaime is a touchy subject for Genma. His sensei
always gets a little squirrely when they linger too long on the topic of Namikaze Minato.

Natsume furrows his brow. He can’t remember everything about the textbooks mentioning the
Hokage and their backstories. He does recall that the Yondaime is the only one not to come from a
Clan. That still seems odd. “He’s really not from a clan?”

“Civilian-born,” Genma answers, his fingers tapping against the half-empty tea cup.

“His last name is written in kanji, if I remember correctly.” Namikaze. The kind of name meaning
wind and waves or, quite ironically, hardship. Discord. Strife. While the kanji themselves weren’t
impressive on their own, the combination wasn’t local to Konoha. There were no Namikaze
around. No one is milking the Namikaze name after the death of the Yondaime.

It could be a civilian name, but also not. Most clans had names formed around techniques,
locations, or styles. Long-standing merchant or civilian families had names focused mostly on
location or trades in particular.

Like Urara, with the surname Unagi meaning ‘eel’. He’d stuttered a bit about his life over the
journey, enough that Natsume is aware that the older boy is the son of a civilian family that runs a
sushi shop in northern Konoha.

There was also a good percentage of civilians that simply had no surname at all, though most of
them lived in the countryside and not within the walls of Konoha. Most, not all.

Sawako is a good example. No surname. A chip on her shoulder. Poor skill and lacking talent.

Another, smaller percentage were dime-a-dozen surnames given to orphaned children, typically the
name of the matron or orphanage itself.

Namikaze was an interesting middle ground. Combined with the fact that Minato meant harbor…

Either a clan with particular skill in wind and water, or a seaside merchant family.

“Nami no Kuni,” Genma murmurs.

The Land of Waves. A territory at the southern end of the Land of Fire. Very on the nose. Natsume
should have guessed that. He’ll have to go back to studying the maps when he resumes lessons
with Hinata. It’s important to understand the kanji that makes up each person's name, as it can tell
you a lot about who they are and where they’re from.

And what kind of respect to show them.

Natsume’s brain hurts just thinking about the amount of studying he’s going to be buried under for
the foreseeable future. Assuming he even makes it out of these Chunin Exams alive.

Sawako looks smug, “Look at that. Nothing special about him at all. And he still became Hokage.”
For a year, Natsume thinks. Saying it out loud would definitely not win him any points. It could
potentially hurt Genma’s feelings, for one. Natsume is getting disgustingly invested in preventing
that from happening.

The conversation drops once more when the food arrives.

Genma’s chakra wriggles, unsettled. Impatient. It’s hard to parse what the man is truly feeling
when Natsume’s head still hurts from the strange chakra in the rain. His sensei’s face reveals none
of it, as usual. Natsume wouldn’t know a thing was wrong at all without his chakra sense, and that
—

Still makes him feel odd. Like he’s peering into their souls. But he only feels bad about it when it
has to do with Genma and the kids. He doesn’t give two shits about everyone else’s comfort.
Maybe that’s bad of him to admit, but he only has so much room in his heart for love in this world.

He wonders what it is that Genma wants to say.

The darker alleys of Ame are avoided to the best of their ability, but they’re plentiful enough that
they can’t be ignored entirely.

Natsume hunkers down at the edge of an alley, the pervasive scent of soggy garbage etching its
way into his throat. The shopping district is easy to miss if you don’t look for it. A lot of business
is conducted inside, within large buildings that remind Natsume of what a mall should be—
conjoined like lego pieces. He doesn’t want to go in, lest he be tempted to buy something. There’s
only so much money he’s willing to spend, seeing as he’s facing a large chunk of time in which he
won’t be getting paid.

Yeah, no one pays you to take a possible 2-3 month trip for an exam. Not like shinobi don’t have
bills and rent to pay or anything. No, not at all!

So he’s sitting in the lip of the alley, senses spread wide enough to feel civilians skittering around
three blocks over. There’s a heavy hum in the air that reminds him of electricity. Like an overhead
light in a sketchy gas station. Fog curls over the ground, his hair a wild mess in the moist mid-day.

He tracks Urara’s zippy chakra a few stores over, trailing reluctantly behind sizzling, stomping
Sawako. He’s pretty sure they can both take civilians if there’s a fight of some kind. Pretty sure.
It’s not like he’s ever seen them fight outside of training, and Urara still flinches in practice. Which
is another worrying thought on its own. The flash of deep-rooted fear in Urara whenever someone
moved too fast towards him had Natsume’s senses going haywire.

He didn’t want to assume the worst, but.

Natsume sighs gustily.

He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like not knowing. But he doesn’t know how to ask without coming
on too strong. People don’t like his blunt nature, which he normally doesn’t mind. It’s just that…
well, children don’t react well if you try and ask about possible abusive family members.

At least to Natsume’s knowledge.

Case one: Hinata, who still thought her father could do no wrong and every failure on her part was
wholly a fault of her own design.

Case two: Sasuke, who desperately wanted the attention of his father when he clearly could have
gotten it elsewhere.

Case three: Naruto, who loves Konoha.

Somehow.

There exists some purity within Naruto that is utterly flabbergasting to Natsume. Where it comes
from, he’s not sure. The blonde always sees the gold lining after every situation. His temper is
soothed, his arguments forgotten, his smiles easy.

Meanwhile, Natsume is rotting.

Natsume is—

Woodsmoke.

It’s brief. Cloying. Sweet like incense and the ashy scent of a matchstick.

Natsume sits up from his slouched spot, reacting before he can help it. He thinks he could be
mistaken. Delusional. It’s not impossible for other shinobi with fire nature to be wandering around.
He’s in the middle of a hidden village, during the start of the Chunin Exams. It would be odd not to
sense more than one wandering about.

He inhales iron-wet air and clenches his fists until the tendons creak. His nails dig into his palms.
He flares out his sensory ability and—

There.

It’s—

It’s not Itachi.

But it’s still…it’s Uchiha.

It’s Uchiha, isn’t it? Natsume would know. He would fucking know. Every person had an
individual chakra signature—a completed puzzle, if you will. Built of pieces making up the whole
of a person. Chakra natures, personality traits, their soul—whatever one might assume swirls
within a body. Family members always had a piece of the puzzle that was the same. That
connected them.

Natsume inhales woodsmoke and incense and ash until it vanishes, a wisp on the wind. Consumed
by wet metal and nature chakra.

He looks down the alleyway, away from the mouth of it, squinting into the dark. There’s nothing
there, his senses confirm it. Promise it. Not a single lick of chakra exists there, past the rotting
garbage. That doesn’t stop his skin from crawling, the cold seeping through the seals on his
clothes. For a moment—

For a moment he thought there had been someone there.

“Natsume.”
He flinches and spins around, his hand on his waist, curling over the hilt of his short sword.

Genma holds up a hand, his familiar warm, earthy, poisonous chakra breathing life into Natsume’s
chilled body. A flare of confusion reflects not only in Genma’s chakra, but on his face as well.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” Natsume says, forcibly relaxing. “You startled me.”

Genma lets out a short laugh. “I know, that’s…kind of why I’m asking. Since when can anyone
sneak up on you?”

He scowls. “It’s this rain.”

“The rain?”

“It’s seeped in what feels like nature chakra. I’ve never felt anything like it.” He doesn’t know why
he keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t know why his heart sinks into his stomach, boiling in bile
until he feels sick. What would he have done if that was Itachi?

His fingers twitch.

Nothing, he realizes.

Nothing at all.

Genma looks surprised, his brown eyes flat like mud in the poor, gray lighting. It makes his skin
look sallow in the shadows. “Nature chakra? In the rain? Not to sound like an idiot, but isn’t it
there…naturally?”

Natsume opens his mouth. Closes it. He doesn’t know. Rain has never felt like this before. Heavy
and headache inducing. Nature chakra on its own is hard to really focus on, because it’s ambient
and everywhere. There’s no need to pay attention to it when he’s more attuned to the chakra
circulating within humans.

“It’s probably nothing.”

Genma doesn’t look entirely convinced. He peers out from the alley, into the muddy street. There’s
a never-ending drizzle that they’re barely protected from. Not once has it stopped raining, and the
Chunin Exams are tomorrow. “Not a lot of space for the word ‘ probably’ as a shinobi. Are you
going to be alright during the exams?”

“I’ll manage.” It’s aggravating and kind of like a thorn poking at his brain, but the pain isn’t
overwhelming. It’s more of a constant discomfort. A rock in his shoe. Now if it was nausea, he’d
be half-way to Konoha by now.

Natsume glances over his shoulder again, back into the dark.

Genma’s voice is low, nearly hidden by the sound of rain. “…Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’m fine.”

Natsume doesn’t need to read chakra to know that Genma doesn’t believe him. Thankfully, his
sensei just shakes his head.

“Sure. We’ll revisit that later. Moving on, I wanted to…say something.”
The only thing that Natsume can think of is how restless Genma had been the other day during
their ‘team bonding’. He wonders if his sensei is finally going to spill the beans.

“Your situation right now isn’t ideal. Neither Sawako or Urara are the type of genin I’d promote to
chunin. Not anytime soon. Urara is easy enough to work with, but Sawako will be an issue. She’s
filled with a lot of misplaced pride and clearly distrusts clan shinobi.”

“She’s jealous of them.”

Genma’s senbon wavers between his teeth, his mouth cutting into a bitter smile. “That’s not
unusual behavior. But it’s her own fault if she can’t put that aside and complete a mission,
especially when we’re all supposed to be allies. We don’t know what Ame’s Chunin Exam is going
to entail, that makes her attitude dangerous. Especially if she finds out you’re a clan kid.”

Natsume snorts, “Some clan kid I am. And it’s not like she wouldn’t know if she picked up a
book.”

“You know as well as I do that the Uzumaki aren’t in most public texts.”

It’s a solemn statement that hits like a pile of bricks. Natsume’s belligerent amusement vanishes.
Yeah. That’s right. Konoha buried Uzushio and the Uzumaki. All it took was a bit of time.

“My name doesn’t mean shit around Konoha, there’s nothin’ for her to be jealous of.”

“I don’t really think it matters.”

“What’s her issue?”

Genma tilts his head back, glancing into the dark alley like he’s looking for whatever Natsume
couldn’t find. “Her original team consisted of a Hyuuga and a Yamanaka, both who outshone her
in every category and practically carried her through every mission. They jumped to chunin within
a year, and she’s been floundering in the genin corps ever since.”

The genin corps is hard to get out of. They’re the forgotten. The bulk of the shinobi force. They do
the gritty work, the basic tasks, the chores—and they keep Konoha running. They’re the garbage
men. The ones that no one respects.

She must have leapt at the chance to join a team and take another crack at the Chunin Exams,
especially since it sounds like her old sensei abandoned her entirely to the corps. Usually it would
be a sensei’s responsibility to make sure each of their students proceeded either to chunin or to
some other career path—like medic nin or barrier nin. It was the sensei’s responsibility to find a
team for students that don’t pass the chunin exams at the same time.

“She’s been a genin for probably five years now,” Genma comments. “And no one’s given her the
time of day or helped her with training, because in the eyes of Konoha—the only thing those in the
genin corps are good for is pushing paperwork and painting fences.”

Natsume frowns. He doesn’t know what Genma is trying to say. The man’s chakra is faint and
washed out. Fog curls at their ankles. Genma is stalwart and tired. Cyanide and almonds snake
through the air.

A smile softens the rising tension. Genma puts his hand on Natsume’s head and ruffles the damp
strands. “This might be terrible for me to say, especially as a jonin responsible for all three of you
in equal measures, but I want you to win. I want you to make it all the way through the exams, no
matter what. And if she holds you back in anyway, or becomes a danger to you… then I want you
to leave her.”

Natsume inhales sharply. It becomes difficult to look at Genma, but he doesn’t need to when the
earthy chakra tells all. Sun-warmed rocks. Affection.

“Leave…her?”

Shinobi rules dictate that a mission should come before a life. Any life. Yours or a friend’s or a
partner’s. If you’re a shinobi, your existence is dedicated solely to the village and anything that is
required of you.

But everyone knows that Konoha shinobi are ‘softer’. They preach about camaraderie all
throughout the Academy, preferring teams to solo units. You work together or you don’t pass, you
don’t reach your full potential.

Team Thirteen should be a three man squad that watched each other’s backs and worked in unison,
as expected of shinobi from Konoha.

Genma’s stare is pointed. Drilling. He makes it feel like Natsume can’t actually look away.

“Leave both of them if you have to.”

Leave them to what? Natsume thinks, but the thought is drowned under a tidal wave of
understanding. Buried under a mix of cruelty and joy. In someone’s eyes, he’s the most important.

“I will,” he promises.
 VOL.1, ARC III. (wounded)
Chapter Notes

Insane that AO3 really collapsed the day i was supposed to post this

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The morning of the Chunin Exams, Natsume wakes from a dream that he can barely remember.
There are wisps of watercolor remnants clinging to the edges of his vision. For a moment it’s as if
he’s seeing double, a memory overlapping with the view of a hotel room.

They come more frequently now.

The dreams.

Memories of a beach trip with his family, of a concert—though the artist has faded into obscurity
—and of a plush couch that was worn at the arms from the claws of a cat. A mother and father,
where here he has none. A sister, where here he has a brother.

Then, further.

Ashen skies, the scent of orange trees and lilies. Clay in hand, brush spilling ink across a page, the
press of a needle going through fabric. He sees smudges of gray where there should be color, the
images not fully formed. Blotted out like a water-damaged photograph.

Natsume doesn’t think he ever believed in a God, singular or plural, and he’s not sure he does now
either. Reincarnation is the likely route—that, or he’s delusional. Do you need a God for that? Or
are they just the constructs of death and life?

This world is so unlike the one before, and the one before that is too smudged to yet make out.

He wonders how far back it goes. Where it began. If it ever really ends. If it’s normal for the
universes to feel different. Did that mean alternate universes existed? Or was this current life of his
a far flung future to the life before, and some catastrophe set them back to the veritable Stone Age?

He could think in circles and come out with no clear answer.

But he puts that aside for now. There will be time for an existential crisis later, after the Chunin
Exams are over.

He double-checks all his pockets and seals before they leave, a sense of anxiety making his hair
stand on end. He can’t wait to be out of Amegakure and it’s cold, damp, humid climate. He hates
the incessant rain and the overwhelming feeling of chakra pressing down around him. He can’t
stand the alleyways filled with muck and trash, and he especially finds himself wearing thin at his
company.

It’s strangely just as dreadful as the border patrol mission had been, despite there being less people
who actively hate him.

Genma leads their rag-tag group to a nondescript building at the southernmost end of the city. It’s a
boxy shape, with a few long metal tubes running through it—each one easily as wide as Natsume is
tall. Different chakra natures swarm within, condensed in a single space and bright enough to make
Natsume recall the Academy.

“This is where I leave you,” Genma says, gesturing to the metal doors.

There’s no one standing outside to bar the way. That’s almost more unsettling. If Natsume couldn’t
sense all the different people inside, he’d think this was the kind of sketchy place you’re dragged
to after getting put in the back of a van.

Urara looks three seconds from passing out, but Sawako ignores them all and goes right for the
doors.

Natsume lingers back a moment just to trade a glance with Genma, who’s more tense than all three
of them—just by the state of his chakra. Otherwise, their sensei looks utterly composed, as if he’s
dropping them off at school and not to their potential deaths.

“Good luck,” he says.

Natsume nods. “Yeah.”

Genma’s cloudy brown eyes are the last thing he sees when the doors swing shut.

Inside is a long, empty hall. Devoid of warmth or color. The walls are slate gray, as are the floors
and ceiling. Strong, yellow lights illuminate every square inch, showcasing a long path lined with
various doors. They’re all unlabeled and shut tight, with no indication of what each might lead to.

Sawako strides forward and grabs the first doorknob on the right, giving it a forceful twist. It
doesn’t budge. Her perpetual scowl deepens and she moves on to the next one. Urara shadows her
from three strides behind, content to let her go first.

Is this the first test? Or part of it? There’s no true rule as to when the exam starts or what the
contents might be. All Natsume knows is that it changes for every village and every exam. He
can’t rule out the possibility that everything about this is a challenge they’re meant to overcome.

A hallway of doors.

Frankly, it’s worthless to someone like him.

He walks right by Sawako—on the fourth door—all the way to the ninth door down on the left.
This is the room with all the chakra signatures inside. The rest are empty, probably locked or
trapped.

As if to prove his point, Sawako screeches when a short electric current zaps through her. “What
the hell!”

“It’s over here,” Natsume says, and opens his chosen door.

Inside is what could pass as a classroom. Except there’s no chairs, tables, or desks, and there’s not
a single window either. So maybe it’s not so much like a classroom as it is a prison cell—though
there’s a chalkboard on the wall beside the entrance. He glances at it briefly. Blank. Not even a
single piece of chalk or an eraser to be seen.

The room is filled with people all standing in their own groups of three, varying in age. The
majority are pre-teens, likely between twelve or fourteen. There’s some mix-matched squads like
their own team, and a few others that are clearly frequent fliers. Pushing twenty or thirty. Career
shinobi.

Genin corps, if the other villages have such a thing.

Definite chips on their shoulders, then.

Everyone turns to look at them as they enter, silence falling across the crowd. The proud Sawako
bumps against him as she stomps in, but her face takes on a greenish hue when she notices all the
attention leveled their way. Even her pride can’t withstand her nerves.

Natsume rests a hand on his wakizashi casually. There’s a lot of different chakra signatures within.
Plenty of them are definitely not here to play nice.

Urara hovers at his shoulder like he plans to use Natsume as a shield from the glares. It doesn’t do
much, as the kid’s entire head is above Natsume’s own. The three of them pick a semi-open space
to the right, and slowly the muttering around the room picks up again. For once, mutual discomfort
has Konoha’s Temp Team Thirteen unanimously at each other’s backs.

Within the span of thirty minutes, two more teams trickle in.

They’re the only Konoha team. Just by looking, Natsume can tell that the only other villages with a
single team are Suna and Taki, while Kumo, Kusa, and Iwa have two. Ame, seeing as it’s their own
village, has four teams. That’s twelve other teams and thirty-six other genin. A… decent turnout,
even if he definitely expected more with how many shinobi villages there are. There’s no team
from Kiri.

Natsume also notes that he’s the youngest here by a slight margin. The next is a team of twelve
year olds. Most of the chakra from the younger teams is laced with confusion, jealousy, and
surprise. Those on the older end are filled with fear and contempt. They might not have been able
to climb the shinobi system’s ladder, but they sure as hell know what it means when a child his age
shows up at a Chunin Exam.

A shift in chakra has him turning to the front of the room, where a shinobi is using some kind of
earth jutsu to come through the wall—right through the chalkboard. It’s a man, dressed in the
thick, gray garbs of the Amegakure shinobi. His hair is a tawny shade of brown, matching the
beard at his chin.

Dark green eyes glance over the room, no outright emotion on his face—though his chakra clearly
shows that he’s unimpressed by the fact that it takes a solid minute for the entire room to turn to
him and realize he’s there at all.

Urara squeaks beside Natsume, doing the smarter thing this time and hiding behind the much taller
Sawako.

“Welcome to Amegakure, Genin. My name is Wado, I’m the overseer of this year’s Chunin
Exams. I’ll be announcing the first test.”

Tension fills the air, seeping out of each person no matter how well they mask it with their body
language. The taste of it is nearly suffocating. At least Urara’s chattering teeth are enough of a
distraction.

Wado stands with perfect posture, a gauntness to his cheeks that makes him look unsettling,
especially coupled with his height. He must easily surpass six feet. “Each team will be called into
another room one at a time. I can’t reveal the contents of what will happen to you there. If you
pass, you’ll return to this room and the next team will be called. If you fail, you’ll be escorted out.”

