Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sound of feet hitting the branches is barely perceptible; in any other scenario, the movement would be camouflaged by that of birds, so light and silent. They are elite ninjas, trained for the village's most demanding missions. Shinobi like them learn to merge with nature, to blend in with their surroundings organically.  

However, Kakashi can hear the unmistakable crackling of wood under the weight of his comrades. There are many of them. He has rarely led such a large group of ANBU; the squads are small for a reason. But now he has a dozen ninjas following in his footsteps, hurried and cautious.  

It has rained, he notices. Drops of water drip from the stems and leaves, the puddles beneath them reflecting a cloudy sky with only a glimpse of the full moon visible. This is not how Kakashi expected to return to the village. He imagined that after a mission of almost two months, he would be fully entitled to crash into his apartment and sleep until the sweat and dirt compelled him to do something else, like take a shower, for example.  

But now he is running through the forest, the trees dense and extensive. His mission report still waits in his right leg pocket. Something happened, and as soon as he set foot in the village, he was ordered to come here. On his way, he remembers seeing groups of chūnin and jōnin carrying away nearby residents. There weren't many to take away. This is the most remote area of the village, where almost no civilians want to live: too far from the village center, from hospitals and schools, businesses and lively bustle. The thick forest doesn't help much either, with its dense, deep shadows. The forest is dark. When Kakashi was young, he recalls the stories told in his classroom; legends of beasts lurking behind tree trunks, of rogue assassins hiding high in the branches waiting to ambush misbehaving children. He doesn't think there was ever a moment when he even for a second stopped to believe any of those tales. He was not a normal child, but then again, what shinobi is? There have always been dark shadows lurking behind him, far more real and deadly than any illusory being.  

“Captain,” a young, animated voice hurries to his side. Out of the corner of his eye, Kakashi sees green paint in long strokes, “The escort with the medical team has stopped at the entrance to the forest. They won’t come in until the area is cleared.”  

He nods, dismissing his comrade to return to formation. He understands that this is a routine report; if he is to lead this squad, he is expected to be kept up to date on any mission movements. Still, Kakashi is no stranger to this. Of course the medical team won't enter until they are certain there is no danger. A sense of anxiety bubbles in his veins. He has had a bad feeling about this the whole time. He does not like this mission being so vague and mysterious, even though he knows that few missions are usually given extensive details. But this, here, whatever is happening or has happened, has taken place inside the Village. Their intelligence units should have more to report than mere chakra fluctuations.  

The end of the forest is approaching, and he quickens his pace; he sees high walls forming another barrier of protection and separation. He slows down and signals with his hand for the squad to spread out. 

There is... stillness. An unnatural silence that is loud in its strangeness. The entrance to the Uchiha compound is there, and yet the distance has never seemed so imposing. He descends, landing a few meters from the gates, the fan-shaped banners distinguishable in this nation and any other. There is something wrong with Kakashi to be here without an Uchiha to invite him in; his left eye seems to heat up, perhaps sensing that it is so close to its true home. Since he got this eye, Kakashi Hatake has been sensible enough to refrain from showing up uninvited in this part of the village; the Uchihas did not reproach him for possessing one of their relics, a gift from a friend, the last will of a dead man, they would not have disrespected one of their own children in that way. But they did not look kindly at him either. Kakashi is not one of them.  

He enters, nonetheless. At his feet, on the edge of the wooden frame, is a piece of parchment sunk in a pool of mud. He picks it up, the paper shatters at his touch, but he still manages to read one word: Barrier . That explains the lack of information.  

As soon as they walk through the doors, a smell hits them. He hears someone inhale sharply, and a petit girl wearing a cat mask takes a small step back. They are elite ninjas who have been part of the worst missions imaginable. But there is something different about tonight... This is their village, this is their home. They fight to protect this place and these people. The smell of cut flesh, guts, and blood mixed with rain is the last thing any of them would expect to find within the village walls.  

“Be careful,” he orders them quietly, “Form teams of three and spread out through the streets. Don't walk alone.”  

Two ninjas stay with him. The petite one with the cat mask, and a tall, sturdy shinobi with an old bear mask. They are direct members of his regular squad, so he feels confident that his back is perfectly covered. Yugao is new to the squad, one of the youngest on his team, but she is perceptive and an excellent sensor ninja. Zo is an experienced shinobi trained in close-range combat—most of the time Kakashi isn't sure how happy his senior is about having to obey a kid half his age. Together, they take the main street, their tantō at the ready and in position. At first, there isn't much to find; the streets are wide and familiar, though darkened by the lack of streetlights. Could the electricity have been cut off in the district? 

Kakashi remembers how much Rin liked to walk around the old Uchiha neighborhood after a day of training, passing by a small dango shop together with Obito, with Kakashi reluctantly following behind them. Bonding time, Minato-sensei liked to call it. These streets are very similar to those, and he wouldn't rule out that this was the Hokage's intention when he ordered the relocation of the Clan. The buildings are well constructed, almost giving the illusion of being a luxurious neighborhood, but with the walls so high and the town lights so far away, the illusion only lasts for a breath of truth. 

His grip on his weapon does not falter; his steps remain silent. With the smell becoming more and more intense, Kakashi is not surprised when the puddles of water turn dark, thick... familiar. There is blood, so much of it. It gathers on the floor and splatters on the walls of homes and businesses. There are no bodies, not here. But there is blood, a trail that Kakashi follows as he turns onto the next street. There is a small square with wooden and stone benches. Some of the clan's elders used to sit there feeding crows, and Kakashi would see them on his surveillance rounds. There, the younger members of the clan would gather after the academy to play cards. There, where a pile of bodies now lies.  

It's horrible. 

They are piled on top of each other, left there carelessly. The other teams in the squad peek out from the other streets. The blood has also brought them here, and Kakashi reconstructs the scene in his head: a shadowy figure pulling up the bodies and piling them up. He recognizes the people and the corpses; they are members of the police force. Or they were.  

With a wave of his hand, he orders one of the teams to approach. To make sure there are no survivors among the pile of flesh. He knows there won't be. Death has passed through here, and Kakashi has a lot of experience with it. He notices the remains of a fight. Kunais and shurikens stuck in the ground and posts. Whatever happened here... these men and women fought to the end.  

“There's nothing,” one of the ANBU announces in a firm voice, “They're dead.”  

Kakashi nods. “Search the houses,” he orders, satisfied to see them quickly disappear.  

He doesn't tell them what to look for; he doesn't think he has the words to do so. Is it to look for survivors? Is it to look for more bodies? Perhaps the person responsible?  

He makes his way to the mountain of dead bodies and, without further ado, crouches down to their level. He carefully tilts the face of one of the men and opens his eyelids. Intact. So this was not a mission to steal the sharingan. These people were killed, and there is no reason Kakashi can conjure from the depths of his mind. He knows, like anyone within the trusted ANBU troops, that the Uchihas and the Village were not in the best position. They have maintained surveillance teams for a long time, finding nothing that anyone could classify as open treason or conspiracy. This has been an extremely calculated job, requiring inside information impossible to obtain by means other than infiltration. Otherwise, he is sure that the preparation for something like this would not have gone under the radar of the ANBU and the Hokage. 

There must have been a traitor.   

His instincts sharpen, suddenly all his allies are enemies and snakes. By the end of tonight, if it ever ends, one of his own could find themselves facing the blade of his weapon.  

He thinks of Obito, wondering if perhaps he would have been among these shattered men.  

He thinks of Itachi. He hasn't seen the boy in a while. He remembers his tired gaze, with increasingly large dark circles forming under his eyes. He consoles himself by thinking, hoping that Itachi has stayed away. He is not among the members of his assigned team, but that means nothing. Konoha is not merciful enough to spare a child from seeing his clan massacred. ANBU is ANBU, and ANBU has no room for doubt or sentiment. Perhaps he is on a mission; he has become a favorite for quick assassination missions. But if Itachi was in the compound... He's a strong prodigy, more naturally talented than any other shinobi Kakashi has ever met, but whoever did this is no ordinary shinobi. The entire main line of defense of the Uchiha Clan has been eliminated... No... Itachi might not have survived...  