Murmurs of dissent rise, but Wado keeps talking like he can’t hear them, and everyone soon quiets
down so as not to miss anything.

“I do have permission to clarify this: the tests you will endure are not team-based. Whether you
pass or fail is entirely up to your own merit, including this first task. While in this room there will
be no fighting, no antagonizing, and no drama. Anyone going against this or caught attempting to
instigate a scene will be immediately removed and disqualified from the exam. Now, Team Nine
from Kusa, exit the room and turn left.”

It takes a split second for three genin with Kusa headbands to realize what’s happening. A girl and
a boy with brown hair, a boy with blonde hair, all three of them around thirteen. They look
nervous. All of them move forward as one. It’s probably their first Chunin Exam, with how
familiar they seem to be.

Natsume watches them leave the room and follows them with his sensory ability. They walk down
the hall with trepidation flicking in their earth-water-water chakra. Stopping and starting. A heavy
layer of foreign chakra descends quite suddenly, coating the hallway. Then the three of them
suddenly split off, all moving in a way that must mean they’ve entered separate rooms. If he
focuses, through the haze of the chakra he can sense that there’s someone standing before each of
the Kusa genin.

It’s moments like these that he wishes he had a Byakugan. Seeing through the walls would be very
helpful right now. All he can do is make assumptions based on estimated distance and positioning.

“W-What do you think the test is?” Urara asks.

Sawako rolls her eyes. “How crazy can it really be when we’re inside a building like this? It’s
probably some stupid written test or riddle.”

At this point, a riddle is more likely than a written test. With the inclusion of what’s definitely
genjutsu, it’s probably… Some kind of personal quizzing. Maybe you only win if you realize
you’ve stepped into a genjutsu? Or was there more significance to separating the team members?
Did they go willingly, or had they not realized they were under genjutsu at all?

Natsume glances around. All the other teams seem to remain in their own worlds, aside from those
from the same village. No one is overtly paying attention to their little Konoha team, but that
doesn’t exactly mean much. Spying is a trademark of shinobi, after all.

He turns his body a fraction, making sure to mostly face his two team members. With the hand
already propped on the hilt of his wakizashi, Natsume quickly makes the hand signs for genjutsu
ahead.

It takes two tries for them both to notice his movements, and Urara is the only one whose
expression lights up in understanding. Sawako stares at him with confusion—though it quickly
melts into obvious rage. All to mask the coal-popping feel of humiliation burning through her.

She hasn’t memorized the hand signals.

It’s clear that she understands what they are, and probably what he’s trying to do. But her face
curdles like spoilt milk and the sensation of helplessness sours her leaking chakra.

“What?” She hisses, indignant. “So what?”

He lets his hand fall still and doesn’t really know what to say. Should he even risk uttering
anything out loud, potentially alerting others of this hint?

He supposes he could just try to dispel the genjutsu, if she doesn’t notice it herself. It’s the saving
grace of his sensory ability. He can’t perform genjutsu himself—the closest he comes to
performing one is the henge—but it’s unlikely he’ll ever fall under one, even caught off guard.

“Never mind. I’ll tell you later.”

She relaxes only marginally, still smarting from the reveal of another weakness.

It’s not that he doesn’t understand. But how terrible can one’s training be if you’ve been a genin
for five years and still haven’t mastered the basic Konoha sign language? Natsume knows the
majority of the useful signs. He’s not anywhere as fluent as he wants to be. Sometimes he still has
to think about exactly what he’s trying to convey.

So he knows it’s hard, but it’s also something that’s first taught upon graduation. If Sawako was on
a genin team, she should at least know the core signs for ‘enemy’, ‘attack’, ‘ahead’, ‘jutsu’, etc. To
not recognize the simple sign for genjutsu?

Either the education system is even more trash than expected, or she’d completely ignored that part
and didn’t bother practicing it after getting shuffled into the genin corps.

How frustrating.

Her circumstances are unfair, he tries to tell himself.

It’s still frustrating. Maybe more so because the murky cloak of tension around them all is starting
to get to him.

They wait for an hour.

Of the five teams called before them, only ten genin came back. Meaning five have been escorted
out. That’s a pass/fail rate of three to one.

“Konoha, Team Thirteen.”

Urara, sick to his stomach and clearly looking it, holds tight to the back of Natsume’s shirt like he’s
a toddler, and they walk out of the room like that. It’s a lot like how Naruto used to cling when
they were younger. The nostalgia is ruined by Sawako’s hectic presence.

Like he observed, the chakra blanket descends when they’re nearing the end of the long, too-bright
hall. It makes their vision waver for a moment. It’s thick enough that Natsume thinks he could
swallow it.

Under each of their feet, a bright light appears. Red for Sawako, purple for Urara, and blue for
Natsume. They dance forth and smear colors over the floor in three different paths, all leading to a
separate door.

Sawako lifts up one of her feet. “What the hell?”

So the genjutsu isn’t aggressive.

It’s just showing them where to go.

“This is…the genjutsu, right?” Urara asks quietly, following the glowing line of purple from his
feet to the door it’s beckoning him towards. “Should we…should we follow them?”

Natsume doesn’t reply and starts forward, following the line of blue that flickers and jumps. His
door looks like all the others. Blank and bare, made of grayscale metal and heavy bolts. He glances
back at Urara still rooted to the spot and Sawako, who is on the opposite wall and staring down her
own door.

“Enter if you want,” he finally says, meeting Urara’s eyes. “I’m going.”

And he opens the door and steps inside.

The first thing he notices when the door swings shut behind him is that it’s pitch black.

The genjutsu hasn’t quite let up yet, chakra still a weighted blanket. But there’s no color at his feet,
nothing at all to illuminate the penetrating darkness that stares back at him. It just lingers, waiting
to strike, waiting to form into whatever the wielder desires.

Sea foam, gutter water, iron-scented rain. It’s…a water affinity. High level. Probably a jonin.

Strangely, he’s never been scared of the dark. Not entirely. It certainly doesn’t comfort him, but it
doesn’t inspire terror within him the way it does with Naruto. His little brother still wakes him up
to go to the bathroom sometimes, even with the moonlight coming right through their windows.

It’s not fear of the dark, rather a fear of the unknown that makes his skin crawl. So no, he doesn’t
exactly like that he’s standing in a room like a void with no idea of what’s potentially in here with
him.

Then, footsteps.

The room is larger and deeper than he realized. Everything about this building seems strange. The
rooms are too long. Too large. It doesn’t quite feel like it should all fit into the building that they
walked into. How many of those doors were false?

His hand tightens on the hilt of his wakizashi and he contemplates doing away with the lingering
chakra. How much of it is a test, however? Will he lose if he dispels it? Will he lose if he doesn’t?

He doesn’t like not having clear instructions like this. Doing things on whims and without an
understanding of his own capabilities in the situation at hand makes him…nervous.

“State your name.”

The voice echoes, soft and ringing. Feminine. Probably a woman, but he doesn’t want to assume.
He can’t tell how far away the person is until he dispels the genjutsu. But he holds off. For now.
Their chakra is iron-tight, wisps of ink over parchment, the scent of rain on the wind.

“Uzumaki Natsume.”

“Your goal?”

“Why should that matter to you?”

A pause. He wonders if he responded too abruptly. Too honestly. In truth, he’s not sure of the
answer himself. What he wants, what’s realistic, what his purpose is—all of it combined is too
much for him to comprehend at times. He can’t untangle the path before him. Can’t make goals
when he might not live to see the next sunrise. He’s living paycheck to paycheck and his best friend
is dead.

But the voice comes again. “Why are you a shinobi?”

The chakra doesn’t waver once. Their control is impeccable. He doesn’t feel much more than
whispers, and they tell him nothing of what the person talking is feeling. Their monotonous voice
refuses to offer any aid either. He could look deeper, he knows, if he broke this genjutsu and
focused a little bit.

Instead he focuses on the task at hand. What kind of answer will pass him?

The textbook one? Something about pride in his village? Or endurance and promoting peace? He
could spill out flowery words or a scripted, idealized memory of Shisui’s optimism. That might
work.

Or not, because they weren’t in Konoha, and Ame arguably hated the big villages despite their
need for the trade and money they could get from them. Konoha fighting all across their country
during the second and third war probably didn’t help. They’d be more likely to fail the entire
Konoha team and spit on them on the way out.

Not that Natsume can really blame them, even if he and the other two were too young to have had
any part in it.

He doesn’t know enough about Ame to know what regulations they’d prefer. Doesn’t know
anything about the person asking and their own personal ideals. He’s throwing a dart with his eyes
closed and hoping it hits something.

So he decides to do what he always does.

Be far too honest.

“Didn’t exactly have a choice.”

Which is the truth, even if the Sandaime came into their home under the guise of a kind man,
asking about their intentions for the future. Natsume, with the maturity his blurred, previous life
gives him, would never have been allowed to skip out on Academy induction. Not when he was an
orphan. Not when the village ostracized and hated both he and his brother to the point of death.
Not when he was a jinchuuriki. Who would have hired them as adults? Where would they have
gone to school to learn a trade?

What could they have done?

What could he have done?

That rage never quite dims. It lingers in every corner of him, pooling in his veins right beside his
ocean of chakra. He lets it swell now, the tide rushing in to expel with each exhale. The entirety of
his hatred is just as weighty as the chakra around them.

“Why are you a shinobi?” The voice asks again.

Natsume furrows his brow.

He’s quite sure he told the truth. He had no choice. He did what he had to. He—

Oh. That’s a choice on its own, isn’t it?

He opens his mouth—

“To survive.”

There’s a rustling. The sound of papers crinkling. He feels a momentary flare of intent that has him
instinctively reacting. His chakra surges out to dispel the genjutsu.

The room is brightly lit, just as the hallway was. There’s no windows, just drab walls and a
buzzing overhead bulb. Nothing is before him. Not a chair, a desk, or a living being.

Just a scrap of paper on the floor, three paces ahead.

He doesn’t sense that chakra signature anymore. Whoever it was had disappeared. Natsume warily
steps forward and squints at the paper. It’s just a simple white sheet, shaped like a square. All it
says is one word.

Pass.

Natsume rejoins the room, scrap of paper in hand. There’s nothing dangerous lingering on it. It’s
nothing but a piece of origami paper. He wonders if he should have even picked it up. No one else
came back with physical proof. They’d just walked back in.

He meets Wado’s eyes for a moment. The jonin’s stare drops to the piece of paper in his hands and
he grows still. So utterly still. There’s a writhing in his chakra that speaks of bone-deep shock and
awe. It can’t be for Natsume.

No.

Not with the way the man’s eyes remain attached to the innocuous piece of paper as if it’s a gift
from the heavens.

It’s unsettling.

Natsume elects to ignore the man unless he’s approached, and goes to wait in the spot where his
team had first started. It seems he’s the first one out.

Were all the tests the same?

There’s a possibility there were multiple proctors asking a variety of questions. Then again, he
feels like he took entirely too little time compared to everyone else. In fact, he’s actually quite
certain he was the fastest to pass.

As if he needed another target on his back. More eyes observe him now. He doesn’t like it—being
the center of attention, especially negative attention, has never resulted in anything good. The
malicious aura of the Konoha streets is what he’d been raised on. The people proactively spoon-fed
him and his brother heaps of their hatred. Every little prick of poison is one he’d felt. One he’d
internalized. To the point where simple apologies or the excuses of an old man in a hat aren’t
nearly enough.

He meets the first pair of eyes he finds and glares with all his pent-up emotions and lingering
bitterness. The poor Iwa genin flinches, his face going sheet white. More heads turn away under
the force of his ferocity.

He might be baby-faced and girly looking, and this might not be Konoha, but apparently he can still
scare the socks off of inexperienced shinobi.

“Natsume!”

Is he surprised to see Urara walking towards him? A little. Or a lot. He doesn’t even feel bad about
it, either. There’s absolutely no expectation on Natsume’s end for Urara to actually be promoted to
chunin. The kid is too loud, inexperienced, immature, and scared. It’s almost safer for him to just
get placed into the genin corps for life, if he doesn’t just drop out and change career paths.

(Which is the smartest option, in Natsume’s opinion.)

Sawako follows soon after, shockingly enough. She wears an expression of mild confusion that
quickly fades when she looks at their faces. A determined blankness settles over her instead.

Well, he thinks, it was only the first test. And it was only some questions. Anyone could have
answered them.

He supposes they all just got lucky, since he doesn’t really understand the nature of his own trial.
Just a few basic questions. An exchange of frightfully short sentences. Rigidly controlled chakra
and the scent of a library.

It—

Well.

Now that he thinks about it, the chakra had been really lovely. He’d go as far as calling it beautiful.
Wind and earth primarily, with water mixed in. An incredible enough control of three elements to
have them seep into the entirety of the person’s chakra, leaving tangs of each affinity behind.

In his last life, he loved the library. Used to go a lot as a child, he recalls. There’d been one down
the street, and his parents—their faces blurred and soft at the edges, no features yet present or
remembered—would walk him there every weekend. Hand in hand. Until he got older and stopped
going, his world consumed by words that don’t exist here. Phone. Internet. Laptop. iPod.

Older then, an age he can’t pinpoint, young but older but not too old, he’d loved the bookstore. The
one across from the mall with the bubble tea shop.

He shakes his head, dislodging the bittersweet softness of nostalgia for a world that’s still half-
baked and half-forgotten. The memories settle more as the weeks and months pass. Not all there
but enough for him to understand the life that came before—though more often than not it feels
like he’s watching a movie. He doesn’t feel entirely attached to the person before.

Can’t recall all the thoughts that must have been in his head during each memory. He’s rewatching
everything, but not experiencing it. Not to the fullest.

Urara smiles at him. A wobbly, sure thing. “I knew you’d come out first.”

Sawako scoffs. “He got lucky.”

“I might have,” he acknowledges stiltedly. He doesn’t like that they’re still the center of attention.
“Though I’d rather not talk about the contents of the test while there are still those who haven’t
gone through it.”

Sawako shuts her mouth half-way through the formation of something that was probably going to
be rude and antagonistic. Her teeth snap.

Another team is called.

“Sage, you talk like an old man,” she finally mutters.

Urara glances between them, tugging anxiously at his ear. He puts on another smile, as if trying to
quell any possibility of tension between them. “Um, I’m happy we all passed!”

“What for?” Sawako asks. At Urara’s surprised look, she continues. “Didn’t you hear the proctor?
This is every shinobi for themself. We’re not technically on ‘teams’, we can be eliminated at any
moment.”

He gapes like a fish, the thought clearly not having registered. Urara’s face is far too expressive.
He goes through the five stages of grief very rapidly as his brain processes her words.

“Oh.”

Yet all three of them still stand in a circle, eying those around them. Team or not, familiar faces are
better than the scorn of the other shinobi.

They might have to fight later. They might have to leave each other behind. Natsume wonders if
Genma knew something like this was going to happen. Or if he was watching. Surely they told the
sensei of all the genin teams what the plans were? Maybe he slipped Natsume a hint.

Why would he do that?

Idiot. He knows why. Even if he doesn’t like thinking about it. His stomach starts squirming when
he does. Discomfort in the face of kindness.

Or maybe Genma didn’t know anything about the exam at all.

Either way…

Natsume looks at the two standing before him. Sawako is right. It’s sink or swim, and they aren’t
expected to have any allies. He could face one of them in a fight or a race, and he’d have to defeat
them. He’d have to shatter their dreams of getting out of the doom of the genin corps. Back to a
mindless grind of never receiving training or acknowledgement, while he had a sensei to fall back
on.

He was an apprentice, not a traditional student.

Push. Pull.

Win. Lose.

The origami paper crinkles in his fist.

To survive, he’d said.

Chapter End Notes

TWT / tumblr @ spideywhites

 VOL. 1, ARC III. (welt)
Chapter Notes

Natsume, alone.

(Sorry, this chapter is… hm. Not my favorite.)

The second part of the exam begins with twenty-three remaining genin. Three from Kumo and
Konoha, nine from Ame, four from Iwa, two from Kusa, and one from Suna and Taki.

They’re led away from the building through the back entrance. In no time at all they’re at the very
edge of the massive metal wall—the very same barrier that spans the entirety of Amegakure. The
rain has marginally subsided to a faint misting, leaving them slightly damp rather than soaked.

It clears his headache. There’s less chakra swarming around now, but the scent of wet metal
persists.

Wado gestures to the massive wall. “Climb up to the top without using your hands.”

There’s light murmuring, but no complaints. At least none that Natsume cares to hear. Most genin
already know how to use their chakra to either climb vertical surfaces or over water. The wall
ahead of them, however, is sleek wet metal and towers up into the fog high enough that the top is
impossible to see.

A difficult surface, especially for beginners.

A kid from Kumo starts out first, and soon everyone else is a step behind. Some of them are
treating it like a race, running up as hard as they can in clumped groups. Elbowing each other or
slipping down every so often and yelping.

Natsume moves a short distance away from the bulk of the runners and glares at the wall.

He hates chakra control exercises.

It’s not that he can’t—as people from Konoha say—“treewalk”, and he does know how to
waterwalk, but that doesn’t mean it comes easy. He’s also realizing he’s never actually tried to
climb metal like this before. Only wood, whether it be a tree or a building, and water.

Natsume raises a foot and tentatively presses it to the wall. He musters up a chakra coating,
controlling the instinctive flare as best he can. It seems basic enough in theory, but different
densities and materials require different chakra outputs, especially when you take the weight
you’re trying to adhere to the surface into consideration. He doesn’t particularly weigh a lot at the
moment, but that’s still something like fifty pounds.

One foot on. Then the other. It’s wobbly. It’s awful. The metal isn’t chakra conductive and makes
for an extremely slippery surface. Someone screeches as they tumble down to his right. He thinks
it’s the single remaining Suna kid. The genin from Amegakure are doing better than everyone else.
Granted, some of the Amegakure genin aren’t children, so they’ve had plenty of time to get used to
the climate.
Sawako, who has a similar issue with chakra control, is also struggling bitterly and has fallen
upwards of three times now. It’s Urara who’s making the most progress.

Natsume goes slow. It was never said to be a race. They were just told to climb the wall. How long
it takes to get up there shouldn’t technically matter, as long as he does. He slips back a few feet
every once in a while, but doesn’t outright fall. Which is all he can really ask for.

Maybe it’s because he has to continually concentrate and adjust the amount of chakra he’s using.
Gives him something to really focus on. More, less, more, more, less. Too much, too little. He
slides back a foot, arms flinching out. Gravity doesn’t help either.

“This sucks!” Sawako screams to his left, a few yards below him.

He hears more yelps and screeches above and around. Over twenty different voices—and then
more people start falling.

He doesn’t notice at first, too concentrated on the task at hand. But once people start reaching the
fog layer and practically disappearing into it, they begin making more noise. A kunai whizzes by.
Someone tumbles out of the fog and yells, smacking their hand on the wall to slow their descent
and catch themselves.

“Disqualified!” Wado calls up. “No hands at all!”

Urara reaches the fog layer first, sending a tentative glance back at them. Natsume ignores the
pleading look sent his way, choosing to focus on not slipping another three feet down. They aren’t
teammates for this exam. The other kid would do well to remember that.

After a moment, Urara resumes wall-walking up into the fog. He vanishes after only a few steps,
the dense white mist swallowing him.

It takes Natsume ten minutes to get about five feet away from the start of the fog, and by then two
other people have slid out and slapped their hands on the wall out of sheer instinct. Four have had
to restart after tumbling all the way down and landing at the bottom. There are stones, kunai, and
shuriken on the ground below, whizzing out of the mist.

There’s definitely people at the top of this wall trying to knock us off.

They only seem to target those who have already reached the fog, though people climbing the wall
below the bulk of the group are certainly at risk when objects come flying out. Luckily, the only
person ahead of Natsume on this section of the wall is Urara.

The cloud of fog is unnaturally dense, steeped in someone’s chakra. It’s different from the buzz of
whatever lingers in the rain. The density of it makes the chakra signatures inside of it a bit blurry,
but Urara’s lightning chakra is easily noticeable. Zapping about with nerves.

It spikes for a moment, followed by a boyish shriek.

Natsume flinches and slides down a few feet when Urara comes flying out of the mist right above
him. Without thought, Natsume snags the back of the genin’s shirt before Urara can fall nearly a
hundred feet.

He grunts at the sudden shift of new weight, slipping even further. A vein in his jaw pops as his
arm strains to hold up a hundred pounds of gangly twelve-year-old.

There’s a shuriken buried in the meat of Urara’s left bicep, and he holds the flesh just below the
wound in a white-knuckled grip. A wail of pain escapes him in a continuous whistle. “It hurts!”

“Get your feet back on the wall!” Natsume snaps. “Or I’m dropping you!”

He’s not sure why he even caught the kid to begin with. (Exactly. He didn’t think. Just reacted.)

Urara groans and sniffles, shakily putting his feet back on the wall and removing the worst of the
strain from Natsume. Blood spills over his arm and soaks the sleeve of his shirt a deep, wine red.
The wound doesn’t look awful, in the sense that it’s not deep enough to have been thrown with
excessive, deadly force. The people on top of the wall are probably just dropping the items and
weapons, not throwing them downwards. Not specifically aiming to kill. How generous of them.

Natsume stares at the wall of fog, then back at the crying boy next to him. He’s a little envious of
how easily Urara stays in place on the wall even while distracted with pain.

“Hold still,” he mutters, then plucks the shuriken right out of the boy’s arm without warning. He
tosses it over his shoulder without thought.

Urara shrieks at the jostling, and Natsume has to pry the kid’s fingers off the wound so he can tie a
bandage around it. He clicks his tongue. He really went and wasted some of his carefully sealed
medical supplies.

He pulls away. Wobbly on his own feet but not sliding. Urara stands in place, breathing harshly
through his teeth. It surely hurts. A piece of sharp metal like that, going right into the thin little arm
of a twelve-year-old, especially a civilian-born…

Natsume puts one foot in front of the other and starts walking back up. If Urara falls again, that’s
his own business. If he doesn’t make it to the top, that’s his own business. Just like it’s Sawako’s
business if her hopes and dreams end here.

“N-Natsume?”

He walks into the fog.

Immediately, he loses sight of everything. It’s just pure gray all around him, leaving a fine mist
across his skin. Drops of water begin to slide over his face and hair, falling back and down,
disappearing far below. The scent of wet metal is repugnant and powerful, so reminiscent of blood
that every inhale makes him sick to his stomach.

He hears a faint whisper in the air and jolts his torso left. A kunai drops down and narrowly misses
him. There’s another pained yell to his right. Natsume grits his teeth and keeps going. He can’t
remember how tall the wall had been from the ground. How many meters up does it go? How
much longer must he trudge through the clouds with shaky chakra control, slipping every few
feet?

Three steps forward, one step back.

He dodges the dropped weapons and rocks well enough. More attuned to the faintest sound in the
stillness. Hyper-focused. It helps, he thinks, that he’s surrounded by water—and he is water, in his
bones and in his heart.

Natsume takes another step, then another. He can barely see his own feet. Can barely make out the
very wall he walks on.

One step. Another. Another.

He steps forward and meets air. A strangled sound leaves him, before he realizes he’s reached the
top. He hauls his torso forward to correct his lost balance, and rises out of a cocoon of fog, two feet
planted on top of the wall.

Above, the sky is just as gray as the cloud he can out of. When he turns to look, he sees the fog is
like a blanket. It stops right at the edge, jarring enough to almost look like he could just step out
and walk across a white carpet.

The top of the wall is wide enough for people to comfortably walk along it, and now that he can
see he notes that there are several shinobi planted along the edge. Bored expressions on their faces
as they occasionally let something drop. There are several genin already up. Some are worse for
wear than others, cuts or bruises blooming over their skin. He only recognizes the Kumo girl from
the first day.

He moves away from the edge. His chakra stores are still fine, barely dented.

“Uzumaki Natsume,” a voice calls. An Ame jonin approaches, casual and with his hands placed
non-threateningly at his sides. His voice is dry, like he’s reading a script and doesn’t actually care
about what he’s saying. “Congratulations, you’ve reached the top. Now you can begin the second
part of the exam.”

Huh.

Behind him, Natsume can hear someone—a genin, presumably—angrily screeching about the
climb not being part of the exam at all.

The group had already been small to begin with, but the number is shrinking rapidly. How many
are even going to make it to the third round? Will there even be enough to host one?

He doesn’t reply, and the jonin before him doesn’t seem too bothered. He just holds out a piece of
parchment for Natsume to take. On it is a number written in green paint.

Six.

“The second task is a scavenger hunt. You need to find an item at a specific location using only the
clues on this page.” The jonin then gestures to the open space beyond the wall, outside the city
within. The landscape is wet and mountainous. There’s a forest of dark trees a blurry distance
away, beyond the slope of two hills. “The area for searching extends thirty kilometers out. You
have until sunrise tomorrow.”

Natsume stares at the piece of paper. Clues? Plural? There’s a single number!

A single number. Six. In green. How does that help at all? If he focuses on everything he can
possibly observe from the paper—

The number six written with a slant, the color green, four sides, waterproof paper, blank back. Four
times six is twenty-four, six plus four is ten. The parchment is an off-white, yellowish hue.

Natsume looks out across the landscape once more, ignoring when the jonin moves on to the next
person. The only spot of green he sees is the forest area in the distance. It’s not evening yet. He
still has hours before the sun sets. He has time. Not a bunch, but enough to try a few things.

He looks over the edge of the wall. The only way down is to walk it once more. Great. Natsume
looks around, seeing other genin already half-sliding their way down. The distance is too immense
to jump entirely, but if he gets to at least half-way he can just reinforce his legs and reduce the
impact.

He glances back for a single moment, noting both Sawako and Urara’s chakra signatures steadily
growing closer. Then he gets a leg over the opposite edge and begins the journey down.

It takes just under an hour to get to the forest while running at shinobi speed. The trees are dark and
narrow, not at all like the massive trunks in Konoha. The leaves are high up and waxy, like those
of a holly bush. Too dark of a green to match the exact color of paint on his ‘clue’. There’s not
much of a chakra signature attached either. At least here he’s more protected from the drizzle.

Natsume inhales the sharp scent of petrichor and wet vegetation, a minty aroma floating up from
the underbrush. This is the largest forest he’s seen in Ame, even after the two week journey
through it. Still not very large compared to Konoha, where you can’t spit without hitting a piece of
wood. But enough to make him worried about how the hell he’s supposed to find anything.

There’s no chakra signature attached to the paper, and when he focuses he can’t sense much
around him aside from low level flares from critters. Maybe it would have been smart to sign the
crow contract, then at least he’d have more eyes.

Making his way through the sparse shrubbery, he keeps his eyes peeled from anything bright or
anything having to do with the numbers. (Even numbers, can’t forget that. Four, six, ten, twenty-
four. And between those is two, four, fourteen.)

Coordinates?

He doesn’t know how to read them. Not in Konoha, and definitely not in a different country. What
if he added up all the numbers? Sixty-four.

What if he’s looking too far into this?

Does he need to count the trees?

Natsume walks around aimlessly for two more hours, mood growing more sour by the minute. This
is far too little information to go off of! No direction, no sense of what he’s actually looking for!
Just an item in the middle of nowhere in a country he’s never been to before.

Nearly another hour goes by before he stops to pull nutrient bars from the seal on his belt. It’s
getting later in the day and he dreads the thought of visibility getting worse, when there’s already
fog crawling across the ground and the only light in the sky is through overcast clouds.

He swallows the last bit of his meal before noticing something. A bush with off-white flowers,
buds growing in clusters. Trimmed, clearly, if the way each little flower bunch only has an even
amount of buds says anything.

It could absolutely be a coincidence, but it could also not be. What does he have to lose at this
point?

Natsume looks closely at the flowers. He wishes Naruto were here. His little brother might be able
to tell him something. Or that Ino girl from Yamanaka Flowers.
He doesn’t know much about plants, but he’s sure that the reason there isn’t a bunch of flora is
simply because it’s too wet and the soil isn’t nutrient-rich after being used as bomb-land for so
long. He doesn’t need to be a genius to think that they don’t look like they belong in this murky
forest.

The scent of maple syrup grows stronger the closer he gets.

Some distance away, he sees another bush of them. Natsume crouches down beside the first bush
and sees that the soil around it has patchy grass, like it was recently planted and they didn’t entirely
bother to make it look like it hadn’t been.

He moves on to the next bush, and from there he sees another. From there, another—so on and so
forth. He walks further into the forest, following the path of bushes. Until he reaches the sixth
bush, to which he pays more attention to. He’s more certain now that these flowers have been
deliberately placed.

The area around the sixth bush of flowers looks the same as all the others. No extra dirt, no signs
of tampering beyond the half-hearted cover-up. Nothing hidden among the petals and nothing tied
to the stalks. For a moment he wonders if maybe the number six doesn’t relate the bushes
themselves but rather something else, and he should keep following the strange little path they’re
leading him on—

But first, he tears the whole thing up from the root.

Just to be sure.

Because if there’s one thing that Genma has trained him in—one thing that his sensei can
personally educate him on without having to get another jonin for aid—it’s wilderness observation
and survival. No stone must go unturned. No avenue unexplored. These aren’t the familiar forests
of Konoha, but it’s still a forest.

Tangled in the roots are two small scrolls. Only as long as his hand is, which is not very large at
all. They’re both individually tied with a binding string—an older form of fuuinjutsu, more
obsolete but still used among the masses when there’s a lack of seal masters.

Written in sharp black ink is a “+” on the right scroll, and a “-“ on the left. A little more on the
nose for a clue. He confidently tugs the string on the one with the plus sign. Assuming he’s on the
right track, it should correlate with the even numbers.

The flash of unease is quickly buried when the scroll pops out a cloud of smoke in a dusty wheeze,
and unfurls. In the palm of his hand is a piece of origami. It’s folded in the shape of a bird. He
carefully turns it around, searching for any hint of another clue. At least he knows he’s on the
correct scavenger hunt path and not someone else’s, because the origami paper is the same shade
of green as the paint on his original clue.

“A bird?” He mutters.

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Maybe he’s supposed to unfold it? There could be something written inside. Unfortunately, if he’s
wrong he’s not sure he can figure out how to refold it correctly.

Is this a clue for the trees? Does he need to find a bird’s nest?

…Are there even any birds around here?

Natsume fiddles with the origami bird, taking in the shape of the beak and the stick-like legs. It
looks like a crow. Sort of. He doesn’t know anything about crows. Not really. Their habits are
completely lost to him, so if this is supposed to be some kind of clue then he’s woefully
unprepared. He does know that crows are supposedly very smart and good at collecting shiny
things.

That’s crows, right? Not just magpies? Or ravens? Is there a huge difference between crows and
ravens?

Natsume sighs and rubs his forehead. Forget the crow contract, he’d probably insult them by
accident.

He could be entirely overthinking this. The bird itself might be the item he needs to collect. But
then again, wouldn’t there be some kind of note? That jonin never said what to do after the object
was found. Now Natsume regrets not saying a word to the guy.

He glances over to where the next flower bush is. Should he keep going? Might as well. They
couldn’t have planted a million of these bushes.

For the next hour or so, as the evening begins to darken the sky, Natsume follows the ‘path’ until
he reaches the very last bush. He squints out into the dimness, but there’s nothing else aside from a
rocky outcrop splitting up from the earth. It’s overgrown with moss, and trees grow around it in
gnarly shapes.

“You’re joking,” Natsume says, his voice echoing in the quiet.

On the ledge of the rock, cradled in moss, is an origami nest.

He walks over and finds that there’s really nothing else. Just that. No markings in the surrounding
area. No notes. With no other ideas, he places the bird into the nest.

As soon as it’s situated, there’s a flare of chakra. A hidden seal under the nest unfurls in thick lines
of ink over the mossy rock.

Natsume leaps back immediately, hand at his side—prepped for a blast, or a summons—he’s not
sure, he hadn’t been able to see the fuuinjutsu combination.

Instead, the rock shifts with a sharp crack and moves to reveal a hidden passage. It’s a gaping maw
of darkness, with no hint of light within. Definitely the kind of place no one would actually go. Not
if they weren’t crazy. Or the protagonist in a horror movie.

The origami bird seems to stare at him from its nest, as if goading him onward.

He has no fire jutsu in his arsenal. He does have some flint and smokeless fire-starters, as well as
his fuuinjutsu knowledge. With a contemplative glance at the dark cavern, and then to the
darkening sky, Natsume moves to sit on the ground. With a quick swipe along the storage seals on
his belt, he summons one of his small seal kits. It contains small, square papers of decent quality—
good for smoke-bombs and simple actions—a bottle of chakra conductive ink, and a brush he
probably needs to replace soon.

The primary objective is light, so he scrawls a radial sequence with the center kanji for ‘glow’. It
can’t be too blinding. A string of closed fuuin code wraps around the edges, stabilizing the source.
A connector particle bridges the beginning and end, keeping the light continuous.

He sits back when it’s satisfactory and channels some chakra into it. The lines shrink into a jagged
swirl, like a malformed sun. Then he puts his kit away and makes his way to the mouth of the
cavern.

There’s an earthy scent emanating from within. Not much of a breeze, so the exit must be quite a
distance away, if there even is one. Gripping his new seal, Natsume swipes his thumb over the
symbol and activates it. A soft, white glow begins radiating from the paper, illuminating the
muddy earth within the dark.

This sucks, he thinks to himself, before taking the first step.

Night has most certainly fallen. Not that he can see it—he’s been walking for nearly two hours and
come across nothing. There’s just been the occasional twist and turn as he traverses deeper into the
narrow cavern.

This probably would have been a nightmare in a team. He can imagine the arguing that would have
happened over clues, the complaining as time went on and on. It’s no secret that not a single
member of Team Thirteen appreciates the muggy, soggy weather of Ame. Natsume’s quiet forest
walk would have been filled with the buzz of obnoxious yammering.

Still, the silence is unsettling. As time passes he finds himself almost wishing he at least had a
partner. Walking through the dark alone is unnerving, and his own paranoia has him constantly
checking over his shoulder and peering into the pitch black darkness.

(Even though he’d be able to sense anyone trying to come close.)

It’s also rather lucky he’s not claustrophobic. Because of his small size, the passageway isn’t too
terrible, but if he were a grown adult his shoulders would be brushing the walls as he walked.

He keeps going, sweat dotting his forehead, until he starts sensing something. Chakra signatures.
Faint and growing closer every minute. Wind, earth, earth, water, fire.

The stagnant air begins to taste less like mud and more like wet moss. A welcome change in scent.
Natsume walks for another half hour, the other chakra signatures in various states of closeness,
until he sees a glimmer of light beyond. It’s shortly followed by the hum of faint voices.

When Natsume gets to the end of the tunnel, he finds himself at the edge of a short cliff. Before
him lies a crater of sorts, uneven edges moving in at an angle—not unlike a drain. Overhead is a
hole in the top of the cave, the moon spilling down brightly. There are other openings along the
edges of the crater, just like his own. There’s two genin already at the bottom with what looks like
a jonin, and another genin has just arrived at their own opening, nearly tumbling down.

Natsume channels chakra to his feet and ‘surfs’ down the slope, deactivating his glowing seal as he
does. By the time he approaches the tiny group in the center, he already has it stuffed away in his
back pouch.

One of the genin is from Taki, more of a man than a teen. He’s probably twenty or so, with short,
lime green hair and gray eyes. He wears standard shinobi gear and a brown cloak. His chakra is a
bubbling brook, limestone and salt-soaked stones. Water affinity.

The other genin is that girl from Kumo, her white hair glowing under the moonlight. Her purple
eyes are nearly black, and she squints at him in brief recognition as he meanders over. Her chakra
is snappy, like the sails of a boat, hurricane winds and strong mountain air.

The jonin present is an older man with wrinkles and sunspots across his cheekbones. There’s a scar
curving from his jawline to his ear. He looks over Natsume with a critical gaze, a light in his blue
eyes that makes his age irrelevant. “Uzumaki Natsume of Konoha’s Team Thirteen. You’re the
third to arrive. Congratulations.”

Yes. The third to arrive with nothing to really show for it. He’s pretty sure one of the stipulations
for this round of the exam was to gather an item and present it. Yet here he is, nothing in hand.

“Mihashi Hagami of Ame’s Team Nineteen. Fourth to arrive. Congrats, kid.”

Short, cropped blonde hair, electric yellow eyes, and round eyebrows. The boy is maybe a head
taller than Natsume and likely around twelve. He wears a large green jacket meant for rain, dark
slacks, and close-toed shinobi sandals. His chakra is a conundrum of earth and electricity, the
moment lightning strikes sand and melts it into glass.

Mihashi.

Sounds like a clan name, depending on the kanji. There’s only a few spellings for that.

Natsume looks over at the boy, taking in the quality of his clothes to the tanto strapped to his back.
Twelve and trained with live steel? Either they do things differently in Ame, this kid’s a ‘prodigy’,
or he really is from a clan. Didn’t specifically have to be a shinobi clan, either. There were
merchant families with tons of money and prestige to throw around in Konoha, maybe there’s
something similar in Ame. Even with all the poverty and clear strife, the rich will always stick out
and dig their heels in to remain above the rest.

Unfortunately there’s not much information on clans outside of Konoha in…well, in Konoha. At
least there’s no information that he has access to. Their history books didn’t focus on anything
aside from all the founder clans, clans who provided power, and perhaps a few lines about clans
that were enemies of their ‘esteemed’ nation.

Between the three present, he’d rank the girl from Kumo as the most dangerous, the boy from Ame
next, and the man from Taki last. Just in terms of visual and sensory observation.

Despite being an adult, the Taki genin has the smallest chakra reserves. Then there’s the fact that
he is an adult and still attempting to reach chunin. There could be plenty of reasons for that, or
perhaps something that Taki does differently. Maybe they were a flourishing, kind nation that only
let adults move on to promotions liable to get you a position on a war front.

…doubtful.

In that case, he probably just sucks.

“What exactly are we waiting for?” The Kumo girl asks. “This can’t be the end of the scavenger
hunt. There wasn’t even anything to find.”

“Oh,” the jonin says, smiling, “that’s because it was a lie. There was never an item to find.”

“You’re joking!” Mihashi exclaims.

The Jonin grins, though it’s not a very cheery expression. “Nope! You’re just going to have to wait
until sunrise for the next instructions.”
Natsume looks up to the gap in the cave roof, where the moon is beaming merrily. That’s probably
a good few hours away. Six or five at most. He can feel the faint press of exhaustion. His eight
year old body is usually asleep around now. But he doesn’t really trust anyone here, not enough to
close his eyes for any extended period of time.

He looks around at the different openings along the rim of the crater. A few more chakra
signatures are approaching. Water, water, earth, and fire.

The fire is crackling, popping coals. Familiar. He huffs softly in amusement. Guess that
bullheadedness is good for something.

Natsume crosses his arms and waits.

 VOL. 1, ARC III. (wary)
Chapter Notes

How many times can spidey say “ground/earth/rock” in one chapter

A lot. Ugh.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

There are eleven genin in the crater-cave when the sky begins to change.

Natsume looks up through the opening in the center of the ceiling and watches it turn from ink to
watercolor rose. He’s tired.

So is everyone else.