He shares a look with Bear Mask. The devil knows more because he is old than because he is wise. He, as their elder, must understand better than anyone else what will unfold after tonight. So many killed in a single night, life in Konoha will never be the same. Not only their daily lives, but also the economy, politics... Potentially the strongest clan within their village has been decimated.  

“Go back to the village,” he tells them, “Bring the rescue teams, the doctors, and the forensic unit.”  

Bear Mask looks at him intently. Cat Mask nods firmly.  

“Yes, Captain,” Zo replies, disappearing in a cloud of smoke with Yugao.  

Kakashi knows it, as does Zo and Yugao. If there are any survivors here, they must be hidden beneath rigor mortis and cold blood.  

He looks at the faces of the bodies once more, pausing at the stiffness of their grimaces and limbs. He is not an expert, but he would say they must have been dead for about three hours. As he looks up at the cloudy sky, the full moon tilts slightly to the west. It is past midnight, so all of this must have happened after the sun went down. And no one heard anything or knew anything during that time.  

It's a cold night for it to be the beginning of summer. 

He has to take one step back, and another. One more. There's no time to stop and mourn. The dead are dead; they're just soulless masses of flesh. This scene, so raw, so bloody, makes Kakashi wonder if he'll ever see the end of a war that began so long ago and never ended. Not for him, nor for the combatants. Years ago, Kakashi entered a battlefield and has not been able to find the exit—perhaps there is none.  

He turns his back on the fallen. Leaving this way is surely a form of respect. Continuing the mission without hesitation, fighting for justice and life; those who have fallen in battle understand this better than anyone.  

His steps lead him back to the main street, and like the rest of his improvised squad, Kakashi enters the houses without stopping to knock on the door or any other mundane courtesy. He walks through the rooms and finds nothing surprising. Not even the small bodies of children too young to hold a blade disturb his peace of mind. There are elderly people, women, and men with children sliced in their arms. Their expressions are ones of agonizing terror that burn into his retina, with only a few remaining in a semblance of peace—in their beds, so calm and safe from the world, with a clean cut across their throats in a quick death. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget them, just as he hasn't been able to forget his father's white hair spattered with dried blood. 

Slowly, he makes his way through the streets, unashamed of finding a personal goal amid the carnage. Once, after what was a successful first mission, Kakashi managed to escort the then youngest member of his squad back home. He takes the same turns, passes the same shops now closed, forever. The stench of death is a cloak of darkness growing behind him, a gigantic shadow that even the most skilled of the Nara could not dream of controlling. 

With the silent sound of creaking doors and footsteps in the background, Kakashi arrives at the street where the Clan's main residence is located. The full moon is clearer here, and the light that falls from it breaks through the thick clouds to light his way. There is a dozen bodies scattered about, like a procession from the darkest horror story. 

With steady, gentle hands, he turns each face toward him as he passes. He searches for youthful but hardened features, straight noses, and long hair. Without success, a strange feeling twists in his gut, a bad omen born of years of instinct. The image forming in his head becomes distorted with every step he takes in search of a young Itachi Uchiha, unable to find him.  

In the distance, crows caw. Kakashi looks up: the birds fly away in fright from a lamppost.  

His hand on his weapon moves forward, his steps slow down. And then, so distracted by those birds, he almost misses him. But no. He has better training than that.  

He lowers his gaze, directing it to a small body curled up in the middle of the street. It seems as lifeless as all the others, but then the little boy's hand twitches and Kakashi is already there, turning the child over and feeling a fragment of his heart skip a beat in surprise.  

Warm and alive. The unmistakable puff of labored breath in a small, wounded chest. The bruises have taken on a darker color on the child's face, and blood stains on his clothes. But Kakashi knows him. He knows him. 

With an anxious gaze, he scans the rest of the scene, hoping that another child so similar to this one will make his entrance from among the alleys. He waits, foolishly and briefly.  

“It's okay,” he murmurs, his attention back on the boy. He refrains from moving him any further, just placing his small head on his lap. He looks like his mother; he looks like his brother. He looks like so many other bodies he has found. “Shhh. You'll be okay.”  

It's a lie. He won't be okay. Whatever Sasuke Uchiha might have been is irretrievably destroyed. Now he is another child besieged by death, still too young to understand the full extent of the trauma that will shape the rest of his life. He is just another victim who, if he is lucky, will not have to bear the horrible fate of becoming a perpetrator. But Konoha is not kind, and broken children abound.  

The fluttering of the crows disperses far away, off into the distance.  

Kakashi pays them no mind, too busy making sure the only survivor he has found keeps breathing. The boy's eyelids, tightly closed, betray the anguished movement of his eyes beneath. The body is rigid, the breathing slow. An illusory technique. He pushes some of his chakra into the thin, childish meridians, just as he would with any comrade.  

It's no use. The child remains locked in his prison of illusions, not at all pleasant, Kakashi ventures to guess. Sasuke's chakra flow is unstable; it seems that something is consuming his energy as he regenerates, which is a peculiar addition to an illusory technique. With time running out, he manages to draw some blood from his thumb and call his most loyal teammates to the scene.  

Pakkun.  

Shiba.  

Bisuke.  

They are the smallest dogs in his pack, which makes them the most agile when it comes to undertaking a retreat mission. 

“Hey, Kakashi,” Pakkun greets him, his little nose wrinkled in disgust, “Why did you bring me here?” 

Shiba and Bisuke nod, assessing the scene with their canine senses. Their coats bristle, and they hunch just a little on their hind legs. They're smart old dogs - a bit like Kakashi if he thinks about it. 

“They've slaughtered the Uchiha Clan,” he reveals to them, and that immediately makes them firm and obedient, if not a little uneasy. "So far we've only found one survivor, and I need you to intercept the medical team and lead them here, got it? - Shiba, Bisuke, inform the rest of the ANBU about this, see if they have anyone who might need assistance as well." 

The street is perfectly deserted, the aberrant silence betraying the lack of life, only being reinforced by the echoes of movement and footsteps of their companions in the breadth of the district. They search door to door, under beds and inside closets. But what is there and what remains is everything they already feared. Only one child, Kakashi is sure, only this one. 

Bisuke barks and shallowly sniffs Sasuke “This one doesn't smell bad, but what's wrong with him?” He nods in the direction of the boy who spasms slightly at times and writhes in a bad dream. 

“It's a genjutsu” replies Kakashi, “Go, now.” 

Their dogs run, kicking up dust in their run. Kakashi counts Sasuke's breaths, takes his pulse every minute in search of any change. He doesn't get carried away (for at that moment doing so does him no good) in the fact that he can only think of one person skilled enough to do a genjutsu like this.... 

The boy is small, the roundness in his cheeks far from disappearing. He is six. He knows it very well. Everyone at the ANBU base teased Itachi for completing a mission in less than a day with the sole intention of returning home for his brother's birthday. He doesn't know Sasuke, except that he does. One cannot know Itachi Uchiha without knowing his little brother. 

He knows that Sasuke has maintained top grades in his group since he started the academy. 

He knows that Sasuke is still not very good at throwing shuriken. 

He knows that Sasuke often stays extra hours at the academy until he perfects whatever tricks they have been taught that day. 

He knows of his taste for tomatoes and his general distaste for sweets. He knows of his sensitive and volatile temperament. Knows that he is left-handed but learned to write with both hands. 

Kakashi is a good listener, even if he doesn't look like it. He has had a few sleepless nights together with his teenage companion, happy to listen to the boy chatter as he doesn't usually do in his everyday life with the endless night in front of them and the blood under their fingernails. 

“You're getting cold,” he says to no one in the night, as if he weren't surrounded by colder corpses. He pulls a scroll from his bag and spreads it out. His supplies from the last mission are still there, and he picks out of all that junk a worn piece of flannel. "Here, here. Now, we can't leave you cold, can we?” 

He doesn't know if Sasuke can hear him, but he wishes he does. He must know that Kakashi will keep him safe and that it will take something stronger than a Kage to take him out. God knows, this kid is something much bigger than he expected to find in this bloodbath. 