Of the four Ame genin who made it, three are snoozing while one valiantly tries to stay awake.
The single genin from Kumo, Taki, and Kusa, with no one to watch their backs, are all valiantly
staying awake by whatever means they can. The Taki genin is stock still and looks fine, the Kumo
girl is pacing, and the Kusa girl alternates between sharpening her kunai and doing jumping-jacks.

The two Iwa genin took turns napping, back to back as they sat on the cold cave floor.

Sawako remained staunchly awake the entire time, while Natsume—

Didn’t want to sleep because he didn’t actually trust her all that much. They were alike in a way.
They both housed a hunger that outshone all else, though what they craved was different. Her,
pride. Him, survival. He could respect it enough, even if he thought her reasoning was shit.

The Ame jonin claps his hands sharply, the sound echoing across the domed walls. “Time’s up.”

He exchanges a brief glance with Sawako. No Urara. That could mean anything, frankly. He could
be dead in a ditch or merely lost. Or he could have given up at the wall, if he knew what was good
for him.

“The next stage will now commence. This location isn’t naturally formed, but rather manmade. We
use it to train with the elements. Your task will be to survive an onslaught of jutsu that will be
reshaping the landscape.”

The Kusa girl—around fourteen with ginger hair—frowns. “What? No fighting? Isn’t there usually
some kind of tournament?”

“Yeah,” a teenager from Iwa says. “How are we supposed to be showing off our skills if we’re just
running around in circles?”

The Ame jonin grins with all his teeth. “There’s more to being a shinobi than throwing punches.
I’d be a little more wary of this next stage. If you’re not careful, you’ll die here.”

There’s not a single waver in his diluted chakra. He means every word.
At the top of the opening, shadows cutting across the sunrise, come a group of what feels like jonin
level shinobi. They have larger pools of chakra than the average nin, each with a strong affinity for
a separate element or two.

Their proctor leaps up to the rim of the crater and then out of the cave, joining the other jonin.

He calls down, “Time limit is an hour, or until there’s no one left. Feel free to forfeit whenever
needed, and you’ll be removed from the pit.”

Natsume doesn’t know much about the contents of other chunin exams. It’s not as if he’s had other
people to talk to about it. Even Genma was tight lipped about his own experience—but that could
be because his chunin exam was held during wartime. A Konoha exam is nothing like one held in
a different country.

He takes a deep breath, feeling a surge of chakra crackle through the air. Earth. The ground begins
to shake and split. Someone yelps in shock as a crack opens up by their feet. Those who didn’t use
chakra to maintain balance quickly found themselves on their ass.

Huge chunks of rock begin to shoot up from below, chakra spilling into the dirt and stone. It
churns at their feet.

And then the spikes begin.

The jutsu themselves are easy enough to avoid when he can pinpoint areas of concentrated chakra,
but that’s an advantage only he seems to have. He leaps up and dodges the rocks as they come,
twirling midair. Someone gets clipped in the thigh, another uses their own earth jutsu to crumble
an oncoming projectile.

Natsume has no talent for that. All he can do is dodge and weave, all while avoiding ten other
genin. Not only do dangerous spikes rise from the ground, but various earth jutsu are being tossed
around. He even sees a boulder flying off somewhere to his left. It’s a hurricane of stone and dirt—
and maybe just a hurricane, because it seems like some wind jutsu have just been added.

It’s as though the world is falling apart. Adrenaline makes his head spin. He tastes pennies in his
mouth, forced into constant motion and observation. The wind tears at his clothes, whipping his
shaggy hair into his eyes and mouth.

A cloak of dust settles over his skin, the air thick with disturbed dirt. He dodges a few more
projectiles with an arm over his mouth, attempting to block out the worst of it. Inhale, exhale.
Cough out dust.

A jagged lance of chakra near him has him stumbling left, kicking off a protruding stone. Just in
time for the ground to crack and shift, pulled apart like a wound.

It snaps shut not a moment later. Then another one opens in a different spot. The ground bites as
though alive, eager to swallow anyone unlucky enough to fall in. The sound of boulders colliding is
deafening. He hates it. He hates loud noises, especially unexpected ones. He flinches far too easily.
This isn’t a situation where he can afford to misstep.

He lunges forward just as a crack opens up beneath him. He twists to roll without getting caught up
in his wakizashi. It turns him a little too far to the right, and when he stumbles to a stop he’s only a
foot away from the Kumo girl.

A huge stone flies over them, wind shrieking through their hair. She drops her hands and knees to
dodge and in a single, terrible moment—
The earth opens beneath half of her.

She slips forward with a yelp, headfirst into the gaping maw.

Natsume pushes off the ground with a sharp, wild burst of chakra, propelling himself so fast
through the air he becomes a blur. He can barely see her form in the heat of the moment, but his
fingers snag in the armor piece she wears. He soars over the gap in the ground, yanking her up and
back in a tangle of limbs.

The earth snaps shut a second later, taking nothing with it.

She lays there for a moment, sprawled half over his legs with his hand in a white-knuckled grip on
the strap over her shoulder blades. Her mouth hangs open slightly, still processing.

He doesn’t think he’s ever moved so fast before. It almost felt like flying. It wasn’t anything like a
shunshin. Just pure speed. His legs, on top of feeling numb under the full weight of a twelve year
old, ache like he’s run a mile in a minute.

Another rock nearly nails them both.

She pushes herself up quickly, tugging his grip loose. They spare a moment to glance at each other.
Sweat glistens across her brow, remnants of fear fading from her expression. Death had been a
moment away.

There are no teams.

Honor your village. We have no allies, only stalemates.

Natsume recalls all the bullshit and propaganda forced down his throat during his short time at the
Academy. He knows the villages don’t like each other, whether it be from past wars or the flow of
commerce. He knows they’re expected to be able to kill each other if need be. A mission is a
mission, and a shinobi who cannot follow through isn’t worth cultivating. Isn’t worth keeping.

Isn’t worth paying.

But Natsume has no desire to see the dead body of a child. Watching someone die who doesn’t
need to die, who is too young to die—

It’s nothing at all like killing a grown man, a criminal at that. A human trafficker. The worst of the
worst. The guilt would be different. It would be horror instead, creeping ivy in the form of violent
disgust, tangling in his lungs and throat. He knows, like he knows the sky is the same blue that
lingers in his eyes, that he would dream of dead children until his death should he sit back and do
nothing.

There is someone screaming. A forfeit.

Natsume feels his breath catch in his throat, heart stuttering under a flash of anxiety. His pulse
pounds in his ears, another noise added to the cacophony. The stimulation is immense. Too much
movement and sound.

He pulls his wakizashi free, centering himself in the familiarity of focusing chakra to the blade.
The next few earth jutsu sent his way are cleaved in half in a flash of steel. It’s harder to keep using
kenjutsu without stable footing. Everything is shaking. His grip rattles and eventually he becomes
too nervous about losing his wakizashi and slides it back into the hilt.
He’s more likely to stab himself right now.

Maybe one day—when he has more experience—the terrain won’t matter.

A deluge of water tumbles down from above. The roar of it drowns out all other sound. He
immediately jumps to a higher point by the rim, a hand digging into crooked, cracked earth.

The crater quickly fills up with dark, frothing water, and it doesn’t look like it’s stopping anytime
soon. Alongside the waterfall, someone’s using an advanced water-whip jutsu. Ropes of violent
water slash through the air without obvious direction.

Natsume is forced to move when one of them gets too close, slamming into the space he once was.
Droplets splash over his arms. He jumps to one of the rocky constructs left behind by the earth
jutsu attacks.

The water below swirls in continuous motion, turning the ground to sludge and muck. He catches a
flash of Sawako, soaked to the bone and scowling. Her black hair is stuck to her forehead, orange
eyes blazing in the dim early morning light. He loses visual of her quickly, mist thickening into a
pale fog.

The earth jutsu stop for the moment.

Natsume looks up to the hole, squinting through the water spray. Light glimmers behind it,
scattering rainbows over the damp cave walls. He can’t tell how long it's been.

It feels like forever, but it could also have only been fifteen minutes.

The water level rises. He jumps to another rock and catches the sight of bright red in the waves.
After a moment, he sees someone float up—the Kusa girl. She’s out cold, bleeding from the head.
The water around her grows pink and she slips back under, sinking fast.

He drops down low, sinking up to his waist in the rapids. His hand snags the back of her shirt, his
other welded to a crumbling construct with chakra. His arm trembles as he drags her out of the
hungry deep.

Would they really just let people die here? These kids?

It’s an exam, there’s no actual need for death!

She’s unconscious, it’s not like she can forfeit.

Natsume drags her body up and up until they’re both out of the water, perched like waterlogged
birds on a thin stone tower, jagged with imperfect chakra design. It stabs into his gut
uncomfortably.

“What am I doing?” He mutters to himself. Sticking his neck out for random people? Fighting the
system with a bleeding heart? Smart.

It’s not possible to drag her around for the rest of the hour. No way. He eyes the top of the cave.
The opening is still quite a distance above. If he used chakra to strengthen his muscles, he might be
able to toss her all the way up. It’s no guarantee, however. He could also miss. And who’s to say
anyone would help her if she came flying out? They might just let her tumble back down.

Still.
She’s just a kid. Can’t be more than fourteen.

Natsume moves her ginger hair to peer at the bleeding wound. It’s a nasty split in the skin,
probably from blunt force. Her ankle is twisted at an odd angle, and there’s gashes all up and down
her arms.

She’s going to die here if he doesn’t do anything.

Natsume pulls himself up, balancing on the small space above the rising waves. The structure he’s
standing on isn’t strong, especially under the battering of swirling water jutsu. It’ll collapse soon.
He has to try now. He gathers the Kusa girl in his arms, jaw tense. Her limbs nearly touch the
ground, spilling out of his small grasp. The muscles in his arms strain and creak as he steadily
enhances them until her body starts feeling lighter.

One, two, three.

Natsume takes a deep breath and throws. The Kusa girl flies up, limbs sprawled out like a rag doll.
She tumbles sideways in the air and almost reaches the lip of the opening before the momentum
slows.

“Dammit!”

She starts falling back down. He grits his teeth and prepares to jump—

Wind bursts straight up from his right, blasting through part of the falling water. It collides with
the Kusa girl’s body and sends her soaring through the opening and out of sight.

He looks over and meets the resolute eyes of the Kumo girl, her wind chakra as sharp as the first
inhale in winter. She purses her lips and leaps away, out the path of another water whip. Her form
disappears into the mist, which thickens intensely, heavy with chakra. Rainwater and iron.

He wonders how high the water will rise. It’s brackish, dark with mud and movement. It nips at his
heels and he isn’t sure where to go, marooned by the rising tide. The next structure peeking out of
the water is a short distance away.

He hears someone yell across the space, and the sound of it sends shivers down his spine. There’s
so much water here. Greedy, dangerous. He’s already half-soaked with it. His feet sink under. A
sudden burst of terror takes him off guard—A flash fire of adrenaline that hurts. He trembles with
the need to claw his way higher. It’s at his ankles now.

Natsume doesn’t think. His hands shake as he pushes chakra into his feet and tries to jump to the
next high rock. Instead his springboard crumbles part-way through the leap, too weak for his
sudden chakra output. The momentum is ruined.

The dark rises up to meet him. Feet hit first, flares of chakra attempting to situate and keep him
above—but it’s frothing, thrashing water, not flat or calm in the least. It moves too rapidly for him
to find stable footing, and he sinks so quickly he can barely let out a yelp.

His head goes under.

When Natsume isn’t dreaming of fractured memories, he dreams of water.

The feel of it over his skin, in his mouth, in his lungs. The water that swallowed Shisui, the water
that almost swallowed him. The water that lingers in every single one of his chakra pathways. He is
of a coastal clan, an island clan, an ocean clan. The culmination of a lineage built for salt spray and
sand.

And he is the product of fear and hate.

The artificial current rips at him, pulling his limbs in different directions. He struggles to right
himself in the tumultuous throes of what feels like a thousand riptides. Water forces its way past
his sealed lips and clenched teeth. It paints the lining of his throat and burns his nostrils. He kicks
and kicks as he’s tossed asunder, the depth too much for his feet to touch the ground.

For a moment—

For a moment, his head breaches the surface. He gasps desperately, forcing air into his aching
lungs. A hand blindly grabs at the space above. He blinks water from his eyes, strands of hair
tangled across his face. There is mud on his tongue.

Natsume is pulled back under. His wakizashi jams uncomfortably against his side, his shirt grows
taut over his neck. The shoes on his feet suddenly feel heavy. Natsume kicks harder with burning
legs, chakra surging through his limbs in sporadic bursts.

He slams against something hard and it forces the breath from his lungs. He cries out underwater,
eyes cracked open. A flash of something bright orange and yellow paints over the surface of the
water. Heat bubbles around him. Natsume’s arms are scraped raw as he wraps himself against the
rock he hit, cracking it with the strength of his grip.

He needs to get out.

He needs to get out of the water right now.

He hates it.

He hates this.

He wants out, out, out.

There are black spots in his vision as he yanks himself up and out, his head breaking the surface.
He spits water and inhales a half-breath of air. Heat licks along the back of his neck. Natsume
presses his fingers into the stone and keeps climbing, adrenaline numbing the feel of skin splitting.
The water pulls at him ferociously, desperate to drag him back into the brackish depths.

He doesn’t know how anyone could survive this for an hour.

The slippery surface of the stone, mixed with his bleeding hands and frantic movements, is utterly
unforgiving. He starts to slip, the weight of his soaked clothes dragging him back.

Focus. Chakra. He needs to—He needs to use the right amount. He needs to pull himself out. He
needs to stop slipping back. The rock is too wet and his hands hurt and it’s so loud in here.

He yells out in desperation.

He remembers this fear. The same horror that clung to him as hands held him down, hands pressed
him into the water.

I don’t want to die here.

Not the same way Shisui did, swallowed whole by the dark.

Natsume slips again. Shouts high and loud like the child he is. Anything but this. Anything but the
water. He wishes they were fighting instead. He wishes for blood over water.

A hand lashes out and hooks around his arm. Nails dig into the meat of his shoulder and tug hard.
Sawako’s manic expression greets him as she pulls him entirely out of the water. Blood soaks the
front of her shirt. Half of it is burned away, showing raw, red skin. Her nose is twisted to the side
and sluggishly bleeding. The water dripping from her face dilutes it, turning the entire bottom half
of her face a pinkish hue.

“Get yourself together!” She screams into his face.

His breath stutters and stalls. He’d been hyperventilating the whole time. He doesn’t know—he’s.
He’s all mixed up. He’s thinking of dirt. He’s seeing the sky. The world is three mirrors, all of
them broken. Pieces mixed into dust. His sister—

His brother? Which one? The first one? The second one? Now? Before? Had there been more than
one, or none at all?

He’s dying again. The sky is red. The sky is overcast. The ground is hard. He’s bleeding out.
Everyone is screaming. Someone is screaming. Someone important. White. White. White. White.
White. White. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red.

The color of hatred, of blood, of his life spilling into the mud. The color of his pride, his heart, his
home.

DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE.

A dark voice purrs in the blackest shadows of his mind, spilling into the cracks formed by too
much panic and too many memories.

Yes. You feel it, don’t you? Your stupid, puny little mind. Stuffed to the brim with clutter. All
that hatred bleeding over. All the terror of failed lifetimes. You’re a mistake. A freak of nature.
You deserve what’s coming for you. They’re going to kill you if they find out. Your rotten village
with its poisoned roots, they’ll snip you at the stem the moment they discover what you really are.

Kill them.

Kill them.

Kill them.

Let me out.

“UZUMAKI!” Sawako hits him across the face. She screams so loud that spit flies, specks of blood
splattering over his cheek.

He cradles his own in surprise. It stings. It’s grounding. He settles back into his skin. Right. He’s
Uzumaki Natsume. He blinks.
“You didn’t forfeit.”

She snorts. “Neither did you.”

To be honest, he forgot he could.

“You’re not going to lose it again, are you?” She asks, eying him.

A fire jutsu blasts down without warning twenty meters to their right. The waterfall has ceased.
Now steam and mist obscures the cave even further as all the liquid is boiled away in random
intervals.

“I sure hope not,” he mutters.

His hands still shake. He wipes them uselessly on his shorts. Some of his fingernails are torn, and
the skin of his palms and fingertips are bloody and red. They burn fiercely, no thanks to all the mud
and dirt washed over the wounds.

“Do you know how much longer is left?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Huh. Thought you’d be the type to count the seconds.”

“Maybe in a few years.”

That earns him an eye roll. “You’re confident.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Fuck off.”

“Thanks,” he says.

She opens her mouth to retort, before realizing what he’d said. Her brows furrow. Her teeth click
together. “Um. Whatever. I don’t care what you do, but I don’t want to see you dead. I guess.”

He stares at her. For a moment he wants to tell her the truth. That he does have an advantage over
her. That she’s annoying and bullheaded but she’s not treated by the system in a fair manner and
it’s not her fault. But even he knows it would spoil the moment.

“Do you want me to teach you the Konoha hand signs?” He says instead.

Sawako seems to glare at him out of instinct alone. Then she pauses, catching herself, and purses
her lips. There’s still a scowl on her face, but he’s starting to realize that maybe she just has a
resting bitch face.

“Is that all your life’s worth?”

Greedy.

He smirks. “Don’t push it.”

Another fire jutsu descends, this one too close for comfort. It combines with a gust of chakra-
infused wind, turning into a burning tornado. The water has grown still, but he still doesn’t like the
look of it.
“It’s getting closer,” Sawako notes. “Can you swim?”

He’s pretty sure he can, only because he recalls being able to in his previous life. But not every
memory is clear, and that old life still feels more like an observable movie. This body hasn’t swam
before. He’s practiced water-walking in the shallow parts of a lake, which is the deepest water he’s
ever been around. Before this.

“I’ve never been taught,” he replies honestly. (Not in this life.)

“No wonder you were screaming like a drowned squirrel.” Sawako eyes the growing fire. “Gonna
be honest, Uzumaki, I think we’re gonna have to go under.”

He glances at the burned skin of her stomach and side. “Speaking from experience?”

“I’ll push you in.”

The thought sends a lance of fear through him. She’s right, though. It looks like the fire is going to
flash all over the surface, eating its way through the air.

“Alright.” He starts psyching himself up internally. “Okay.”

The fire gets closer.

“I’m going in,” Sawako says, slipping into the deep, still water. She treads with ease, taking deep
breaths in preparation. Someone splashes off to their right, several meters away.

Right. There’s still a few other genin around. He wonders how many are alive after all that.

Natsume slips his feet in the water. He doesn’t like that it’s so dark he nearly can’t see them. Great
Sage, he’s going to have to clean his wakizashi so much after this.

The fire is close enough that the heat begins to feel uncomfortable against his skin. He sinks
further into the water, swallowing the worst of his panic down.

“If you really can’t swim, just hold on to the rock like before,” Sawako calls.

Closer, closer, closer.

Deep breath.

The fire nearly burns him before he slips under the surface. He sinks down, letting himself get a
few feet under before his limbs kick into gear and he treads underwater. Luckily, he can swim.

Unluckily, the panic is starting to set in again.

This sucks.

His heartbeat kicks up again. He doesn’t like that the water is dark and unfamiliar. He doesn’t like
that he can’t breathe or see. The fire bubbles the surface layer of water, warming the frigid
temperatures. He keeps his eyes up, squinting to make out the dancing light. How long is it going
to last? Did he get enough air?

He thinks of Naruto and Sasuke. Their dumb arguments and round faces. Anything to temper his
rising anxiety. It works for a moment. Then he notices something.

A strange sort of chakra.

 It’s earthy and unnatural. Not quite human. He can usually recognize when chakra belongs to an
animal or a person, or even a summons. This doesn’t fit into any category he’s been exposed to
before. Instead it’s almost like a funnel of ambient nature chakra, sucked into place and condensed
until it nearly takes shape.

It sets him on edge.

The water is too dark to make out below him. He doesn't even know how deep it goes—though it
can't be a huge distance to the ground. This thing grows closer, definitely farther than the base of
the crater. It's as if it's moving straight up through the earth. Not impossible with a jutsu.

But the speed of it is just as unsettling as the slimy sensation that crawls over his skin when the
chakra signature becomes clearer.

The light above his head disappears. The surface is still too hot. He rises slowly. Paranoia builds.
He doesn't like this. Whatever's below is getting closer. Directly beneath him. It can't be anything
but deliberate.

Natsume swims up to the surface. The water is hot, hot enough to belong in a jacuzzi, but at least
it’s not boiling his face off. He gasps in lungfuls of air, immediately searching for the rock. The
water level has dropped a bit, revealing more of the stone surface. In a hurry, he swims over and
claws his way up like a shark is chasing him, the sensation of being hunted not a welcome one.

A few feet away, Sawako surfaces with a splash, sputtering and gasping. She wipes hair and blood
from her face and blinks at him. “What the hell’s wrong with you now?”

“I—“ he pauses. The chakra signature has disappeared entirely. Vanished. Not like it ran away, no,
more like it teleported. Or he’s crazy. Maybe the trauma is getting to him. Maybe he’s losing it.

He lies. “It’s nothing. Just sick of the water.”

He’s sure he felt something below him.

Sawako pulls herself half out beside him. “Dunno, I could go for a shower right about now.”

Before he can reply, a voice calls down. “Hour’s up!”

All use of jutsu stops. The silence is deafening. Natsume looks up to the cave roof, sunlight
streaming through the opening. The backlit forms of Ame jonin start to fade away and with them,
the water.

The third round of the Chunin Exams is over.

“Thank fucking Sage,” Sawako says.

He whole-heartedly agrees.

Chapter End Notes

No update next week!! I’m going to be at an anime convention all this weekend, and I
don’t have time to write :C
Follow me one twt or tumblr @spideywhites
 VOL. 1, ARC III. (absolutes)
Chapter Notes

Hey hey hey we’re BACK baby

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The sun seems so much brighter after so long in the dark, searing his eyes and wetting his cheeks.
It takes far longer to adjust than he’d like, and he stumbles around the edge of the hole precariously
before finding his senses back in order. The clearing they stand in is broken by an overgrowth of
flowers. It’s the trees that form a circle, never straying beyond a certain distance. Whether natural
or by design, it paints an eerie picture.

Those that didn’t last or were too injured to proceed are carted off quickly. It’s interesting—

Natsume recalls the few chunin exams that have taken place in Konoha. It’s never been something
he’s observed closely, or had any interest in. All he really knew was that the streets were far
emptier those days, and it was easier to buy groceries. He knew that part of it was usually held in a
big colosseum-like structure. Genin fought for sport. For the amusement of others.

Here, there’s none of that. Only the jonin who participated in the actual challenge part of the exam
have been around. No spectators. No Hokage overseeing the progress. Natsume hasn’t even sensed
Genma once.

In the end, there are five.

There’s a new jonin now, with misty blue eyes and hair as dark as an oil slick. He’s the youngest
one they’ve seen. Probably eighteen at most. His grin is crooked and reveals a smile with a chipped
tooth. “Mihashi Hagami of Ame’s Team Nineteen. Tsuruji of Ame’s Team Five. Uzumaki
Natsume and Sawako of Konoha’s Team Thirteen. Rei of Kumo’s Team Nine. Mitsui Mitsuru of
Iwa’s Team Eleven. You all will proceed to the final endeavor.”

“The hell do you mean by that?” Sawako asks sharply. She holds her burned side carefully, her
face twisted in pain. “There’s only three parts to a chunin exam!”

“Says who?”

She stays silent because he’s right. No one says anything about how many challenges there are
supposed to be, technically. It just always came in threes, like a bad omen.

“There’s only five of us here,” Mihashi exclaims, hands on his hips. His electric yellow eyes are
piercing and too sharp for his childish, twelve-year-old face. He’s bleeding from several spots on
his torso and arms, but they look superficial enough. Or he’s good at hiding pain. A flash of
impatience curls through his dual chakra. “What else could we possibly do?”

He has a lot of nerve for a kid. Maybe he finds comfort in the fact that this is his own village.

The young jonin spreads his hands as though showing off something. “You’ve faced many
different trials in getting here. The first, proving your drive as a shinobi. The second, proving your
intelligence and observational skills. The third, proving your adaptability, agility, and willpower.
Those without the strength to survive, simply won’t. That is the way of shinobi. Endurance is our
cornerstone. If you cannot endure, you will not survive. Now that you’ve faced all these challenges
and endured to the best of your ability, it’s time to face it head on.”

“Face what?” Sawako asks, her voice quiet but just enough to carry over.

“Survival, of course.” He gestures to the side, and another jonin comes up with a piece of paper in
his hand. It’s passed over, then skimmed. “You’re injured, tired, low on stamina and chakra. Now
it’s time to fight.”

“That’s not fair!” Sawako is more injured than others. Moving with those burns is going to be
excruciating.

“Exactly.”

Natsume…gets it. Of course it’s not fair. That’s the whole point of their ‘job’. He’s still bubbling
with chakra and, though tired, isn’t dead on his feet just yet. The adrenaline crash is going to suck
in a little bit. He has a better chance than most, even with his arms scraped up.

Rei of Kumo is probably the least injured, though her chakra stores have taken a dip. Mihashi and
Tsuruji of Ame are both battered and bleeding, their chakra stores in the middle range. Mitsui of
Iwa has what looks like a head injury, her black hair limp and crusted with mud. There’s a sheen of
sweat on her face, and she’s holding her side like she’d cracked a rib.

Both her and Sawako are unlikely to last long in a fight. Especially if a broken rib is involved.
Moving around too much could puncture a lung.

“Since there’s an odd number, we’re not doing the typical one on one matches. This is a free-for-
all. Once the jonin here vacate from your sights, you can all begin. The goal is to fight until all are
incapacitated. There can only be one winner. You’ll be receiving points based on your abilities and
how long you last. So even if you aren’t the final genin standing, you can still have enough points
to be considered for promotion.” The jonin looks over all of them, his gaze frigid despite the
cheerful tone. He doesn’t even soften when looking at genin from his own village. “We consider
incapacitation as being unable to move, unconscious, or dead. If you truly cannot fight, you are
allowed to forfeit. You will immediately be removed from the field by one of the jonin. False
forfeits are not allowed.”

“This is fucking awful,” Sawako mutters.

Natsume huffs. They share a glance. Her expression grows steely.

“You are not allowed to go easy on me, Uzumaki. This is a free-for-all.”

It’s been a free-for-all the whole time, he wants to say. Instead he makes the hand sign for
‘understood’.

She snorts, “Fuck off.”

The jonin claps. Smiles. Glances over all of them. The sun beats down on their heads.

“Good luck,” he says, before disappearing.

With not a second to spare, Mihashi darts to Mitsui and sends her flying with a sharp kick. She
yelps in shock and pain, tumbling right through the dirt before slamming into a tree. Mihashi
follows through immediately, unsheathing his tanto from his back. The blade flashes through the
air with a zing.

And Natsume finds himself there to meet it, his wakizashi deflecting the blade before it finds a
home in Mitsui’s flesh. The tanto skitters, the angle all wrong due to the sudden interception.
Mihashi’s arm bumps backwards with the recoil, and Natsume uses the opening to kick the boy
away.

“What gives, treehugger?” Mihashi croaks, a hand on his gut.

Natsume doesn’t dare take his eyes off the boy. He feels the flutter of Mitsui’s chakra behind him,
weak and steady. She’s unconscious. “She’s already out. There’s no need to kill her.”

“Like that matters! She could be faking!”

Behind Mihashi, Tsuruji and Rei clash. Sawako lingers off to the side, low to the ground and
watching the fight with sharp, wild eyes.

“She’s not,” Natsume replies. His mouth feels numb. His tongue is heavy. He can’t imagine the
thought process going on in this kid’s mind. How easily he’d jumped to kill a girl around the same
age as him.

“Should’a expected this from a goody-two-shoes village.” Mihashi spits on the ground. He
readjusts his tanto, threat obvious. “Out here it’s kill or be killed, brat!”

The boy kicks off, launching himself at Natsume. His electric gaze matches the snappy chakra
emanating from his blade.

Of course it had to be lightning.

Natsume uses his speed to duck and weave through a series of jabs. Luckily, the boy isn’t a master.
Unluckily, he’s still skilled. At least he’s not at the same level of swiftness as Natsume, otherwise
he’d be skewered by now—and not by the blade, but the lightning chakra. The tanto must be
chakra conductive. Every swipe makes the hairs on Natsume’s body stand up, reaching for the
static it produces. Even a shallow cut would shock him.

If he can’t parry the blade with his own, then he’ll have to rely on his taijutsu.

Natsume sinks into the Tsunami style, using his shorter stature to his advantage and dropping low.
He hooks a heel behind Mihashi’s ankle to dislodge his balance. The other boy wavers, jolting
backwards. His tanto flashes towards Natsume in a sloppy downward arc.

He pushes off the ground with his free hand and twists his body to the side to avoid the blade,
feeling the electric aura lightly shock his nose as it passes. The majority of his body is above the
tanto now, and Natsume uses his own propelled weight to dig his feet into Mihashi’s chest and
kick. A reinforcement of chakra has the boy flying with a pop.

Natsume is thrown in the other direction.

“Shit,” he mutters, regaining his footing quickly. Too much chakra.

Mihashi looks murderous. The front of his fancy green jacket is scorched from chakra burns. “You
little—“

A sudden bout of wind slices by them, cutting up the earth. Natsume leaps back to avoid a gauging
strike.
Rei of Kumo. Her wind chakra blows through their surroundings and shakes the trees. Tsuruji,
maybe sixteen or so with the way baby fat still stubbornly clings to his chin, claws weakly at the
ground, long cuts across his body. His blood spills into the earth and wets the trampled grass. Rei’s
ninjutsu talent is overwhelming.

If he can get in close-quarters, he can distract her with taijutsu to the point where she won’t have
time to make hand signs.

“Shit,” Mihashi barks, glancing at Tsuruji. Then he grits his teeth and glares at Natsume. “Don’t
get distracted now!”

Natsume swipes his thumb over his seal pouch and pulls one out. “Trust me, I won’t.”

They clash again, blades leaving arcs of light and sparks with their rapid movements. Live steel
shakes when it hits. Rattles his whole arm like a bell. A shock of lightning joins the feeling,
stiffening his grip. The sensation isn’t strong, the chakra sucked up into the seal he holds in his
other hand.

The thing about ninjutsu is that it’s terrifying in practice. Nature on its own is a horrifying killer, so
to imagine its power in the hands of mankind? It’s so difficult to think of ways to combat it,
especially when it comes to elements like lightning and fire. A strong shock can fry your brain or
stop your heart. Paired with his water affinity, it’s only natural that he worries about lightning the
most.

Mihashi grits his teeth when another swipe from his electrified tanto is blocked. “What the—“

“Sorry about this,” Natsume murmurs. “But I guess it’s kill or be killed, right?”

The thing about Fuuinjutsu….is that it has the capability to be infinitely more fearsome.

He holds a grounding seal to absorb the electrical currents, made from the bones of a storage seal
and edited using earth particles and a bastardized command for ‘swallow’. Storage seals can be
used to house elements just as well as items or bodies. The most common kind to carry were water
storage scrolls, whether they be for consumption or aiding in water jutsu when in a dry location.

Natsume weaves through Mihashi’s attacks fluidly, bending his small body like a curling wave.
With his left hand he smacks the seal onto Mihashi’s knee, a burst of chakra switching that
‘swallow’ command to ‘return’.

Lightning arcs out of the ink in vivid white-blue, occasionally flickering in darker streaks of purple.
It zips up Mihashi’s body, making his muscles seize. The boy lets out something like a GHK
sound, choking as the electrifying current passes through him.

“It’s alright, since it’s your own chakra it shouldn’t kill you.” Natsume waits until Mihashi
collapses to the ground, twitching. “Although lightning users are known for a high injury rate
because of how dangerous the element is. So I imagine it’s still quite painful.”

“You…little…shit,” Mihashi grits out, saliva dripping from his mouth.

“I’ve been called worse.” Natsume levels his wakizashi to Mihashi’s neck. “You’re incapacitated.
Call forfeit.”

“You’re…not…gonna…stab me…”

“Is that a no?”

Mihashi glares at him. His fingers twitch, lightning still flashing over his body. His hands subtly
move closer together, chakra swelling under his flesh. Too bad Natsume can sense it all.

“You’re right,” he replies. Then swiftly kicks the kid in the jaw, knocking him out. A tooth might
have rolled away. “I won’t stab you.”

With the amount of pride on that boy, asking him to forfeit again wouldn’t have gotten anywhere.

Natsume looks out into the trees, where he senses a jonin proctor. He stares directly at the
signature until it wavers, noticing his awareness. “He’s out, so could you get him off the field?
He’s in the way.”

He turns back to the fights behind him. Tsuruji is hanging on by a thread, walls of earth
surrounding his body like a dome. Rei is hacking away at it with her wind jutsu, but her chakra is
finally depleting into the lower range.

It’s a good theory in practice—hiding until the last person remains. But Tsuruji is definitely
bleeding out inside his own prison.

Sawako moves, her fingers forming a few familiar hand signs. A gust of ash and fire pour out of
her mouth in an uneven stream. Scattering wildly in three different directions.

Rei notices at the last second and leaps to dodge out of the way, letting the ash coat the rock dome.
Tsuruji lets out a shocked sound as his hiding space starts to heat up.

“Just forfeit,” Rei says, eyeing Sawako’s injuries. “I’m not into fighting someone barely standing.
Not cool.”

Sawako grins fiercely, black soot smudged down her mouth and chin. Her teeth are garishly gray
with it. “Don’t look down on me.”

“Have it your way.”

Both of them take a moment to stare, anticipation filling the air. Natsume glances between them,
vaguely noting that both Mihashi and Mitsui have been removed from the ‘play area’. He wonders
if he should interfere. This is a free-for-all. It’s not like there’s rules preventing him from
intercepting attacks or doubling up on someone.

But he watches as Sawako stands on her own two feet with a frenzied glimmer in her eyes, so
desperate to prove that she’s worthy of standing there. When she begins to form more hand seals
for another fire jutsu, he waits. Even as Rei starts forming her own. Fire versus wind is a bad
combination, even more so when Rei’s skill in ninjutsu surpasses Sawako’s own.

Natsume’s wakizashi creates an afterimage of light as he administers one of the Tsunami style’s
slicing forms on the earth dome. It parts like dough, and a strong kick shatters the already weak
and battered construct. A gust of hot air blows back into his face, and Tsuruji, sweaty and bloody,
stares up with glassy eyes and a panting mouth. It doesn’t really look like he’s going to be able to
move.

Not much of a show for these Ame jonin.

Natsume grabs the older teen by the front of his shirt and lobs him directly at Rei’s back. She
dodges out of instinct, hand signs momentarily interrupted. It allows Sawako to have the advantage
and she lets loose her fireball jutsu first.
Rei curses and jumps out of the way again.

He meets Sawako’s eyes briefly. Her face is pinched. He pretends he doesn’t understand what he
just did.

“Uzumaki…”

Natsume flicks his wakizashi down to his side, sheathing the blade and resetting his footing. Just in
time for Rei to release a flurry of wind. It’s weaker this time, her chakra levels low. So many jutsu
in such a short span of time, and no monstrous stores to back her up. Her chakra control must be
incredible.

He uses shunshin to appear in her face, causing her to rapidly backpedal. Her footing is off, the soil
underneath them tangled with roots and flowers. He engages in taijutsu first. She’s a head above
him, but she’s not faster. Rei grunts as their limbs collide in a series of blocks and jabs.

His own arms shake from strain. It hurts the bloody scabs every time he lands a hit. Incredibly—or
scarily—they’ve already healed a considerable degree. But the soreness lingers, combined with his
mounting exhaustion.

Up, down, down, up. Her palm whizzes by his ear, wind chakra slicing across his hairline. Blood
dribbles from the shallow wound. He latches onto the outstretched arm and twists around it, using
her own weight to unbalance her. He spins them, slamming her shoulder-first into the dirt. She lets
out a grunt that reverberates through both of them and something pops.

She immediately twists her hips to bunch her legs close to her chest and kick him off, but he leaps
back before that can happen. She stands slowly, her left arm hanging loose, shoulder dislocated.
There’s a grimace twisting her face, but no sound of pain leaves her. Her purple eyes are still wide-
awake and calculating.

“Not bad,” she says. “Uzumaki Natsume, right?”

He settles into the first Tsunami stance. “Rei of Kumo.”

She barks out a laugh, “That’s the name! You know, I’m glad you made it this far. You’re young,
with a girly-baby face. I bet everyone underestimates you. That’s how it is for kunoichi all the
time, no matter our age. Now look!” She gestures with her good arm. “Two kunoichi and only one
man standing—even if one of those kunoichi looks ready to keel over.”

“Shove it!” Sawako snaps. “I’m not losing to pain!”

“Exactly,” Rei says, then pops her own shoulder back into place. Her returning grin is just as feral
as Sawako’s. “Kunoichi are already better than shinobi at enduring.”

She quickly snaps her hands together and forms a seal, wind blasting out of her open mouth and
cutting over the ground. Flowers and grass fly through the air, torn to shreds of color.

“Shit!” From the corner of his eye, he sees Sawako’s chest swell, her mouth filling with fiery
chakra. “Wait!”

An explosive force of half soot, half fire bursts from her lips. It leaps forward, weaker than the
oncoming torrents of wind. The air greedily swallows it, the two chakra forces meeting halfway
and exploding. Fire and heat burst outwards, the flames emboldened.

Natsume leaps back to avoid the worst of the heat damage, but it’s so fast and so devouring that he
feels his arms singe, even with the fire-resistant seals on his clothes. He ducks and tumbles away
over the scorched earth. Ash and embers destroy the greenery, flames licking across anything it can
get its greedy hands on. When he blinks the spots from his vision, splayed in a partially crouched
position, he sees the world has turned orange and gray. Billowing smoke darkens the sky.

He coughs it from his lungs. Every inhale is short and acrid. Wiping his mouth, he stands,
searching for chakra signatures. Wind. Fire.

It’s everywhere, but the two most concentrated points are right on top of each other.

Natsume pushes through the feeling of too-tight skin and darts through clouds of smoke. It stings
his eyes and makes them water. His hand rests on his wakizashi, pulling it halfway from the sheath
just as he comes across the two kunoichi.

Sawako’s burns are even worse than before. She lays on the ground, dazed and unmoving. Her
eyes are still open but remain glassy. There’s black soot covering her from nearly head to toe,
smeared over bubbled flesh.

Rei is crouched over her, a kunai held level with the fluttering pulse of Sawako’s carotid artery.
Her purple eyes are forward, waiting for him. Watching as he comes into view. She’s not free of
burns either, though it seems her attire deflected the worst of it.

He freezes.

“Put that back in its sheath, Natsume-kun,” she says jovially.

He grimaces. How likely is she to actually do it?

Rei draws a light line over Sawako’s neck, letting it drool blood.

Natsume takes his hand off his wakizashi.

Rei sighs. “You’re strong. But you worry about other people too much. I need you to forfeit, or I’m
cutting her neck open.”

“I forfeit.”

She blinks. “That—that was quicker than I thought. What? No complaining? No thinking? No
bargaining?”