The heartbeat remains steady; the eye movement follows the same anguished rhythm. Kakashi worries. It's a strong and unusual illusionary technique - under the mask he pursues his lips just a little and wonders if perhaps he will have to be the one to lift the child in his arms and rush him to the nearest hospital. But he refrains. At first glance, there were no life-threatening injuries. The bruises on the little face have darkened, nothing more. Even the blood staining his clothes, Kakashi has already determined, is not his. It might be his parents', or someone else's. What Kakashi can't know is if there is something inside Sasuke that his lack of medical depth can determine: like a broken rib about to puncture his lung. 

You know, Kakashi is not above taking the risk of healing his own wounds on his own with his intuitive knowledge of the mystic palm technique. He's not so willing to play the tough guy with the life of a person who's hardly half his size, though. There is knowledge and rules and sure other endless technicalities when dealing with a child. 

So like the good shinobi he is, he sticks to the manual and holds his position awaiting medical reinforcement. If there is no imminent danger to life or the target, the ninja should wait for help to arrive and not compromise the mission any further. Their mission is infiltration and rescue. His goal from this moment on is for Sasuke Uchiha to make his happy way to the village alive. And so he waits, making the potential futile effort to appease the boy with well-meaning words.    

Feeling his connection with Pakkun getting closer and closer - Bisuke and Shiba have already gone through almost the entire Uchiha compound - Kakashi squints his eye towards the dark night. The mission has been so short.   

“Help will be here soon.” He says, and places a hand, almost like a light caress, on the boy's forehead. He has very pale skin, which Kakashi doesn't know whether to attribute to his current state or a delicate condition by nature “I'll make sure you get the warmest hospital room after this.” He adds, with the sensation of cold skin lingering on his fingers. Sasuke's temperature is dropping, the chill of the night is already starting to hit him - he needs something more than a patch of ratty old cloth.    

And jelly, he thinks. Kids like jelly, don't they? He will ask if they have any mild or bitter flavors, nothing too sweet. Coffee jelly or peach jelly.    

From the other end of the street, a pair of ANBU's make their entrance. They come from the main Clan house, and Kakashi doesn't need them to have their masks off to read the verdict on them. No one. He knows long before they say it: the main family of the Uchiha Clan is dead.   

“Captain,” the shorter of the two shinobi breathes in surprise, marveling at the unconscious and very much alive child in his lap. There are bloodstains on his sandals, "We have scanned the western area.... We have found Lord Uchiha Fugaku and Lady Uchiha Mikoto inside the main residential complex, and we regret to confirm that they are deceased."  

As he expected. The pit in his gut grows larger, a sickening, vomiting sensation ripples. “Was Uchiha Itachi there?” he ventures to ask, Sasuke's breaths replaying in his mind. One. Two. Four. Eight.   

The other ANBU steps forward, his voice more modulated, accustomed as he is to give less than pleasant reports "No, Captain. There seems to be no sign of Uchiha Itachi."   

Where are you?   

Have you fallen along with the ninjas of your clan?   

Have you been sent away from the village?   

Itachi... where are you?  

At the entrance to the street where Kakashi came from, the bustle of a considerable amount of people approaches. Pakkun leads a medical team of three ninja, and two other jōnin specialized in rescue and extraction come behind them, taking note of the conditions and scenery. More and more people are arriving from both ends of the street; the ANBU hunters regroup and position themselves at high points on the rooftops, creating a classic perimeter formation. The mission is coming to an end, those who are, are here to witness the last fragments of a legendary Clan.    

And there, under the watchful eye of the best ninjas that the Village Hidden in the Leaves has to offer tonight, the seizures begin. 

He's going to say it, growling at a medical ninja is not one of his best manners. Kakashi doesn't have the best track record with the Village's medical staff, but he's never been such a jerk as to get aggressive with them. He just... chooses to ignore their demands of showing up at the hospital regularly and following their prescriptions to the letter. They're used to dealing with hard-assed idiot shinobi, but surely growling must be something unusual. 

Which, again, he admits, was not correct. Apologies and all that. Kakashi's just going to say that maybe the ninja medic shouldn't have tried to take Sasuke from him without warning, because hey! His mission is literally to protect this kid. 

Fortunately, the situation didn't escalate to anything major. The ANBU in his squad became somewhat tense, reacting quickly to their captain's aggression. It makes sense. If the squad leader becomes hostile, that could mean something in their allies is dangerous. Which wasn't the case, Kakashi properly apologized to the medical team before weapons started falling from the sky. 

He doubts the medi-nins will be too happy to see him again soon. They can be that spiteful. 

Having to explain all that to the Hokage and the Konoha Council is just his deserved punishment. 

At the end of his report, which is as short as: t he Uchiha Clan has been eradicated. Kakashi waits in his kneeling position, head down in anticipation of further orders. The silence in the room is different from the Uchiha district. It is tension and bated breaths. It is nerve and temperance battling on the faces of the elders, miserable no doubt, or so Kakashi thinks. 

Lady Koharu is the first to speak, in a measured, apathetic tone; “What a tragedy,” she says simply, summing up in something so terse all the bloodshed and lives lost. Kakashi feels cold and detached. But he won't be the one to judge her - a shinobi like her should know about that, about tragedies . "Funeral arrangements will have to be postponed until the forensic division finishes its work.... At least that will give us time to plan the matter." 

“An unexpected expense,” Lord Homura added, blunt and obvious. “We may need to cut some funds temporarily; I propose to meet with the finance department as soon as possible.” 

“We could use the Uchiha Clan accounts, I don't think this is a time to further destabilize the Village -” Lady Koharu proposed. 

A shinobi follows orders. A shinobi must be discreet and trustworthy with the secrets of his nation. Kakashi has a traitorous little thought in the room, though. He thinks how terribly dismayed the people of Konoha would be if they were to overhear such an insensitive conversation as this. 

“Enough!” The Hokage drops his fist on the table and stands up in a state of fury Kakashi hadn't had the pleasure of seeing before. “Get out of here!” and Kakashi prepares to retreat silently, except – “You two - out!” 

Breaking protocol briefly, Kakashi looks up. The elders gather around a coffee table, in a small room of the Hokage's offices. Kakashi has been here a fair share of times; he is no stranger to these secret, under-the-table meetings that on more than one occasion have decided the course of the Village. Though the twist of the night keeps coming to surprise him. 

“Sarutobi -” Lady Koharu begins to chide. She is a tiny woman, the traditional hair needle in her hair, with a pearl on the end, shakes and shines with the sharp edge hidden among the white strands. 

Lord Third stops her, imposing himself on her and his other councilor. "Your attitude and stances insult the dead. Leave and return when you have something better to discuss than your frivolities." 

The elders thicken their glares, though they cannot call themselves rivals for the Hokage. Homura and Koharu are first and foremost shinobi of the Village, and their power and status dwarfs beside the Village leader – so the two elders stand up at the same time and leave. 

When the door closes, the echo remains intact for a few seconds. He assumes, with some degree of cynicism, that this is another little secret to keep. 

“I'm sorry you had to witness this, Kakashi,” Lord Hokage returns to his seat, his posture betraying his age - this hint of candor is something Kakashi is pleased by. The leader of his village trusts him, and moments so affirm it without saying it, “They... we... we have had a long night.” 

Kakashi nods, “I understand, Lord Hokage.” 

The Hokage shakes his head, and his look is one of sad, pitiful eyes, “Kakashi,” he calls, taking a hard pause, "You're no fool. You've grown into a young man who is too smart and too skilled. I think, if Minato were here now, he would be very proud of the shinobi you have become. I truly believe that. And because of that, I'm just as convinced that you understand what happened tonight. You do understand, don't you?" 

The knot in his gut tightens, that visceral feeling comes back to attack him, and the memories of the night feel as fresh as the blood on his uniform and on the tips of his gloves. Does he understand? He thinks he does and at the same time he doesn't. He thinks, no matter how many times he revisits this night in his reflections, he really will not understand it. 

Interpreting his silence either way, Lord Third does not leave him waiting or sugarcoat it too much. “We have strong reason to attribute the siege of the Uchiha Clan to Uchiha Itachi,” the Hokage finishes without hesitation, putting into words the idle thought that Kakashi had not even dared to let form. 

“It's not possible,” he hastens to deny, not wanting the words to really escape him that way. He has no authority to question the Hokage's words, it's just... Kakashi knows traitors, and no, he fails to reconcile it with Itachi. For Itachi is one of the good ones. He wouldn't have done this to his family or to his allies. He wouldn't have sent his much-loved little brother straight to the special care area of the hospital. 