“There will be other chunin exams. Winning here isn’t worth death,” he says. There’s no exam
worth watching a twelve year old slit the throat of a teenager.

The smoke begins to clear. He feels the jonin proctors approach, landing silently before the messy
trio.

“That didn’t last very long,” one of them says.

“Not much of a show.”

The young one from before steps close, peering over Sawako. “Sawako of Konoha is incapacitated,
and Uzumaki Natsume of Konoha has forfeited. The winner is Rei of Kumo. Congrats kid.”

She stands, something like a smile on her lips. It doesn’t seem to reach her eyes fully. Eyes that
bore into Natsume’s face, like he’s a puzzle she can’t quite piece together.
He turns away with a cough, waving away excess smoke. This whole thing sucked. He’s so ready
to leave this soggy country.

“You could have won,” Rei says as they leave.

Natsume shrugs. “Maybe.”

“I meant it when I said you were strong.”

“Maybe I don’t enjoy hitting kids.”

She laughs. “You really are weird.”

He doesn’t know how to tell her that it really shouldn’t be weird to not want to hit children. To kill
them or other people. So he doesn’t say anything at all.

“Sawako’s pretty seriously burned and their medical staff isn’t exactly… staffed. Not the way ours
is.” Genma scratches his head. “It might take another week or so before she’s ready to make the
journey home.”

“How…How bad are they? The burns.” Urara asks, nervously fiddling with his hands.

Natsume’s wounds have already been treated, arms bandaged up and cleaned out. The worst was
showering off all the mud and sediment he’d been soaked in, as well as pulling small pieces of
debris out of the scabbing cuts. He feels dead on his feet, nearing three days of no sleep.

Urara is the best put together out of all of them, disqualified during the scavenger hunt. He
reluctantly revealed he hadn’t even found the first clue. He’d just wandered around in circles until
the time ran out. With how puffy his face is, the kid probably spent half that time crying his eyes
out.

They stand just outside Sawako’s hospital room, the door cracked for privacy. She’s sound asleep,
her chakra a low simmer. Like most of this village, the hospital itself is grayscale and run-down in
appearance. They aren’t very staffed, and most of the doctors and nurses look harried. Many of the
rooms are filled with people who seem ill from the weather and lack of resources. Wet coughs and
sniffles galore.

“Eh, not the worst they could be. Thanks to medical ninjutsu, the scarring should be light.
Otherwise she’d probably have a lot of difficulty moving.”

Damn. Now Natsume kind of wishes he could learn medical ninjutsu. Burns were exceptionally
tricky in his old world. Or at least he assumes they were, based on the ambient knowledge. Being
able to repair it so deftly with chakra is an amazing feat.

He wonders if medical ninjutsu is a limited ability, prioritized for shinobi. Do civilians get the
same expedited treatment? Or are they more likely to walk away with scarring wounds than some
shinobi are?

What’s the health system even like in Konoha? He’s only been to the hospital once in his memory,
and he’d been pretty out of it at the time.
Wait.

Is there insurance here? How much are medical expenses usually? He hadn’t paid a dime for the
broken ribs. It could be because Genma covered it. Was health insurance even a thing? Dental?
Vision?

Neither he or Naruto have ever gotten any physical check-ups outside of the routine Academy tests.
He’s not even sure that dentists exist here. Doctors seem to fall under the blanket ‘I know
everything’ category. Did no one get cavities? Did they just walk up to the hospital and get it taken
care of? If there weren’t any specialized areas, that meant there was probably a lot of general
health traffic taking up resources and time. Didn’t seem well managed.

…Konoha couldn’t be that bad, could it?

Well.

Yeah, it was pretty bad already.

But surely…

“How much is this gonna cost us?” He asks, slipping into his street accent.

“It’ll come out of the hazard fee paid by Konoha.” At his confused expression, Genma laughs.
“Military expenses are paid for via taxes. Attending the chunin exams fits into that category.
That’s how we pay for lodging, attendance fees, and hazard insurance in case of injuries requiring
treatment or, in unlucky cases, a death that requires mortuary services.”

“Am I paying taxes?”

“Yeah, a little chunk outta each paycheck. Shinobi have a lower tax bracket than civilians, though.”

Huh. He hadn’t really noticed. He’d just taken his checks and stored them away in his deposit box,
so he could save them up and cash them in at the bank when needed. Or, in the case of D ranks, the
pay was little enough that they just got paid in ryo.

He really needs to open a proper bank account.

Urara looks between them.

Right, this probably isn’t the right time for a conversation about money when Sawako is
unconscious and recovering.

Genma glances at Sawako’s room once more before offering the two boys a grin. “I need to get a
few things done to extend our stay, so I’ll meet you back at the hotel. We can get food later.”

Natsume catches him before he leaves. “When’re the promotions gettin’ handed out?”

“They‘ll let us know tomorrow morning.” Genma ruffles his hair. “I’m sure you did great.”

Then he vanishes, wisps of almond-earth in his place.

It doesn’t really matter to Natsume if he gets promoted or not. Sure, he’d love to move up a rank
and never have to do this again. That would be the best case scenario. But it’s not like he’s
desperate for it.

Urara shifts at his side, dark hair frizzy over his forehead. “Um, was it…was it really difficult?”
That’s one word for it.

“It wasn’t exactly fun.”

“I’m…I couldn’t even make it to the end. Even though I really tried.”

Natsume raises a brow. “Well, they didn’t exactly make it easy for us.”

The scavenger hunt itself gave so little information to go off of that he’d be shocked if a majority of
genin understood it—being children and all. Still, around eleven had made it to that cave…

Urara laughs awkwardly, tugging at his ear with shaking fingers. “I guess I’m just not cut out for
this.”

“Then quit.”

The other boy jolts, looking at Natsume with wide eyes. “W-What?”

“If you don’t think you’re cut out for this, then quit. You’re still young, it’s probably not
impossible for you to go back to normal schooling or get a job…or whatever kids your age do.”
He’s not actually sure how it works for civilians. This world seems a bit dated. As in, people got
married at like sixteen and that was normal, or how people went to the equivalent of trade schools
and not everyone learned to read.

“Um…yeah.” Urara’s expression falls. He looks like he might start crying again.

Natsume sighs. “Why do you want to be a shinobi? You’re scared and you’re bad at it. You even
said yourself that you’re not cut out for it. But you keep trying. You’re still here.”

For a moment, Urara stays quiet. His throat bobs with a swallow. His fingers trail over the bandage
on his arm, it’s a fresh one. “I know I’m not good at fighting. I…I hate getting hurt and I’m scared
of everything. But I wanted to learn how to be strong. I thought I—I thought I could do it,
eventually. If I stayed. Then my—then…my parents…”

His chakra flutters weakly. Like a dying bird. There’s a crease between his brows, a look of
resignation overtaking his countenance. It’s the kind of expression not fit for a child.

“If I prove I’m strong, then it won’t matter that I have a crush on a boy.”

Suddenly, a bunch of puzzle pieces fall into place. Urara’s meek behavior, his flinches, his
paranoia. The way he jumps at loud noises and looks one stiff breeze away from passing out when
in a confrontational situation. The signs of emotional and verbal abuse are all there. Possibly even
physical, if Natsume thinks about it. And he doesn’t want to. Because then he’ll just get more
angry then he already is.

“Urara, there’s nothing wrong with liking a boy. You don’t have to prove you’re strong because it
doesn’t make you weak. Anyone who tries to tell you so is an idiot. Your parents especially so.”

Konoha was old fashioned in the worst of ways. The lack of consistent education definitely
exacerbated that. Too many people focused on marriage and honor—rather, civilians did. And
those habits were hard to remove from young, civilian-born shinobi like Urara.

The older boy laughs softly, the sound damp with tears. He scratches his head and wipes at his
eyes. “You know, you’re exactly the same.”
 Natsume frowns. What did he mean by that?

Whatever.

“Do you need to talk to Genma about this? Your parents, I mean.”

Urara sniffs, composing himself as best he can. “No. I can handle it. Can I just—talk?”

“To me?”

“Yes.”

“As long as you don’t expect me to give any world-changing advice,” Natsume mutters. He leans
against the wall to get comfortable, shutting his eyes against the glare of the overhead lights.

Urara settles beside him. “His name is Yamanaka Kouha and he’s a year older than me. He comes
into our shop a lot because he really likes sushi!”

The older boy seems to come alive, emerging from his shell like he’s been cut loose from invisible
chains. He goes on and on about the exact shade of Kouha’s hair, the scattering of moles on his
neck, the mist-gray of his eyes. Urara’s cheeks flush apple red and for the first time ever he acts
the way a pre-teen does.

Natsume lets him talk until it’s time to leave.

Chapter End Notes

Had the worst time ever with these fight scenes, sorry if u can tell
 VOL. 1, ARC III. (agonies)
Chapter Notes

>:) we’re almost done with arc 3 already !

See the end of the chapter for more notes

There’s a quiet hum in the hotel room from the heating systems. It will occasionally pop and rattle,
just for a little variety. Usually he’s fine with that kind of white noise, especially coming from a
shitty apartment in the crummier side of Konoha.

Tonight, however, he lingers in the waking world, unable to fall asleep even as his companions
slumber beside him.

They’re leaving tomorrow. In a few hours, in fact. They’ll pick up Sawako from the hospital, most
of her injuries healed and the majority of her burns ready to fade with time.

She hadn’t said much after the promotions had been announced and her name hadn’t appeared on
the list.

Natsume’s had. Right underneath Rei’s. A part of him had thought he wouldn’t make it. Surely the
shinobi world prioritized those who put the mission first? That’s what he thought. That’s what he’d
been taught. Even in Konoha, the village known to push teamwork. What he did during the exams
showed his true colors. It showed he wasn’t ‘ready’ to make the hard choices required to survive.

And yet.

He’ll have to fill out the promotion paperwork upon returning to Konoha. Joy.

None of that is why he’s awake right now.

He’s awake because Uchiha Itachi is in this village.

A few hours later and the sun begins to creep over the horizon, unseen beyond the sheet of
immovable cloud permanently lingering in the sky. The world lightens instead, from one shade of
gray to another.

Natsume gives up on sleep and slips out of bed.

“Where are you going?” Genma murmurs, instantly waking at the movement. His eye cracks open,
a sliver in the dawn.

“Just for a walk.”

“Are you sure?”

Natsume shrugs. “I’ll be fine.”

The last thing on his mind is getting kidnapped, honestly. Even if he’s the one with the biggest
target on his back, he’s also the one least likely to get taken. He just needs to move. He just needs
to…

Do something. Even something stupid.

Genma hums and rolls over, his breath deepening again.

Natsume leaves without looking back.

Not many are awake at this time. There’s a drunkard slumped over in an alleyway and a staff
member tottering behind a bakery window, presumably prepping to open. The world is quiet—if it
can be called as such, with the amount of ambient humming and buzzing there is. Like the sound of
constant rain, even when none falls.

It’s funny, this is the first time it hasn’t rained at all in the time he’s been here. That’s sure to
change soon, be it in hours or minutes.

Natsume walks with his hands in his pockets, toeing at the dirt on a street corner a few blocks from
the hotel. He senses Itachi’s chakra stronger now, their distance shrinking. Whether or not it’s a
good idea to keep going is what keeps him stationary. He doesn’t know.

Not what he wants, and not what’s safe. There’s something wrong with him because he’s not sure
he cares whether or not Itachi did kill the Uchiha Clan. He really only wants to know the why. He
doesn’t believe the words Sasuke told him. Not one bit. Not with the way they’d sounded recited
and foreign, Sasuke’s dark eyes sinking further into rage whenever he repeated them.

Power? As if. Then, Do I even deserve to know?

It’s not like he was exceptionally close with Itachi—Shisui had been their binding glue—but they
could have been something like friends.

The sound of rustling has him pausing, hands growing lax at his side.

“You’re awake quite early, Uzumaki Natsume.”

The voice is soft, feminine. Vaguely familiar. The chakra even more so—parchment, rain on the
wind. A woman stands before him, cloaked in gray. Her eyes are orange, but a tad more brown
than Sawako’s, and her hair is a muted sort of purple.

“You’re one of the proctors,” he says, not relaxing at all.

There is a terrible sort of dimness to her face, like she’s forgotten how to press emotion into her
skin. She merely stares at him, exuding a plastic kindness. “I am.”

Belatedly, he realizes she’s probably asked a question within her simple statement. “My apologies
for wandering. I’m merely an early riser.”

He’s the opposite actually. He absolutely hates waking up so early every day. Unfortunately his
body is growing accustomed to it. And chakra, surprisingly, noticeably affects how much sleep a
shinobi needs.

(Less than a civilian.)

If she catches his lie, she gives no indication. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

“…thank you.”

“You sound perturbed.”

He instinctively wants to glance away. He doesn’t, obviously, because something about her has his
hair standing on edge. “I mean no offense. It’s only my shock at having received a promotion.”

“You don’t believe you deserve it?”

“Hard to say.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “We shall see.”

Natsume isn’t sure how to reply. The tension begins to mount as he struggles to find words. Her
chakra is so tightly reigned, he barely gleans anything at all from her, even at this distance.

“It’s a good morning for tea,” she suddenly says. “I hope you have an enjoyable journey home.”

“Thank you,” he replies, watching as she turns away and leaves, sinking back into the dark
shadows of Ame’s twisting alleys. He hadn’t asked for her name.

He waits until she’s completely gone from both his view and senses before turning away. A bird
flies overhead, cawing loudly. Black feathers stark against the grim sky. He watches it go until it
disappears behind a towering building.

He’ll have to return to the hotel soon. He has maybe an hour, max.

Natsume begins walking towards Uchiha Itachi.

The tea house is silent this early. There is only one customer, wrapped in a black cloak
embroidered with red clouds.

Natsume stares at the back of the teen’s head from under the hanging curtain, watching curls of
steam brush by sheer black hair. He lingers there for a long moment, contemplating whether or not
to take that next step forward.

It’s impossible to understand the emotions that burrow deep inside him. They’ve hidden away,
even from him, and he can’t understand what they’ve warped into in their efforts to disappear.
What does one feel for a murderer? What does one feel for a child?

The cloak Itachi wears is a size too big. He pretends Natsume isn’t there at all. His chakra is
saccharine. Powdered sugar and the scent of ash. Magma popping. A sweet shop. Harrowed and
sullen. A void, an empty pit of infinity.

Ah, so that’s how it is.

Natsume enters, footsteps silent. He doesn’t like tea.

The shop is finer than most in this ramshackle village. Polished wood, expensive artwork, tasteful
decor. No bar in sight, just low tables.

A server appears from behind a half-wall leading to what must be the kitchen, her tray folded up
towards her chest. Her expression doesn’t waver as she takes in his appearance, though he
recognizes the aura of distaste. Another pass of her gaze and she stops on the Konoha headband
tied around his bicep.

“Welcome to our humble tea house, shinobi-san. Would you like to be seated at one of our tables?”

“Yes, thank you,” he replies, careful with his words. He thinks he’s imagining the mounting
anxiety.

She directs him to a table diagonal from Itachi, and he sits on the side that allows him to face the
other boy. Natsume tries to keep his gaze away at first. He lets the server talk, lets himself receive
a menu.

“Would you like to start with a refreshment?”

“What kind of tea is the boy over there having?”

She pauses for a moment, her smile only wavering slightly. “Gyokuro, young sir. Unfortunately,
it’s our most expensive brew.”

He can practically hear her calling him poor.

Well. It’s not like she’s wrong. He’s not entirely sure he can afford the most expensive tea at a
place like this, especially since there aren’t any prices next to the items on the menu. That speaks
for itself.

Natsume keeps his expression flat. “It’s not to my taste. I’ll take guricha and a plate of gyoza.”

She’s absolutely not impressed, but at least her plastic smile stays in place as she notes his order.

He glances around for sugar after she leaves. Even guricha is too much for him. He’ll have to pack
as much sweetener in it as possible. Yes, he’s a menace to traditional tea. Not his fault he has a
sweet tooth and the tastebuds of an eight year old child.

The silence that falls is filled with his own uncertainty. It’s impossible to pretend that they both
aren’t sitting across from each other. It’s impossible to pretend that they are strangers, not to
Natsume. It’s been over a year and Itachi’s chakra is still as recognizable as Natsume’s own hand.

He knew it in a miasma of rainfall, in a village filled with people. He’ll know it always, and fears
the idea that it could be a lie.

Itachi’s gaze is lowered, shadows cast over his face. His visible flesh is sickly pale, as though he
hasn’t seen the sun in months. The lines carved into his face have grown deeper, trenches in his
childish flesh. There’s still a puff of baby fat clinging to each cheek.

Uchiha Itachi, one year later. Fourteen years old. Boyish in appearance, fretfully pretty, and
steadily entering puberty. He looks a bit taller. Maybe. It’s hard to tell when sitting down. He looks
exhausted and impassive. His chakra is tucked in tight and close now, locking his thoughts and
feelings away but not the subtle feel of it—the bit that Natsume clings to.

They sit in silence until Natsume’s food and tea arrive.

He’s hungry so he eats, never shutting his eyes for longer than a blink. Even if he wants to close
them tight and pretend he’s somewhere else. Back in a memory. Before death and carnage bled
into their childhoods and overflowed.

Natsume takes a sip of tea. He doesn’t like it.

There are words he wants to say. He’s just not sure which ones. A question, an accusation, an
update. He could spill a lot into the distance between their tables. New memories, new events.

Does he deserve it?

Natsume isn’t convinced of a lot of things. The idea that Itachi would be responsible for the entire
random massacre of his clan is one of them. But at the end of the day, the Uchiha clan is dead and
Sasuke is in agony. That pain is real. That pain has consequences.

Itachi, no matter the truth of what went down that night, made his bed and has to lie in it.

It’s not fair, he remembers Sawako saying.

Exactly.

He clenches his fingers and accidentally splits the gyoza hanging from his chopsticks. Annoying.
Everything about this is annoying. He came here for no reason at all. It’s only him caught in a
moment, a fly in amber, desperate for a past that’s already come and gone.

Clinging to a murderer for a scrap of the safety he once felt. A safety brought about by a missing
piece they both lost. Uchiha Itachi is a substitute for a ghost, and Natsume really, really needs
therapy.

Hatred flares through him. Vicious and cutting, salt on an open wound. The tea in his mouth tastes
like stagnant water. He feels a beast pace in the back of his head.

Uchiha, it croons. UCHIHA!

Natsume pinches the bridge of his nose. A headache throbs behind his eyes. The Kyuubi is
displeased, to put it lightly.

So noisy, he thinks to himself. And hopefully to the beast. You’re not making this tea experience
any better.

“Young sir, may I inquire about your method of payment?” The server appears at his side with a
noisy swish of her robes. Her pasted-on smile is back. “The total for your experience will be 540
ryo.”

540?

For two items? He can get a full bowl of ramen for around 200, and he definitely didn’t get
anything close to a meal with his tea and appetizer. That’s way more than he expected. A tray of
gyoza is usually 100 ryo in Konoha.

There’s no prices written on the menu.

Is he being extorted here?

Natsume knows he has about 700 ryo left in his bag. He’d planned on using a majority of it buying
nutrition packs for the journey back. There’s not much he’ll be able to buy with just 160 ryo.
The server waits, clearly expecting him to struggle more. Or sweat. Or something. Sage, what is
she, a sadist? A man is lingering in the kitchen hall, out of sight but not invisible to Natsume’s
sensory ability. What’s a civilian gonna do?

He exhales. It’s his own fault for wanting to glimpse a memory. Natsume reaches into his pouch,
pretending he’s not amused or even noticing how tense the woman gets. Like she thinks he’ll pull a
kunai out and rob the store. A funny thought. Inciting international drama between Konoha and
Ame. Not like there wasn’t enough of that already.

Before he can pull his ryo out, a shadow appears over his table. He flinches. He hadn’t even
noticed Itachi move.

The teen is taller. Though not by much. He hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet. He doesn’t look at
Natsume at all as he places a handful of bills on the table, ignoring the flabbergasted expression of
the server.

“Sir, you—“ Her voice catches in her throat when she notes that Itachi left money at his own table
as well. When she glances back, Itachi is already gone.

Natsume can still sense him walking down the street. Leisurely. As if he has all the time in the
world. What an asshole. He really left Natsume with an entire kid to look out for and thought
covering for an overpriced snack would make them even?

“Are you familiar with that man?”

“No,” Natsume replies, taking another sip of his tea. “I’ve never met him before.”

Sasuke is real and tangible and painfully broken. He is Natsume’s to fix and to protect and Itachi
has crossed a line that can never be uncrossed. There are no take-backs now.

Natsume isn’t sure he can love Sasuke the way he loves Naruto. This is exactly why he’s letting
Itachi walk away without a word spoken between them.

It’s time he gave up on ghosts.

“You’re almost late,” Genma notes. His pack is slung over one shoulder, an errant strand of brown
hair spiraling off in a different direction from the rest. He looks like he wants to go back to sleep.

Natsume meets back up with Urara and Genma in front of their Inn, collecting his bag from his
sensei. They’ve already checked out of the room, and he’d already pre-packed everything the night
before, so he’s positive there’s nothing left behind.

He’s so ready to leave this place. Sick of rain, sick of mist, sick of the uncertainties that follow.

“My bad.”

Genma grunts, “Let’s head over to the hospital and get the hell out of here.”

Sawako walks with a slight limp but doesn’t seem to be in pain. She waves away Urara’s stuttered
concern and shoulders her own bag. Her chakra is a low simmer.
There isn’t much conversation to be had between them until they’re far past the gates, wandering
into the muck of the countryside.

Urara had been the first to outwardly congratulate Natsume on his promotion. Genma had been
more reserved, his mouth pressed into a line. His eyes were happy, his chakra conflicted. The
congratulations from his sensei had been accompanied by another hair ruffle, then a comment
about how Natsume needed to grow a little taller.

Sawako didn’t say much at all about it. Even now, days later, she keeps quiet on the subject. That
quiet is unusual for her, because the entire journey here had been filled with her blabbering or
yelling while getting practice in. Now there’s an air of contemplation about her. Brooding, maybe.

He has to remind himself at times that she’s only seventeen.

Genma has no reservations with springing the hard conversations when they least expect it. Like at
dinner time on their third evening back, when they’re all sat around a fire that Sawako started. The
scent of roasting rabbit bubbles in the smoke.

“So, you two, what’s the plan?” He tips his senbon in Urara and Sawako’s direction. “I’m hoping
you guys took this as a learning experience.”

Urara clears his throat, tracing symbols in the dirt with a stick. “Um, yeah. I suppose.”

Genma waits. Nothing else comes. “Well, it’s as good a time as any to examine any weaknesses we
can have you guys improve upon.”

“And who’s going to help us with that?” Sawako asks. Her voice is rough. Her eyes are cutting.
“You?”

“Maybe.”

Both of them look startled by his response.

Genma leans forward, arms propped on his knees. “The core of the shinobi lifestyle is endurance.
Likewise, that means those who persevere are those more likely to succeed. For someone
beginning at the bottom of the ladder, if there is no rung to grab, you must make one.”

Urara furrows his brow, but Sawako stares across the fire right into Genma’s face.

“You’re talking about forming connections and taking advantage of others.”

“Well, speaking frankly.”

She huffs. “Alright, I can do that.”

“I thought so,” he replies, amused.

Sawako is unpolished, brash, and lacking in a lot of basic skills, but she has a sort of tenacity and
drive for power that pushes her forward. She is the ideal poster child for ‘endurance’, as showcased
during the exams. Even covered in wounds and facing impossible odds, she still stood her ground.
That’s the kind of will that Konoha looks for in their shinobi.

Keep going even if it kills you.

It’s the worst kind of mindset in Natsume’s opinion, but he can’t say he’s immune to it either. He’s
doing the same thing, even if it’s not for Konoha. Walking into the fires of hell even when battered
and bruised, just to protect two little boys.

“There’s a few friends of mine who have pretty regular training sessions. I’m sure you could stop
by a few times to get some pointers,” Genma drawls.

“I’ll go,” she quickly says, like she thinks he’s going to take the offer back. Waves of frustration
roll off her shoulders. “Thanks.”

Genma shrugs. “What about you, kid?”

Urara flinches and starts fiddling with his hands. “I don’t know. I—I don’t know. I…I can’t figure
out what I want to do.”

“Being a shinobi isn’t for everyone,” Genma says offhandedly. His voice isn’t exactly gentle. It
can’t be. There’s nothing gentle about the shinobi lifestyle. They learned that quite well. “If you
aren’t going to put effort into staying alive, then you won’t.”

“…I know.” Urara’s face droops, expression downcast. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth
and watches the flames dance.

Natsume knows now that the boy is only a shinobi because he’s running from his home life. Being
a shinobi allows you the same liberties as an adult, no matter your age. Urara can legally move out
and claim himself as an independent. He can open his own bank account. He can’t be pushed into
an arranged marriage the way civilians still seem to fall back on.

It’s not a bad decision. But it might be a rash and unrealistic one for someone like him, who has a
heart made of cotton and a spine made of silk instead of steel. His struggle isn’t at all like
Natsume’s, but it’s still a struggle on its own.

Natsume only understands this because he was older, once. He knows how the words of a parent
can shape and break a child. If Urara is subject to abuse just for existing within his own home,
under his parents thumb, then it was brave of him to even try getting out from underneath it.

Urara is twelve, and he’s scared, and he’s probably operating on fight or flight mode constantly
because he has no place to feel safe in.

Where would he even go if he dropped out of the shinobi field? If his parents were found incapable
of caring for him, would he go to a children’s home? Like the one Natsume and Naruto grew up in
—overpopulated with screaming children and absolutely no privacy to be had. Did they have social
services here for abusive households?

(The entire police force was dead.)

“Hey, can I talk to you?”

He glances up at Sawako, her form backlit by the flickering yellows of the fire. Her dusky orange
gaze is darkened in the shadows, turned to scorched umber. “Sure…”

“Alone,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at Genma and Urara, who quickly pretend like they
aren’t listening in. “So take a walk with me. And you two better not listen in.”

Genma meets his eyes for a moment, but Natsume can’t read the expression there. His sensei’s
chakra is silent as well, nothing coming through that Natsume can understand.

He stands and follows her into the trees.

Sawako shifts uncomfortably. “I’m not good at sappy shit. And you’re like, way younger than me
so it feels even weirder. But I—I wanted to say…thanks, I guess. For not letting me die.”

“You helped me too.”

“Sure, but struggling to swim feels a lot different from a knife at your throat.”

Technically. Sure.

“You don’t have to thank me for not letting someone slit your throat,” he mutters. “It would have
been wrong to do otherwise. You don’t deserve death.”

She gives him a look then, one that’s similar to Rei’s contemplative stare after he’d forfeited. As if
she can’t quite comprehend him.

“When I first graduated, I thought I was going to be the greatest kunoichi ever. My grades weren’t
amazing, but I was above average for most of the physical stuff. I thought I’d fit right in with my
two teammates, even though they were clan shinobi. But it wasn’t like that.” Sawako grimaces at
some memory he’s not privy to. “They were ahead of me by leaps and bounds and my sensei spent
all his time on them. He based anything we learned on where they were, not where I was, so I got—
I got left behind fast. Then we got signed up for the chunin exams, the very first right after
graduation, and I hadn’t learned anything. No matter how much I begged or tried to copy what they
were doing, I didn’t understand it. They passed. I didn’t.”

“And suddenly you weren’t your sensei’s problem anymore,” Natsume finished. “You know that’s
not right, right? He should have helped you to start with. He should have found alternate solutions
for you after you didn’t pass.”

“Yeah, well, my whole team didn’t see any worth in me to ‘start with’.”

“Then why keep doing it?”

She raises a brow. “I dunno, spite? Because I can? I know it’s unfair what happened to me, I don’t
need you or anyone else to tell me that. It’s because it was unfair that I’m still here. I’m gonna
prove to everyone who left me behind that it was them who made a mistake.”

“You’re even willing to die for it? That’s not going to prove anything.”

She sighs, accumulated frustration disappearing with her exhale. Her shoulders drop from their
tense position. “I know. I got angry because of how desperate I was to pass.”

It’s his turn to shift awkwardly, sensing the elephant in the room. “You…”

“It’s whatever,” she says, meeting his eyes without flinching. “There will be other chunin exams.”

Natsume finds his mouth turning up a bit. “You know, seeing as I did save your life, we’re
technically even.”

“Yeah, but you’re still gonna teach me those hand signs anyway.”

“Oh?”

She grins. “You’re just that kinda guy.”

They arrive at Konoha’s gates the second week of September, just when the first hint of cooler
temperatures begin to make their reluctant appearance. Temp Team Thirteen made the most of
their return trip, ignoring the lingering uncertainty of which directions they would all go off in once
they returned. Now, Sawako has the basics of the Konoha signs down, and Urara has a new set of
grappling maneuvers under his belt.

Natsume, despite washing both himself and his clothes in rivers as frequently as he was able, feels
grimier than he’s ever been. His hair is a tangled mess that desperately needs a trim, most of it tied
up and out of the way. The shortest strand is at his shoulders.

While they get their paperwork in order at the gate, then again at the Hokage’s office, there is only
a loop of thoughts running through his mind.

Naruto, Sasuke, haircut, shower. Naruto, Sasuke, haircut, shower. Naruto, Sasuke, haircut, shower.

Genma hands off a scroll to the Hokage, who glances through it.

“I see some congratulations are in order. Natsume-kun, you’ve done well.” The Sandaime offers a
genial grin. “We’ll get you a vest.”

“Thank you,” he replies stiffly. Right. A chunin vest. What’s he supposed to do with that? Do they
even make any in his size? Fuck the Sandaime.

His promotion is a footnote. An after-thought. A host of more paperwork he’ll have to deal with
sometime in the next week. He needs to decide if he wants to apply for another apprenticeship
under Genma, or if he should go off on his own. He needs to open an official bank account and
stop storing physical bills. He needs to prepare for his and Naruto’s birthday in a few weeks. He
needs to—

No. Don’t think about that now. He just wants out. He wants nothing more than a hot shower and
to see if those two little troublemakers are still alive.

A masked shinobi appears by the Sandaime’s side, presenting a chunin vest that definitely is not
small enough for Natsume. The Sandaime stands, robes swishing around him, to personally hand it
to Natsume.

He keeps his expression carefully neutral upon receiving it. Hopefully no one can tell that he
passed by a wanted mass murderer with absolutely zero intent to apprehend him. Nothing else
happens the rest of the short meeting, and thankfully they’re allowed to leave.

He seals the bulky vest away in a spare notch on his belt. The material had been surprisingly stiff,
but he couldn’t put a name to what kind of fabric it was—if it was fabric at all. He’d be drowning
in it if he wore it.

They get down to the street, immediately confronted with the sound of children playing in the
Academy yard. It’s bright out, the streets bustling. It smells of wood and different food. As much
as he hates this place, it’s eons better than Ame.

“Natsume,” Sawako calls.

The fog over his head recedes for a moment. In clumsy, slow movements, she forms the signs for
Congrats. Then she turns on her heel and marches away through the crowd.
“Um, see you,” Urara murmurs, shoulders hunched. “Congratulations, again.”

“Mm,” he replies.

Sensei and student watch the genin leave.

Genma slouches and sighs deeply. “Time to do a bunch of paperwork that I don’t want to do. Get
home safe.”

“Yeah.” Natsume stands in the street for a bit, watching his sensei saunter off with his hands in his
pockets. He wonders if this is the kind of thing he should tell Shisui, or the little stone that doesn’t
hover over his body.

Because they never found one.

He walks home.

Sasuke, Naruto, haircut, shower.

Sas— Sasuke?

Natsume unlocks the front door to their apartment. Sasuke’s eyes are the first ones he meets, black
as night. Wide and stunned. Haunted, a mirror image of Itachi’s slightly grayer ones.

Relief flickers through his chakra, ozone and campfires. His young face brightens for all of a
moment—before he catches himself and remembers what they are. Remembers who they are.

Naruto is a blur who breaks the silent thread of tension. “NACCHAN!”

He screams with his whole chest, slamming right into Natsume’s arms. He wraps around and
around, limbs and chakra and tangled blonde hair. His toothy grin takes up everything in sight.

Natsume feels his heart rate settle. Beating in tune with his other, brighter half. Naruto smells like
salt and soap and a little bit of citrus, to match the tangerine-sunshine-whirlwind of his chakra.

“I missed you sooo much! It was so boring here with just Sasuke, and he can’t cook at all so it was
awful! I had to peel apples for him because he sucks that much! And it was lonely at night and I
dunno how to wash the sheets so I didn’t ‘cause I didn’t want you to get mad if I ruined ‘em so you
can’t really blame me for not doin’ them and I—” Naruto inhales deeply. “I’m really glad you’re
home!”

“Yeah,” Natsume murmurs, hooking his chin over Naruto’s shoulder and hugging his brother just
as tight. “I’m really glad to be back, too.”

Sasuke finally finds his voice. “So?” He wanders slightly over, hovering. Caught at a distance, as
though he’s unsure of his place. Silly, now, when Natsume has finally decided that Sasuke is his.

“Yeah, I passed.” He untangles himself from Naruto, striding over to the kid. Sasuke takes a step
back in surprise, letting out a sound of confusion when Natsume roughly brings him in for a hug.

“What are you doing?!” Sasuke exclaims, tense as a bowstring. He doesn’t raise his arms to return
the hug, but he hasn’t started squirming away yet.

“I’ve been gone a while, give me a moment.”

“Hey! I wanna be included!” Naruto yells, then tumbles into Natsume’s back. He topples all three
 of them to the ground

Sasuke yelps. “HEY! Get off, idiot! You’re crushing me!”

Natsume sighs, caught between them in a tangle of limbs. The two boys are reaching around him to
scrap with the other and he can’t even be bothered to move. “You guys…save it for later. I want to
take a shower.”

“Yeah, you stink,” Naruto says.

Sasuke wrinkles his nose. “Is that mud in your hair?”

Why did I miss them again?

Chapter End Notes

Gonna be honest, there is SO much both you, the readers, and Natsume aren’t seeing
right now. I can’t wait to write an Itachi POV one shot to accompany this chapter.
Anyway, let me know if you have any theories as to why Natsume is walking around
unscathed rn lol >:)))
 VOL. 1, ARC III. (accusations)
Chapter Notes

Next chapter and arc 3 is OVER already qwq

See the end of the chapter for more notes

In the months that follow, from autumn to winter to spring, things begin to change.

To start with, their birthday is a more lively affair than last year. Ino and Sakura barge their way
into the event—or, Sakura is dragged along by the human bulldozer that is Yamanaka Ino.

Between them, Hinata, and Sasuke, it’s like—

It’s like the two empty spots from before have been filled in, just a little. This time with bright,
loud, unapologetic children. Natsume doesn’t know how he’s going to survive.

They get a strawberry cake, because Naruto isn’t picky and it’s Natsume’s favorite. Hinata brings
over cute pastries from some expensive bakery that neither Uzumaki has ever heard of. Hinata
looks kind of mortified by the elephant in the room, but Natsume is the only one to really
understand the gap in their wealth and status. Naruto just looks happy to get more sugar.

Things are fine.

He gets a brand new set of expensive Fuuinjutsu tools from Hinata, a drawing from Naruto (he
attempted to draw Natsume as accurately as possible, but it looks more like some kind of alien),
and a novel from Sasuke. An actual book. Not one for training, just one for leisure.

Natsume probably stares at it for too long a moment because Sasuke huffs and pouts, even though
the Uchiha swears up and down he’s too old for that.

“If you don’t want it, just toss it.”

“No,” Natsume says. He turns the books over, reading the synopsis on the back. It’s a fiction novel
about a boy who falls into the yokai’s domain. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to read it.”

He’d only been caught off guard because it seemed so strange. Not once does he recall letting
anyone know that he loves reading just to read. All the books he brought home from the library
had been for studying. All the ones on the shelves are for improving skills, from shinobi-related
topics to cook books or sewing manuals.

In the Before, that was his favorite pastime. Reading. Flying away to far-off worlds through the
pages of a book. Dreaming of different storylines and fairy tales. Those grayed out memories
overflow with the imprint of bookshelves, lines on pages, stylized covers—all flying through his
head like a collection of snapshots.

He thumbs over the cover and puts the book to the side carefully. His chest aches. Sasuke won’t
meet his eyes.

Though they were unexpected guests, Ino and Sakura both bring gifts. From Ino, he receives black,
shinobi-grade nail polish and a card with too much glitter. Sakura gives him a bookmark, a flower
pressed into resin. It’s a surprising match for Sasuke’s gift, and the girl flushes ruby red when she
realizes.

For Naruto, his gifts consisted of The Beginner’s Guide to Calligraphy from Natsume (as well as a
new set of puzzles, because Naruto had expectedly moaned at the sight of study materials), a new
winter coat from Hinata (maroon with orange accents, the only orange to be found in a high-end
store), and a blanket from Sasuke.

A blanket with a ramen pattern.

“I love it!” Naruto had exclaimed, looking over the moon and suspiciously bright-eyed. “I didn’t
know Sasuke could actually be nice!”

“What is that monstrosity?” Natsume had muttered, dismayed to see such an ugly thing taint their
house. Because Naruto was going to be obsessed with that thing and wear it everywhere like a
cape, Natsume could see it now.

Sasuke grunts and shrugs. “He gets his own blanket because he’s a hoarder.”

Which. Okay. Fair enough. They were all growing a little more, too, and within a few years they’d
all definitely be too big to be splitting two beds between them.

Still, Sasuke just had to pick that blanket, didn’t he?

Ino’s gift was more tame. Vouchers for ramen, along with a dinky ramen keychain. Sakura got him
an actual cup of instant ramen.

Natsume is starting to think that Naruto is making food too much of a personality trait, if this is all
that his friends think of when considering him. It doesn’t help that Naruto looks overjoyed to be
receiving both his favorite food and merch of his favorite food.

What would that kid do if Natsume wasn’t around? Probably overdose on sodium.

This birthday was not better or worse than the last. Despite the number of people, two of them
weren’t the same. That wasn’t even what bothered Natsume. It was the passage of time. The years
continued on, unimpressed by his complaints that it moved too fast. Nine years old makes him
anxious. He wonders how he’ll feel when he grows older than Shisui ever was.

That night, with Naruto slumbering next to him—wrapped in his ugly ramen blanket—and Sasuke
in the other bed, still as a shadow, Natsume lays awake clutching the bamboo charm around his
neck. He doesn’t really care much for presents. Not the way he did Before. The joy of receiving has
dulled. Now he’s overcome with the unsettling feeling of owing something in return.

Give and take.

Give or take.

He holds the charm so tightly that the metal leaves an imprint in his palm, falling asleep with it
between his fingers.

But the real changes come a little after, during the beginning of winter and long after his chunin
paperwork has been completed and processed. He’s no longer apprenticed to Genma, at least for
the moment. They talked briefly about keeping things as they were, but eventually Natsume
decided that he wanted to try his own path for a few months.
Genma has been away on multiple missions since, the return to active duty a brutally busy affair.
Natsume, between his own missions, has his hands full trying to juggle lessons with Hinata,
kenjutsu with Yugao, and upkeep with Naruto and Sasuke. He started practicing meditation and
chakra exercises, trying his best to adjust to the sensation of his own water affinity. He began
working with genjutsu and henge, because it offered a separate outlet of practice aside from
ninjutsu.