Lord Hokage sighs, "Danzo's men have found some... evidence.” and his voice sours at the mention of Lord Danzo “Right now, they are following a trail to the northwestern border with the Land of Earth." 

"Then I request Lord Hokage to allow me to join Lord Danzo's group. I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding." 

“Do you think so, Kakashi?” the old man asks in irony, no real fun behind it, just tiredness and disappointment. “If so, why wasn't Itachi among the deceased?” 

“Perhaps he set out on a hunt against the truly responsible,” 

"And that's something Itachi would do? Without reinforcements, without alerting his comrades in the village of what had happened. Leaving his brother abandoned on a dark street..." 

He takes a small breath. The moment, the facts, the skill and strength exhibited. Kakashi has nothing left but to settle for the apparent truth. Itachi, he thinks, Itachi... What have you done? They certainly hadn't been particularly close, their relationship motivated by routine camaraderie and everyday coexistence. Still, he can only think about the last year, looking for some sign that will give away Itachi's true feelings for his family and the Leaf. In a way, he feels responsible, adding another few hundred unnecessary deaths to his record. 

Traitors come in all forms. It wouldn't be unusual, nor would he be Kakashi's first comrade to betray the Village. On nights of dirty missions, he can understand them, he can sympathize with them - becoming disillusioned by the village and by the will of fire seems a closer fate for him than any other. But he is not so deluded or dreamy to let that heartbreak take hold of him. In the end, all those traitors will meet their end by his hands.  

Shinobi are instruments of service. Betraying their ideals is the easy path, one he would never have thought Itachi would be inclined to take. 

“Though I suppose, we won't really know anything until little Sasuke can tell us,” Lord Hokage closed his eyes for a moment, “If he even remembers it to tell. Given the situation, one would think it best if he could just forget about it, and let it go.” 

It would be for the best, Kakashi thinks to himself. Not carrying around those kinds of memories would be a gift. That way, Sasuke could go on with his life, he could be content with the happy and vivid memories of his parents and family without remembering the blood and death that would only destroy him, making him a different child than he once was. He would no longer be the sweet child Itachi spoke of. In that way, he too would have died with his family just as Kakashi died next to his father, on the sticky wooden floor. 

“Kakashi,” the Hokage calls out to him, catching his attention seriously, “I'm afraid I can't allow you to join the hunt for Uchiha Itachi, for now – I have a different mission for you.” 

It could take days.  

It could take weeks.  

Who knows, the Konoha medical team definitely doesn't.  

The doctor in front of him explains another series of diagnoses and procedures. He seems, however uncertain, confident that Sasuke will be out of his comatose state before long.  

"It's just a matter of waiting now, Hound. You can tell the Hokage that we have treated all of the kid's injuries and expect an otherwise smooth recovery. For now, we'll keep the patient on constant watch, the seizures could return - I'll have a nurse give you a pamphlet on that, just in case.” the man scribbles in his clipboard, “All things considered, the boy seems fortunate." 

“I don't think he'd like to be called that.”  

The doctor nods and turns his face in the direction of the boy in the bed, “The emotional trauma will be the hardest thing to take care of - I'm afraid, we might not have the right staff for it.”  

Kakashi snorts, leaning back with his arms crossed on the wall next to the door. And as if not having the right staff wasn't enough....  

"What about the genjutsu, have you guys seen anything like this?" 

The doctor sighs, and Kakashi befalls that the sun is already starting to rise, and the night has become long for everyone, "Frankly, nothing like this. We consulted about it with the archival branch of the village, for now, our best guess is that it's some eye technique - the Uchihas have some tricks of those, don't they?" 

Dissatisfied with that answer Kakashi frowns. There is a lot the Village doesn't know about the Uchiha and their special abilities. What little Kakashi understands about Obito's eye skills is from constant trial and error. As of now, secrets die with the Clan and the answers Kakashi never came close to seeking vanish. 

The Hokage's instructions scorn his skin like a coarse sneer: Take care of the boy. Seeing Sasuke covered up to his chin with a white sheet, his dark hair plastered to his forehead and his eyes blindfolded to protect them from any discomfort, Kakashi doesn't quite understand the Third's intentions in sending him here. Surely there is someone with better qualities to take care of this - one of the main clans would salivate for the chance to guard the last Uchiha.  

But what Kakashi believes, or thinks doesn't matter. Orders are orders. He is now responsible for this broken child. Another broken child who has grown into a broken man, caring for a wounded baby bird.  

What does Kakashi know about caring? He is an expert in assassination - he is a feared ninja of his village and that fame is not earned by having merciful heart strings. He could protect Sasuke, but could he take care of him? Nothing Kakashi has cared for has lasted. Comically, the plants die on him before they give a single bud. Animals that come to his door don't return after a couple of days. He is unable to care for and keep. There is the grave of his father, whom Kakashi was unable to save. There is the grave of Obito and Rin, children who seem to have grown up next to him like ghosts in his dreams. There is the grave of his mentor and Lady Kushina - there is the son of both of them who is too far from his reach. 

Will this be it? - Will this be the first mission in years that he will not be able to finish successfully? It's not something he can afford. He lives for this village and its people. He lives for the dead who have perished on the mission. And Sasuke is a broken child, just like Kakashi was. He has no one else, the Hokage said. Loneliness can be such a painful poison. Who knows where Kakashi would have ended up without his sensei and his peers to teach him honor in service and duty. Perhaps it is time for him to return some of that kindness. 

God have mercy on them, Kakashi will make sure Sasuke Uchiha lives to appreciate seeing the sun rise again, for the world didn't stop at his entire list of tragedies, and it certainly won't stop for Sasuke now.  

Yes.  

He will do this.  

The doctor looks at him expectantly, urging him to say something or walk away. That last one is off the table so, “Do you have any jelly?” 

Chapter Text

Hospitals are strange places. Kakashi thinks about this, sitting on the top of a tree near the window in Sasuke's room, not bothering to appear hidden from outside eyes - the whole hospital already knows about the ANBU roaming the hospital, and there is no point for Kakashi to play hide-and-seek with them, no matter how entertaining he finds it to pull a scare here and there out of unsuspecting doctors. 

After a couple of intense days in the special care unit, the boy had earned the right to a room of his own in a more accommodating area of the hospital. Kakashi has never stayed long enough during his own medical visits to be familiar with this wing of the building, but he will say it is much nicer than ordinary rooms on other floors of the building. Here, the walls are a soft shade of green that doesn't irritate the eye and the brown tile floors lend a hint of comfort to the room; the nurses assigned to the Uchiha boy have put together a kind collective effort and worked to bring a set of sheets of distinctly childlike designs to the boy, a thoughtful gesture given Sasuke's unfamiliar stay at the hospital and, also, that the boy has no other adult now who could do such a thing for him. He thinks the nurses and doctors feel sorry for the boy, but Kakashi suspects it is more out of sympathy than pity. 

The medical staff at the Village are cold and direct on their best days, but details like this remind Kakashi of the seriousness of events. As the days pass, as the truth settles in the Village, the terror of that night seems to go on and on, constantly lurking in the form of the unconscious little boy. 

The ghosts of the Uchiha Clan haunt every street in the Village. An estimated one hundred and eighteen people lost their lives in a single night. The Village police department is gone - and, from what Kakashi has gathered from his meetings with the Hokage and the Council, there are no plans to reopen the department. Not in the near future. 

Those meetings have become something Kakashi dreads. The Hokage assigned him the task of taking care of the last of the Uchihas, and while the orders were vague at first, Kakashi is already beginning to understand what is expected of him—or rather, what the elders expect him to make of Sasuke. The tools that the Village forges... The Hokage has tried before to convince him to leave the ANBU and take an active role in public life, picking up some genin and training them on minor missions. This new assignment feels like a warm-up for that, and Kakashi just doesn't feel ready—or capable—of reaching that teaching point the Third speaks so much about. The point of creating tools for the deployment of the Village and its leaders. Of making child soldiers and throwing them into the maw of the world outside the Village. He cares more than he should to take on that role, and to do it again and again and again. 