He opened his bank account.

He started saving the bulk of his income with the goal of moving out of their shitty one bedroom
apartment into something bigger, spacier, and more capable of housing three soon-to-be teenage
boys.

Or that was the plan.

It still is the plan. Sort of. It just…got derailed a bit.

Specifically because Sasuke came home from the Academy one day to see Natsume pouring over
house listings, bank statements, and an assortment of related paperwork, and then—in a very
constipated voice—asked if they wanted to move into the Uchiha Compound. The very large, very
empty, and very isolated Uchiha Compound that this poor nine year old boy owns entirely, even
though he had to basically sell his future for it.

Which is another thing that bugs Natsume a lot. The idea that Sasuke had been this close to being
stripped of his right to the property on the basis of the Uchiha Clan no longer having the ability to
be called a clan, and therefore no longer having the perks of one. Then there were all the bank
accounts being closed out, the money swirling into a singular pool, the taxes and funeral-related
compensation. All previous debts that belonged to each deceased member had to be taken care of.

Sasuke had signed away the money to cover it all without knowing too much about what he was
doing, then signed a document for the Clan Restoration Act.

So when Sasuke offered the Compound as a home…

“Do you think that’s what would be best for you?” Natsume had asked.

Sasuke looked pensive, ghouls lurking in his gaze. The idea of stepping back in there haunted him.
It was plain to see on his pale face. But not confronting it wasn’t an option. Soon there would be
talks of keeping the compound livable. The houses needed upkeep. The land had to be cultivated.
It was too much for a single boy to deal with.

“It’s my responsibility,” Sasuke finally said. He’d closed off, shuttered his expression and flattened
his mouth. “I can’t keep mooching off of you.”

And that was that. They’d move into the Uchiha Compound sometime down the road, neighbors
with ghosts and bloodstains.

The houses were likely still livable, even after a year of emptiness, they’d just have to pick their
way through them. Sasuke wasn’t comfortable with the idea of letting maintenance workers in until
he’d personally gone through each home to secure anything that might be of value.

Natsume didn’t have the heart to mention that thieves might have already picked their way through
the unguarded civilian homes.

Making the move from their ramshackle apartment to whichever house Sasuke settled on will take
more than a little time to happen. There’s a mountain of paperwork to be done that Sasuke’s been
putting off, or just doesn’t know how to go through. It’s a slog. Then there’s the maintenance work
that will have to be done, along with the overgrown landscape.

They spend weeks using whatever hours available when they’re both present to rifle through legal
jargon. Some of the vocabulary used gives even Natsume a headache, and they have to bring out a
dictionary more than once. It’s incredibly tedious and draining. And a little ridiculous that Sasuke
has to do this all on his own.

The Uchiha money is currently monitored by the same retainer at the bank, so that’s fine enough.
Sasuke goes through all the documents pertaining to his (frankly, enormous) funds and makes sure
nothing has been stolen in his absence. While signing the Clan Restoration Act had allowed the
Uchiha to maintain their Clan status, Sasuke has yet to actually take up a seat on the council as a
Clan Head. No one’s approached him about it, either, which make Natsume wonder if he’s not
allowed one until there’s more Uchiha running around.

That could take well over a decade. Hopefully more. There’s no need for someone like Sasuke to
be having kids at the ripe age of sixteen, even if that seemed semi-normal among certain parts of
the population. (Apparently high death rates mixed with low birthing rates will do that, shocker.
But still awful in common practice, jokes aside.)

Dealing with the mess that is the remnants of the Uchiha Clan makes Natsume put his own
Uzumaki Clan agenda on the back-burner. Sasuke is the one who already has land, money, and
connections to lose. It’s better to get his shit sorted since it’s already been over a year since it fell
into his tiny hands.

So they work, until Sasuke is maintaining his own paperwork and becomes familiar with all the
words he previously couldn’t understand. He starts visiting the Uchiha Compound more and more,
working his way through each house. And he commissions Natsume to set up a sealing network
across the compound's walls to prevent unauthorized entry. That last part had come as a surprise.

“You know I don’t need money for this,” Natsume had said—and hadn’t even meant to. Sasuke
had money to spare. Natsume was at a point where he wasn’t above taking some. But Sasuke
belonged to him, in a manner of speaking. Like Naruto did. They were Natsume’s to take care of,
not the other way around.

Sasuke had been stalwart. His little arms remained crossed. “It’s a service. I’m paying for it.”

Which was nice.

And yes, the money was good too. The extra work was barely work, because Natsume loved
Fuuinjutsu. So he works, he trains, he goes on missions, he comes home, he tries to be present for
Naruto, and then time passes.

It keeps passing. Through Hinata’s birthday, through a winter festival, through the final snow of
the season.

And spring appears.

There are six weeks until the Uzumaki apartment is no more, and the Uchiha Compound becomes
the home for three boys. Until then, their small, dingy place still attracts people like flies to sugar.
Hinata spends every moment she isn’t confined to her home with them, never more than a foot
behind the two troublemaking boys.

But now they’re shadowed by Ino and Sakura, who—as Naruto explains—seem to think being
friends with Hinata makes them friends with Sasuke, who they both have crushes on.

(“Everyone has a crush on him,” Naruto complains. “It’s always Sasuke-kun, look at me~! Sasuke-
kun you’re soooo handsome! Blegh!”

Sasuke just turns away with a grimace.

Natsume realizes there’s probably one perk to graduating early—avoiding pre-teen girls with
crushes on the brain.)

“We’re going out to play,” Naruto calls.

Natsume hums from his spot on the couch, most of his concentration on the scroll in his hand.

The other kids follow him out quickly, but one lingers behind. Still waters, spring buds. Ino waves
Sakura away with a promise to be there in a moment.

When it’s just the two of them, Natsume finally looks up. Her gaze on him is too heavy to ignore.
It’s also obvious that she’d stayed behind to say something, and he’d prefer to get it over with.

She fidgets for a moment, wavering once his attention is on her. The clip in her hair is shiny,
glinting in the pale square of light streaming in from the window. She stands halfway within it, a
shadow slicing through her face. One of her icy eyes glimmers like a polished stone. He sees it turn
to steel as she finds her voice.

“Your hair is getting long, Natsume-kun.”

It tumbles past his shoulders now, sticking in haphazard directions. There’s a springy quality to it
that seems tempered only by the weight. The longer it grows, the less it defies gravity.

He gives her a look. “…yeah.”

“Um, Naruto told me that you were thinking about cutting it.”

That’s a weird topic to stumble across. Natsume watches her fiddle with strands of her own hair,
the icy blond strands not quite brushing her shoulders.

“I am,” he finally says. It’s difficult to take care of. He doesn’t have the time or money and really
doesn’t want to put in the effort for it right now. The only reason he hasn’t cut it is because he
keeps getting distracted and isn’t sure who to trust to do it.

Genma, easily, though they haven’t seen each other as much in the past few months. Which is
another reason he’s here, hair grown out long enough to make him look even more feral than usual.
The only reason he doesn’t cut it himself is because he really doesn’t know how hair works at all.

Ino sighs. “It’s kind of a shame because of how pretty it is. But I could totally help you, if you
wanted. I’m a pretty good stylist!”

“You want…to cut my hair?”

“I’ve cut hair before!”

Natsume eyes her warily. “What, on dolls?”

“No!” Ino flushes. “On myself and some friends! I’ve even cut Sakura’s hair before!”

Well, it’s not like it can’t be fixed if she messes it up.

“Sure.”

“I—you mean it!?” She gasps, holding her clenched hands to her chest. Her mirror-like gaze grows
wide, excitement in the form of stars.

“Yeah, why not?” Might as well get it over with now. Before he forgets again and another three
months pass before he realizes.

He sits on the stool in the bathroom, Ino’s fizzing chakra behind him. She shamelessly procures a
pair of scissors from her bag and he’s taken aback enough by her boldness to not even call her out
on it. She’s certainly not afraid to leap, that’s for sure.

The sensation of blades—even ‘dull’ in comparison to a kunai—has him on edge, but Ino’s bubbly
voice and docile chakra combat it enough to let most of the tension fade from his shoulders. He lets
her talk without listening too closely. She seems oddly happy to do this. She brushes through his
hair with fever-bright fingers, her face almost as red as the strands she starts snipping away.

He can see her mooning expressions in the mirror.

Weird.

The sensation of being liked is foreign enough to be uncomfortable. He wants to shy away from it.
The casual reverence she treats him with, treats his hair with—one of the biggest pieces of him that
labels him an outsider—makes his skin crawl.

She doesn’t exactly have much to gain from being friendly with him, not at the moment. He’s still
struggling to make ends meet and dealing with the politics that comes with restoring a clan. Maybe
she’s trying to get on his good side early? Has Hinata told her some of his skills?

It’s good to be considered an ally.

He’s not quite sure what to do with the lovesick attitude, though.

“How short do you want it, Natsume-kun? Personally, I think you look super cute with any
hairstyle!”

He almost shrugs before remembering the scissors. “I just want it out of the way.”

“Leave it to me, then! I’ll make you even more handsome than before, if that’s even possible!” She
squeals. “Maybe a shaggy look! Not too short, I still think long hair suits you!”

“Hm.”

She cuts more, until red begins to spill across the floor, crimson bright. A macabre scene, as
though a pool of blood has formed around them. Ino shortens his hair until the back has become
springy enough to start defying gravity again. It hangs a bit around his neck. Then she comes
around to face him and pauses.

Their eyes meet, and she sighs dreamily. “Oh! The side-bangs look super cute on you!”
He looks past her to his reflection in the mirror. The front of his hair still hangs long on either side
of his face. The style of it looks familiar, in an overgrown sort of way.

Ino takes a moment to observe him before trimming those side pieces so they reach to his chin.
The hair over his forehead and the top of his head shortened as well.

“There!” She brushes stray pieces of scarlet from his shoulders, looking prideful.

He blinks. In his reflection he sees—

“Did you…give me the same haircut as the Yondaime?”

“Ah, now that you…mention it…” Ino giggles. “Have you seen his pictures, though? He was a
super handsome guy! I think you look perfect with it!”

“…thanks,” he mutters. Mostly for the actual haircut itself, not the compliment. He shakes his head
to lose any stray hairs, then starts on sweeping up all the excess. Well, whatever it style it
seemingly mimics—his head feels a lot lighter and that’s all he really asked for.

Ino lingers in the bathroom door, watching him. “Natsume-kun, you really are very busy a lot.
Even when you’re supposed to be relaxing, you choose to study! Don’t think I didn’t notice that
you were reading another Fuuinjutsu book. Every time I actually see you here, you have your nose
in another one!”

He glances at her, choosing to finish sweeping over offering much of an answer. That doesn’t deter
her.

Ino puts her hands on her hips. “You should actually take a day off and do something fun! Like
going on a date with me!”

Natsume dumps the hair in the trash. “Not Sasuke?”

“He can come too, if you want to fight over me!” She clasps her hands to her cheeks, squealing at
the thought.

“I’ll pass.”

Ino puffs out her cheeks, but doesn’t stay crestfallen for long. “Whatever. You should still come
out with us today. Naruto misses you.”

That makes him pause. His loud, energetic little brother? Missed him? Usually Naruto would have
made that known by now. And it’s not as if Naruto doesn’t say it every time that Natsume comes
back from a mission, but… Well. Maybe Naruto has gotten a bit quieter about it lately.

“You’re all he talks about at the Academy, but you never hang out with him anymore. Maybe
you’re a super cool chunin already, but you don’t need to be a shinobi every day, do you?”

“Yamanaka-san—”

“Be more familiar with me!”

Natsume huffs. He can’t help the flash of amusement he gets. She looks at him head on the whole
time, like she’s fully confident in her words. Whether or not she’s overstepping doesn’t matter.
She’s said her piece, and she’s willing to roll with the consequences. The honesty, if anything, he
can appreciate. Even if her words make him feel a bit shitty.
His world revolves around work and training—and for the past two or so months, Sasuke. Naruto is
many things, and unable to sit still is one of them. He’d elected to play outside with Hinata and
other Academy friends while Natsume and Sasuke had holed up to peer over paperwork until their
necks ached. They’ve maybe had a few full conversations since the Chunin Exams.

Honestly…he hadn’t realized the time had already come and gone. It feels like there’s always more
to do and never enough hours in the day to make a dent in the list. He just kept pushing and
pushing and suddenly the next season was upon them and—yeah, he hadn’t made time for Naruto
at all.

“Fine,” he says, and Ino brightens up. “I’ll go with you guys.”

“Yes!” Ino latches on to his arm, practically dragging him out the door. “They’re all at the park!”

The group has grown a bit larger than before. When they make it to the park, Natsume counts three
extra children that hadn’t been at the apartment. One of them has a shadowy, panther-like chakra
that feels eerily familiar, while the others are an Inuzuka and Akimichi respectively. Chakra aside,
the facial markings were a dead give-away. The dog, too. A little white thing that flitted around
their feet with seemingly boundless energy.

Ino’s arm remains wrapped around his the entire way, and he allows it only because her chakra is
strangely soothing. Something about the placid, reflective nature of it doesn’t prickle at the skin.
It’s like aloe over a burn. She’s also a welcome distraction from the taste of hatred steeped in the
air around them. Somehow, it’s like she doesn’t see a single poisonous glance directed their way
the entire walk. Or she’s choosing to power right through it, pushing the usual miasma of
malcontent away with words about flowers and date ideas and other simple, young topics.

Naruto’s surprised expression is a bit painful to witness. Especially when it blooms into joy. As if
the fact that Natsume has even shown up to play with him is worthy of that kind of reaction.

“…so, I was thinking that would be the best idea for a date!” Ino finishes, digging her chin into his
shoulder. She has to bend a bit to do it, because she has about an inch of height on him at the
moment.

“Ino.”

She gasps, her chakra bright with surprise and elation. “You said my name!”

“I think rather than romance, I’d like it if you focused more on your duties as the Yamanaka Heir.
What would help me the most is if we could be allies.”

She blinks at him, lips parted. She seems to process what he says before stepping back a bit, finally
releasing him from her grip. “Natsume-kun, are you the type to like capable girls?”

He starts moving towards Naruto and the larger group, tossing a glance over his shoulder at her as
he goes. “I’m the type to like capable people.”

Ino jerks as if thunderstruck. A red flush encompasses her entire face. “EH? NO FAIR! That’s too
much competition!”
He doesn’t reply to her, pulled instead into Naruto’s sphere. Citrus. Salt. Sunshine. His little
brother beams with all his teeth, showing off three gaps.

“Nacchan, you’re here!? Your hair is gone!”

“Yeah, I thought I’d hang out with you today. And Ino did me a favor,” he mutters, glancing at the
new additions. “I see you’ve made more friends.”

A bunch of clan children, Sakura aside. Oof. She must be feeling it, even when it just comes to
playing games. Then again, apparently she’s pretty smart and observant. Plus her hair sticks out
like a sore thumb, looking like it belongs to a clan gene pool rather than a random civilian family.
Maybe she’s mixed with Senju or Uzumaki. There’s plenty of people around with a little bit of
either clan, fourth-generation-removed and so on.

“This is Shikamaru, Kiba, Akamaru, and Chouji!” Naruto introduces, gesturing to each boy as he
does.

Shikamaru bears the clan crest of the Nara Clan, which explains why his chakra signature carries a
sense of familiarity. His hair is thick and dark, pulled back into a sharp pony-tail. His umber eyes
are a bit sharper than the other children’s, though he looks a stiff breeze from toppling over and
falling asleep right where he lands.

Chouji is very round and very cute, a happy, gentle expression never moving from his face. His
auburn hair sticks straight up, curling slightly at the ends—the same shade as his eyes. He has a
bag of potato chips in his hand, currently munching his way through it.

Kiba and Akamaru, boy and dog, seem to have the same level of energy as Naruto. Kiba has the
look of a typical Inuzuka clan member: brown hair and dark eyes in the shape of slits—more
animal than human. Fangs poke out from his lips, completing the look.

“So you’re the brother this guy goes on and on about, huh?” Kiba asks, leaning in a bit. He sniffs.

Chouji waves his free hand shyly. “It’s nice to meet you, I’m Akimichi Chouji.”

“Uzumaki Natsume,” he replies.

“I thought twins were supposed to look the same?” Kiba comments.

Shikamaru yawns. “That’s identical twins. They’re fraternal.”

“Fra-what?”

“Like how not every puppy in a single litter looks identical,” Natsume replies, silently apologizing
to his unknown mother for the comparison.

“Oh. Why didn’t you just say that to start with, Shikamaru?”

Shikamaru rolls his eyes straight up to the sky.

“We’re playing hide and seek!” Naruto exclaims. Then he pauses. “Um, if you want!”

Natsume softens, shoulders losing their tension. He hadn’t even realized he’d stiffened up so much.
“Sure. Maybe I’ll even let you win.”

“Hey!”
Sasuke stands a little off to the side. He looks incredibly pale in the spring light. The circles under
his eyes have grown deeper, purpling the alabaster skin. He eats, but he doesn’t sleep well. Most
nights he wakes from nightmares he pretends he doesn’t have. Maybe he’s better off than he would
be if he was alone, but that doesn’t mean he’s okay. Nothing that Natsume can do will change that.

Directly beside him is Hinata, who peeks a bit over his shoulder. “Your hair looks, um, nice.”

“Thanks.”

Ino puffs up haughtily. “Yeah, I’m super talented.”

“You look like the Yondaime,” Shikamaru suddenly says. His gaze is strange. Both disinterested
and not. Nothing about his expression is easy to read, and his chakra slithers around like the
shadows cast by a flickering flame.

“Not with hair that color.” Kiba rudely points at Natsume’s head like he’s—wait, he is a kid.

Shikamaru just shrugs.

Something about him is a tad unsettling.

Naruto bulldozes into the conversation, “Let’s play hide and seek with partners!”

“Eh, why?” Kiba asks.

“Because if we leave Shikamaru alone, he’ll fall asleep in his hiding spot!”

Shikamaru grunts but doesn’t deny it.

Chouji laughs a bit. “Sounds like Shikamaru!”

“Tch,” Ino clicks her tongue. “What a lazy sack of bones! How’re you going to be a shinobi with
that attitude!”

“Since when do you care about that?” Shikamaru drawls.

Ino flushes. “Well, we’re graduating in a few years! So shut up and do better!”

“I’ll be it,” Natsume offers, just because it looks like they all might start brawling right then and
there.

“No way,” Naruto shoots down. “You can find us all with your super sense!”

“Sensory ability, Naruto.”

“That’s basically what I said.”

In the end, the teams are Shikamaru and Naruto, Chouji and Sasuke, Kiba and Ino, and Hinata and
Natsume. Sakura was It , decided after a game of rock-paper-scissors. She looked a bit frightened
at the prospect. Enough so that Natsume almost wanted to call for a re-do. The only civilian-born
being the one who had to find all the clan students? Clan Heirs at that?

Didn’t seem fair.

Then again, shinobi life wasn’t fair.

 Wait, this is a game. Relax. We’re playing Hide and Seek of all things.

It takes a while, but eventually he does settle. Listening to the cries of Kiba and Ino when they’re
the first to be found, followed by Naruto’s frantic screech when Sakura spooks them and makes
Shikamaru nearly tumble from a tree branch—well, it does remind Natsume, for a second, that he’s
the same size as them. A kid, even if there’s blood under his nails and an inescapable weight on his
shoulders.

“Are you sure this isn’t cheating, Natsu-nii?”

He offers Hinata a small smile, feeling playful for once. “They never said anything about not using
genjutsu.”

Chapter End Notes

Thought I’d give u some brief happiness . .. . Did i say brief? Hm…

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