All shinobi are tools of the Village and its people. Kakashi knows this, understands it, and until just a few days ago, would have said he agreed. But listening to the elders talk—discussing the fate of the last Uchiha, the usefulness of his visual abilities, his functionality within the grand governmental apparatus of the nation—Kakashi feels cold-footed in the face of their ruthlessness. In the face of their raw, clinical detachment. The boy has just lost his entire world. Sasuke is an orphan now, with no one else. And orphans may be as common as fish in the river—but it’s still wrong. Kakashi knows it. The world tilts at the end of each of those meetings when his report on Sasuke’s condition remains unchanged, but the plans for the boy do not stop. 

Shinobi are instruments of the Village and its people, yes — but they should not be instruments for the selfish interests of their leaders. 

There is a moment, Kakashi has learned, when every shinobi must question the missions assigned to them. The answer is decisive, and sometimes it is enough to ask: Do I trust the people in charge? Kakashi trusts the Third Hokage — only these days, he wonders if he trusts the Council of Elders that accompanies him. He thinks the Hokage has realized his uncertainty, and maybe that's why he keeps urging him to report to them—as if asking Kakashi: Do you see? Do you understand? If anything, Kakashi sees through the intentions of everyone in that room and appreciates the caveats created by ambitious logic. 

He thinks about his mission instructions. He is expected to train Sasuke Uchiha, as the only person left in the village who could teach him something about his lineage. And it’s ridiculous. They don’t even know if the boy has awakened his Sharingan, and already they’re scheming his development as a shinobi. The boy might not even want to be a shinobi! For all Kakashi knows, Sasuke Uchiha might want to become a florist — and Kakashi would see nothing wrong with that. 

Better, really, if the boy would rather have nothing to do with the ninja life that took away his entire clan. People are not only useful because of the missions they complete; life doesn't start and end on the shinobi path. There are so many useful things that can be done... 

He has been ordered to keep an eye on Sasuke and train him when the time comes. The elders are pretty clear about that part — except... 

The Third gives him that knowing look every time. As if to say: You know why I gave you this mission. But Kakashi doesn’t. That night, after having kicked the elders out of his office, the Hokage's reasons hadn’t felt politically motivated. They’d felt like a gesture of compassion—like the nurses bringing dinosaur sheets to the child, or the doctors keeping the lights dim at night. 

But now, with the Council back in place, they’re making other intentions clear — ones that are more utilitarian and strategic. 

Fuck.  

That’s why he hates all these power games. 

He detests the tug-of-war that the Hokage and the elders engage in, rarely coming to decisions that satisfy everyone. If Kakashi were Hokage— knocks on wood, crosses his fingers, wishes upon a star for it to never happend! — he’d get rid of the Council of Elders for good. 

They are... so insensitive. 

It's the “balance” the Village needs—the force that makes the uncomfortable decisions. Kakashi isn't naive; he understands the Council’s role. But that doesn’t mean he has to like it. 

Deep down, he’s still an idealist. A bit like his sensei. 

While Kakashi remains sure of his trust and loyalty to the Hokage—knowing him to be a just and righteous man—he can’t help but question his lack of conviction. The Village hasn't always needed a Council of Elders to govern. Brief though it was, Minato-sensei's tenure functioned without shadows at his side, without those who restrained correct but politically “weak” decisions. 

Sometimes, a single positive action can outweigh a strategic one. Minato-sensei understood this well. He was intelligent and honorable, and strong enough to back up his choices. Of course, every era is different. And after the death of his mentor, the Village needed stronger leadership—the same kind of hard resolve they now seek after the fall of the Uchiha Clan. 

“Hound.” A female doctor stands in the doorway of the room; one eyebrow raised in question. She’s older, her hair already streaked with white in places—which only makes Kakashi respect her more. If a ninja lives long enough to show gray, especially in a field as dangerous as the medical corps, it speaks of exceptionality. “I understand your intention in choosing that tree as your guard post, but I assure you—the inside isn’t a bad place either.” 

“Doctor Ikebuki,” Kakashi acknowledges, not at all surprised by her presence. 
Sasuke has two doctors assigned to him, one for the morning shift and one for the night. Kakashi has memorized the chakra signatures of both, as well as those of the rotating nurses who switch every hour. 

“Please don’t let my presence interrupt you.” 

The doctor snorts and clicks her tongue in disapproval. She moves through her morning routine, checking Sasuke’s meridians with a light grip on the wrist, then jotting her readings on the clipboard. 

“Your presence disrupts nothing, Hound . But it does make my staff uncomfortable. They’re worried you’re going to catch something out there in the open—it’s been raining quite a bit,” she says. 

Ah, that's true. A few nurses have brought him food and drink—not without a matching invitation to make himself comfortable in the room. He dismisses their invitations without much interest, content to stay out in the open. Hospitals are one of those places that make him nervous - he doesn't like the sterile smell or the memories he associates here. He admires the work done here, no small thing, but prefers to keep his distance. Just the sight of green chakra light in a medic’s hand is enough for Kakashi to make his quiet retreat. Like this, there are many places in the Village that Kakashi usually avoids, cowed by the weight of its significance.  

“I'm used to a little rain.” A truth, not exaggerated. Kakashi has found that missions tend to get along better in weather like this, especially when infiltration and espionage are involved. And it's quiet. Some people prefer to watch the rain behind a window, Kakashi prefers to feel it fall on him, to close his eyes, and just exist.  

“If you say so,” the doctor dismisses unconvinced, though her expression shifts and Kakashi is not sure if it’s a frown of worry or something else. 

“Something wrong?” He asks, keeping his own concerns carefully hidden. Sasuke's last seizure was five nights ago, and it was nothing like the terrible shaking the first time - the doctors seem confident that such an event is unlikely to happen again, Kakashi for his part is used to expecting the worst at all times. 

It's just his usual pessimism. Kakashi is not superstitious, but he does not consider himself a favorite of fate. Chance is usually not in his favor, and he is somewhat famous in the ANBU for his missions going slightly out of control. The last thing he wants is for that bad luck to extend to the boy - though he has known him only briefly, he has developed a certain fondness for Sasuke and would hate to be indirectly responsible for seeing the child in more pain and discomfort. 

Dr. Ikebuki puts a little more pressure on the boy’s meridians. Her eyes widened in surprise. Kakashi immediately considers stepping inside—this is more than enough reason to abandon his perch—but the doctor speaks first. "I think you'll finally have something interesting to report to your superiors, Hound," she says, smiling faintly. "Tell them your protégé is already out of the genjutsu." 

Kakashi doesn’t return her smile. 

At first Sasuke breathes. The illusions of blood and darkness are abruptly cut off; finally, after what felt like a thousand years, he is able to breathe without the smell of rust making him nauseous, and his hands no longer feel sticky from the blood of his parents. 

After the first twenty times Sasuke tried to stop Itachi before he slaughtered their parents, he gave up, lost count of how many more times he was forced to attend the murder of his entire family. Time after time, he was made to witness it, until the gurgle of his mother’s throat in her final moments felt just as familiar as her humming while she cooked - until the deadness in his father’s eyes overshadowed every other memory of him. 

Sasuke would sit on the floor beside their bodies, holding his mother’s hand—and then his father’s. Sometimes, he simply watched them. Other times, he lay down next to them, trying to convince himself that warm blood was the same as the warmth of their arms and caresses. All the while, Itachi’s shadow hovered over him like a giant crow, dragging him with its beak out of the house and through the streets—making him an accomplice in the brutal hunt against his own blood. 

He wanted to stop it.  

He wanted to understand. 

He begged. 

Pleaded. 

Cried.  

He stands between the edge of the weapon and the aunts and uncles, the grannies and grandpas, his cousins and the children. He lets his brother's weapon go through him, hoping that, if his death isn't enough to appease Itachi's unknown fury, maybe then he can die with all his relatives.  

But he always ends up back on the street. Alone. 

Worst of all, Sasuke quickly understands that nothing is really happening except in his head. But it's real at the same time. It's real because the pain of his wounds burns, and the blood is thick on his small hands. It's real with the muffled screams hammering in his ears. 

It is real. And it isn't.  

He knows, in the back of his mind, that it's a trick of his brother’s. But knowing that doesn't take the pain away. The sensations embed themselves in him, and he feels his chest ache, unable to bear how overwhelming it all is.  

Everything is painful, even the air passing through his lungs. It shatters every cell of his body, forcing him to stay there for every second.  

Between so many repetitions of the same hell, Sasuke is sure he loses something important.  

He stops shuddering at the agony of his parents. He no longer dreads seeing slashed necks or the bodies of children younger than him collapse under their own weight.  

Apathy becomes the only way Sasuke can go on. He loses something important, and he doesn't want to lose it. He forces himself to continue fighting, to continue with any gesture of strength that doesn't give his brother satisfaction. With this trick, Itachi surely hopes to break him. He refuses to give in. He forces his heart to continue to carry the weight of death, because if there is nothing he can do to stop it, then Sasuke can give it meaning.  

If he holds his parents' hand in those last moments, they may not feel scared like Sasuke feels. If he tries to stop the bleeding in his relatives' wounds, the terror in their eyes may subside. 

If he looks into his brother's red eyes, maybe — just maybe — the older brother he loves so much will come back and put an end to it all. He holds his brother's sword by the edge, not caring how the blade is embedded in his flesh and tries to force Itachi to see him. But his brother is not there. There is a strange creature much like Itachi holding his gaze. It is not his brother. His brother has died here too and what is left in his place is an unrecognizable monster that uses his beloved brother's voice to insult Sasuke and break his heart.  

It is an agony, a slow death. He loses his sense of self along with dozens of other things. He forgets the last time he could rest in the comfort of his mother. He loses the memory of his father's voice. Time stretches out into infinity, so wide that he seems to live a lifetime trapped here, drifting away from good days and love and affection and all how much Sasuke would never have thought he had and could lose. He regrets any foolishness he would have done in the past, as well as any childish tantrums. He apologizes for the times he didn't finish dinner and for the many times he went to bed without finishing his homework. He tells Itachi that he won't bother him anymore, that he won't be such an annoying, whiny brother any longer. 

It's no use. Nothing he says changes the outcome. It's over, his family is dead, and Sasuke is useless. He's just a foolish child who longs for a time long gone - when everything was fine.  

He brings his hand to his face, where the tears had dried up so long ago. His parents' blood trickles out of their bodies and forms a rivulet that soaks his knees. He doesn't look for his brother in the room, instead, he crawls over to his parents and looks at their faces in detail. This is the last memory he will have of them, and he wants to cherish it for a moment. From experience in this torture chamber, Sasuke knows not to look directly at them, for then somehow Itachi's trick will take care of distorting their features and elevating them like puppets rigged to hurt him. So, he settles for watching their reflection in the blood.  

I'm sorry, he wants to tell them.  

I'm sorry. I can't save you. 

His mom has long eyelashes, as dark as her hair. 

His dad has a slightly crooked nose. Sasuke never asked him why. 

When the illusion comes to an end, Sasuke wants to cling to the bodies. No. This is the sickest thing about all of Itachi's torture. He clings desperately to his parents' clothes, unable to let them go. In this nightmarish realm his parents linger for an instant, breathe, if only for a brief second before falling. His entire family is here with him to accompany him. If Sasuke leaves here, then he will truly be alone. 

“No, please,” he says voicelessly to the giant shadow of Itachi watching him in the shadows, “I want to be with them,” he wants to stay here, where the pain clouds his senses, but it's better than facing reality outside. 

He thinks Itachi is going to show some compassion. He believes that something of his brother still resides in the creature that occupies his body. 

None of that is true. The dream ends without further delay, and Sasuke's heart shrinks and shrinks until it impossibly compresses and strains to the point of explosion. 

A breath of clean, sterile breath. And his heart bursts into painful splinters that pierce his flesh and soul. The clean air that no longer smells of blood confounds his mind. He associates this change with safety, even as he crumbles at the absence of rust and iron. He thinks himself safe outside the world of illusions, but recoils as he recognizes that there is a part of him that longs to return to them, if only to once again smell the scent of his kin's blood that was beginning to comfort him in the face of impending loneliness.  

But the loneliness is here now. And Sasuke lies inert wherever he is. Unconsciously he forces himself to remain quiet, not wanting to arouse attention to him. He doesn't understand where he might be, only that his brain feels mush. And the lack of certainty of his state leaves him with only his instincts. He vaguely remembers a lesson his brother once gave him: “Play dead when you can’t be sure the enemy is gone.” - but that memory seems to have been run through a shredder and his brother's voice is so warm and cold, intentions blur in the wasteland of his memory, and he can't tell if that day really ended with Itachi gouging his eyes out or if it's just another trick of his brother's that has embedded itself deep in his head. 

Unsure, with voices all around him, Sasuke wants to open his eyes, even if it's just a little. Just a little bit. Just enough to determine if he should find the sharpest object within reach and ram it down his throat. Only, when he wants to open his eyes, he cannot. Something blocks him from doing so, and his breathing becomes ragged. 

He can't see. He can't - 

And suddenly there are touches on him, people shouting senselessly that fail to settle in his mush brain. He wants to shake off those strange touches, so different from the cold skin of his relatives that Sasuke has found as comfort. 

He screams. His throat rasps with his screams as if he hasn't spoken in years. He tears his throat and the muscle chafes. He pushes the touches away from him as best he can and his body slams against a cold surface, legs tangled in something soft that stings. 

He brings his hands to his face, to his eyes. His fingers catch on to something and he pulls. The light hits him, and he covers his hands again as if to cry. It hurts and burns. Everything around him begins to settle, and he catches someone ordering other people to back off. 

“We have to sedate him, Hound,” a woman's voice warns and the implication of it raises Sasuke's heartbeat until he feels it pounding in his ears, “His altered state is doing him more harm than good.” 

“Just give him a moment,” reasons the man - hound - Sasuke supposes, "He's scared. Just let me calm him down. No need to be so harsh." 

Sasuke crawls away from the voices, awkwardly seeking to hide from them until he can calm the irrational fear that is sweeping through him. And the deep sadness of feeling lost. He crawls on all fours, wanting to see between his fingers, but feeling as if his eyeballs are melting and water is trickling down his face. It hurts, but not nearly as much as the illusions. 

“Last time I checked, you're not the medical expert, Mr. ANBU.” 

“I may know a lot more than some of you about this.” 

He reaches what he assumes is a wall, and Sasuke leans against it. His breathing quickens and he gropes the ground for something to defend himself with. ANBU . The word tingles inside him. The ANBU is the village's elite team of ninja charged with executing the most complicated missions in direct service of the Hokage. It's a definition straight out of one of his Academy classes, and it's, foolishly, the only thing that manages to make Sasuke feel safe in the dark. Because ANBU protects people and children - or so his mother says. Or his father? His brother? Nobody? Someone said it... maybe. The identity blurs with everything he thought he knew. 

“Okay,” the woman relents, and Sasuke is sure that all the people leave the area with her as there is so much silence afterwards that it overwhelms him.  

He forces himself to open his eyes and face the bright world. He expects to feel as if a thousand needles will stab him. The sensation never comes. Everything is in darkness again, but it is not the same as before. He can make out silhouettes and shapes, as well as a faint glimmer of light sneaking under the door at the other end. All in all, it still hurts, and he slurps his nose, not knowing at what point it was all too much to make him cry. Just a tiny bit. 

“Don't push yourself too hard,” Hound's voice warns, not unkindly. Sasuke flinches for it, wary of the stranger "The bandage was there for a reason, kid. But for now, it's okay if we leave it off for a while." the man seems to want to sound funny, but his voice is somewhat muffled so Sasuke can't confirm it. 

It's someone tall, that's how much Sasuke can discern between the darkness and his labored eyesight. The fear remains, though slowly some curiosity begins to sneak in as well. He thinks he's in a hospital and the soft, itchy thing on his legs warms him. It is cold. It's always cold in hospitals. 

“Easy,” the man soothes, and his height is lowering until Sasuke doesn't have to crane his neck to observe where he thinks his face is. He stays at a distance — still a good few feet away, even in this not-so-large room. "Why don't we take a breath, buddy? I assure you, you're safe here. This is the Village hospital, and no one here is going to hurt you - You can't see it, but this I have here is an ANBU mask, that means I'm an ANBU, and let me tell you,“ the man lowers his voice to something akin to a secret, ”I'm a very good one, you know what that means?" 

That you're strong, Sasuke thinks without the words being able to get out of him. He tries but can't get his mouth to work. He tries again, of course he tries, but he can only make a pathetic, weak, broken whimper and - 

“Come on, come on,” the ANBU continues in the same measured tone, "Take it easy. You don't have to answer me, okay? Let's just try to calm down for now. Here, a deep breath, you can do it." 

He does. His nose is stuffy, and his breathing in sounds gross. 

"Let it sit there for a moment. A little more - Okay, let it out," slowly, the man takes one step closer, then another. Sasuke doesn't feel anxious about it. It's the first living person he has heard in a long time, and he marvels more at the warmth of it all and the words that aren't harsh or pointed. The last time someone spoke to him with such gentleness escapes him. "Let's do that a couple more times. Take a breath. Hold it in. And let it go." 

They repeat the process a couple of times. It gets easier each time and helps clear his mushy brain. Sasuke mimics the ANBU, trying not to think about how foolish he must have looked to lash out the way he did when he woke up. 

I'm sleepy, he wants to tell the ANBU, feeling so tired, but afraid to sleep and return to the trap of nightmares and distorted desires. 

“Easy,” Hound murmurs, and his voice is warm. It's kind. “You're okay.” 

Sasuke nods and yawns. Fatigue pulls heavily at him, and his blinks grow longer. 
With ANBU’s voice still there, he nods again and, finally, drifts into sleep. 

The next time Sasuke wakes up, there is not the same shock or violent outburst. This time, the medical staff is better equipped to deal with the child in their care, though their reservations are unnecessary, for the next time Sasuke awakens the child is as docile as a fearful fawn. They don't even realize the boy is awake, not until Kakashi singles him out, so attentive to the boy that even a change in his breathing catches his notice. 

Kakashi stands apart from the doctors and nurses who whisper and move around the room in a fluid tandem. They ask now every time they need to approach the boy and let him know about what is happening before it happens. 

"We'll poke you with this needle. It's just to measure your blood levels."  

“I’ll tap your knee here — just a little bump.”  

“Try to squeeze my hand as hard as you can.”  

They don't sound resentful of the boy after his outburst a few hours ago, even though some of them came away with more than a slight scratch from that confrontation. And, for his part, Sasuke surely must feel some sort of remorse because he's nice enough to them to be cooperative. But he doesn't speak. Not a single word. Just slow nods and side-to-side movements. 

Kakashi takes note of it, as he knows the doctors do too. No one forces the boy to say a single word, although Dr. Ikebuki checks his throat just to make sure nothing is broken or damaged. 

The conclusion Kakashi comes to is that Sasuke will speak when he feels ready. All he has heard from the boy has been screaming, so he is a bit impatient for the moment when Sasuke can muster the will to say something else, uncomfortable that he has no idea what the boy sounds like out of suffering. Having a talkative Sasuke will be necessary, as he has sent a shadow clone to the Hokage's residence to inform him of the good news, and there is now a team led by Ibiki Morino waiting outside the room so they can interrogate Sasuke as soon as possible. Though if they're so desperate to get the boy's statement, then they'll have to get creative - there's no way they're going to force Sasuke to talk, and the hospital staff along with Kakashi himself will be more than happy to kick Ibiki out if he tries to push the boy. 

By the time the doctors have finished their checkup and Sasuke is given a clean bill of health, some nurses are swaying back and forth, exchanging glances with each other and eyeing the door suspiciously. It's too early for an interrogation. Kakashi had voiced his disagreement with the matter directly with the Hokage, which hadn't made a difference when he himself understands the urgency of getting all available information from Sasuke before outside factors can influence his statement. There isn't anyone in the village who doesn't want to know what really happened that night, and just... put an end to that chapter. But it's too soon. Sasuke has just come out of a coma after being subjected to what everyone assumes was a nasty illusory technique, subjecting him to another kind of pressure so soon is ill-advised by his doctors and Kakashi – and get this, having those two groups agree on something is something you rarely see. 

Aware of the reluctance of the staff to break the news to the boy, Kakashi mentally padded himself. 

“Sasuke, kiddo,” Kakashi stepped out of the shadows, even knowing Sasuke would not be able to see him with the blindfold still over his eyes. He believed the gesture was what mattered. If the boy could see, he would certainly find it strange that a voice came from the shadows, wouldn't he? “I know you're a little tired,” he acknowledged, seeing that the boy had already yawned several times in the last half hour, “But there are some people outside waiting to talk to you,” 

The boy simply turned his expressionless face to him, perfectly guessing Kakashi's position. With skin even paler than the bandage, he looked like a ghost. 

No response, just a nod. Kakashi hadn’t expected anything different, and he was already imagining Ibiki’s constricted expression when the interrogation went down the same silent path. It wasn't something to be amused by, except Kakashi was only a little amused by it. Any inconvenience to his former academy mates was like a stolen treat. 

“I'll tell them they can come in,” Dr. Ikebuki reported, walking behind the nurses and other staff, “We'll be close by if you need anything,” 

That was to say: if the investigators screwed up and triggered another attack on Sasuke's part. That of course wouldn't be fun at all, for anyone - though it would be something Kakashi would hold over Ibiki's head for years, about how he managed to make a kid afraid of him and it didn't even take the kid to be able to see his bitter face.  

Ibiki actually isn't that bad with kids, that doesn't mean he was the best - his constipated bitch look is a magnet for childish cries. But Ibiki's work is exemplary, and his career as an agent in the torture and investigation division will soon have him running the place. 

After a few moments, barely a quarter of a minute, the door to the room opened again. He watched as Ibiki's team was shocked at the darkness of the room, unaware of all the peculiarities of the hospital's care of Sasuke. Whatever the reason - though assumptions abounded - Sasuke's eyes were so sensitive that it was impossible for the boy to walk without those bandages. Having read the doctors' notes, Kakashi was aware that an unusual amount of chakra had built up around the boy's eyeballs, leaving him way too sensitive to light and any such discomfort. 

That unusual chakra buildup was one of the reasons the Council seemed certain that the boy had awakened his lineage. It was too early to tell. And in any case, they weren’t the ones qualified to make such assumptions. None of them have a sharingan, and any record of its workings was information exclusive to the Uchiha Clan, and only to the Uchiha Clan. 

“Hello, Sasuke,” Ibiki didn't blink twice in the gloom, just walked into the room in his dramatic trench coat and took a seat next to the boy's bed. Bold move, Sasuke has sharp nails and knows how to draw blood. "My name is Ibiki Morino, I come with two of my colleagues from the Village's Department of Investigation. Their names are Yashibuto Akisashi and Ota Tena, and we are here to ask you some questions about what happened the night you arrived at the hospital. Is it okay if we start now?” the man barely directed a glance at Kakashi, who dressed in his ANBU uniform didn't take the action personally. He wasn’t supposed to be acknowledged - ANBU is not to be seen, and if you see it, then you feign insanity and ignore it. It's just standard practice. 

There was no response from Sasuke for a moment, and the boy brought his hands to his lap, clasped together. Slowly, he gave a barely perceptible nod, and Ibiki's companions moved. The woman, Ota Tena, pulled out a notebook and pen, scribbling on the sheet a quick transcript of the conversation so far - she must have had a spectacular memory, for she didn't forget a single word. For his part, the other guy pulled a tape recorder out of his weapon bag and set it down on the bed. A red dot blinked on the device, giving away its use. 

"Very well. It'll just be a few questions, and that shall be all.“ patiently pointed out Ibiki ”First, do you remember what happened that day?" 

A nod. Someone on the medical staff must have warned Ibiki of Sasuke's muteness, for to his credit, the man was unaffected by the lack of verbal responses. 

In another situation, an interrogation led with suggestive questions would be labeled useless. It is only a common technique to try to keep the questions concise and open-ended so as to allow the person being questioned to develop as much detail as necessary. Above all, in a matter such as this, it was up to them to get as much as possible from the only living witness to the massacre - or so those unfamiliar with matters such as that might argue. The dead could talk too, and Konoha was not so archaic that they didn't know a trick or two to pull it off. 

Part of the reason Kakashi had voiced his disapproval of Sasuke’s interrogation was simple: There wasn’t much more the boy could tell them that the village didn’t already know. It would only reaffirm their suspicions and conjectures — no small thing, of course — but in Kakashi’s opinion, it could have waited. At least until after the kid had eaten something. Preferably the meal waiting for him, and the jelly Kakashi had gone out and bought from the nearby store himself. 

The necessary investigations have already been carried out. Forensic examinations concluded that the civilians within the Uchiha Clan compound had all been killed by the same weapon: a twenty to thirty-centimeter blade, used with surgical precision to strike vital points. The police elements and notorious members of the Clan were killed in a short and deadly confrontation. Likewise, from the study of the weapons and wounds, it appeared that it was all carried out by the same agent, although certain things - such as the number of people and the chakra signatures - seemed to suggest the presence of an accomplice. 

The other investigation teams had already done the reconstruction of that day. They knew where and when each member of the Clan was, with near-perfect precision, the result of long hours of compilation and study. Every shinobi in the village had been part of the huge investigation team, for what is now considered the biggest case in the village. And that alone makes the person responsible, the most wanted ninja of their era. 

“You were at the Academy?” asked Ibiki next. 

A nod. 

“Did you stay extra hours with your classroom teacher?” 

Nod. 

“Did you go home around seven o'clock at night?” 

Nod. 

“Was the power out?” 

Another nod. 

“Did you go straight home?” 

Again. 

“Did you meet anyone on the way?” 

A small shake of the head. Negative. 

“When you got home, were you alone?” 

Shake. 

“Were your parents there?” 

Nod. 

“Were they in their room?” 

Nod. 

“Did you try to move them?” 

Nod. 

“Did you leave the house?” 

Nod. 

“Were you looking for help?” 

Hesitation. A slower nod. 

“Were you looking for someone in particular?” 

Sasuke nods more decisively, and his knuckles twisted into the dinosaur-print hospital sheet, giving away what his blank face refused to express. 

"Were you... looking for your brother?" 

A nod. 

“Did you find him?” 

Nod. 

“Was he alone?” 

Nod. 

Kakashi feels the tension in the room grow. Everyone was watching Sasuke’s every move, every flicker of his fingers, trying to decode the things he couldn’t — or wouldn’t — say. They all were wishing they could get inside the boy's head and get everything out of him. Maybe they should have sent someone from the Yamanaka clan, and that might have saved them some time and gotten the answers they craved. But with Sasuke’s current mental state, even the lightest psychic intrusion might have shattered what little stability he had left — Might have thrown him back into that comatose state. 

"Sasuke... do you know who murdered your Clan?" 

The boy swallows, hands shaking. He nods, just a tiny nod of his head. 

“Was it Uchiha Itachi?” 

They watch him closely, and the song of crows sounds in Kakashi's ears. Sasuke's hands shake more and the boy sinks into his shoulders. That’s it, Kakashi thinks. I’m getting all these people out of the room. They don't need to ask something they already know. And he would, except that Sasuke is stronger than his smallness lets on, and the boy nods once and twice. 

“Did he do it alone?” asks Ibiki, and Kakashi suspects it might be the last question. The most important one, the one that has everyone's mind unsettled. 

Was this really the work of only one man? 

Are there more traitors in his village?  

If he had to name someone else, Kakashi would’ve pointed to Shisui Uchiha, known for his closeness to Itachi. But Shisui had been dead for two months now, his body found at the banks of the Nakano River. And if anyone had been a loyal shinobi, it was Shisui. 

Though Itachi seemed to be as well. 

Sasuke nods, and Kakashi contemplates the answer. One single man - a teenager to be more precise. In less than the length of the night, Uchiha Itachi killed his entire Clan all by himself. It's hard to believe, but Sasuke has no reason to lie. The investigations only reinforce that truth. With this, by the end of the day all the bingo books in the Village will add a new sheet - and a new face. 

The boy's gaze falls, and his jaw trembles slightly. 

Having finished, Ibiki stands up. His face gives nothing away, but his tone is softer than when he was asking the questions "That would be all, Sasuke. Thank you for your time," he says, taking his team with him. 

He comes and causes a stir, Kakashi thinks. He comes and leaves as if he hasn’t left a trembling child behind. But comforting a child is not the job of Ibiki and his team. 

Sasuke's shoulders shake with the door as it closes. He is small and the darkness that embraces him does little to shelter him. Somewhat hesitantly, Kakashi approaches the bed and places a hand on the boy's head. Sasuke doesn't cry in loud sobs. He is silent and mute, the thinnest tears escaping beneath the bandage. 

Orphanhood is that direct. 

Kakashi cannot help but stand there, letting the child weep. Here it's better, he thinks, where there's no one else to watch and judge him. Here it's better where the pain is just pain, without it having to be transmuted into something of use. 

Sometimes things should just hurt and bleed. Sometimes children should just cry, with no one to steal that from them. 

He kneels down in front of the child and helps him put on his shoes. The clothes borrowed from the hospital are a little big on him, not for a child his size, but they will work for now. 

“You'll have to come in every week for a checkup, yes, Sasuke?” says Dr. Ikebuki in a gentle tone. 

Sasuke nods and lowers his feet to the ground carefully. Kakashi is there to make sure the boy doesn't stumble on his way home. The hospital discharged him quickly only a few days after his awaken, there is no reason to keep Sasuke any longer. His meridians have returned to normal, and any physical injuries have long since healed. Only the blindfold in his eyes is a constant reminder of what happened, but this too will eventually go away. 

“Can you walk, Sasuke?” asks Kakashi. Although the boy has been strong throughout his recovery after waking up, the truth is that he is still weak, constantly alternating in a state of lethargy and exhaustion. 

Sasuke hesitates. He is not a rude child by any stretch of the imagination; that much is clear to Kakashi. But he's still so quiet, and that lack of voice is starting to frustrate him. It's okay. Kakashi is patient and is content to wait to see what quip Sasuke will come up with to communicate. 

“Here, give me your hand.” He takes Sasuke's hand in his and waits for the boy to do something to show his disagreement. He doesn't, so Kakashi returns his attention to the doctor by facing her gratefully. "Thank you very much for your hard work, Doctor Ikebuki. I'll make sure Sasuke is here for his next appointments." a commitment he's willing to make for the benefit of another living being rather than for himself.  

Sasuke then extends his other hand, shyly, inviting the doctor closer. They haven't gotten a single verbal word out of him, but Sasuke is a smart boy, and as the doctor approaches the woman gives him a tap on the wrist, as if to indicate where she is. Sasuke then uses a finger to trace on the woman's palm a simple word: gratitude .  

The woman smiles visibly touched. “It was a pleasure, Sasuke. Please take care of yourself."  

The boy nods, and it's not a smile on his face, but something just as sincere. With unsteady steps, the boy makes his way to the door, careful not to fall or trip. Kakashi holds his hand but still leaves that appearance of independence to the boy, letting him take the first few steps alone. 

In the hallway, the nurses and staff say goodbye to Sasuke with quiet enthusiasm, wishing him a speedy recovery and, above all, being very sincere in their good hopes. They have grown fond of the boy, and none of them are enthusiastic about sending him back to where he came from. Kakashi included. 

As feared, Kakashi is escorting Sasuke back to the Uchiha compound. Although he knows that several clan leaders, Shikaku Nara among them, have offered to take Sasuke in, the Hokage and the Council of Elders have rejected those requests. This is nothing new. Although he no longer has parents or blood relatives to look after him, the Uchiha clan has left a considerable fortune for its sole survivor. In this village of shinobi, children like Sasuke become young adults, free to fend for themselves. Rarely is a child taken to the village orphanage; that is only for those who are destitute, with no inheritance or resources to draw on.  

Seen in this light, Sasuke is fortunate — or so they make it seem. He has land and money, as well as a legendary surname. He is no ordinary orphan. And if he is old enough to wield a weapon, then he is old enough to do the shopping and make dinner. It is a sick logic that only makes sense to them, the shinobi, flawed though it is.  

They don't get very far from the hospital exit before Sasuke's steps become more shuffled. Another one of those moments of lethargy. He's going to need a lot of recovery if he's expected to return to the Academy and catch up with his classmates.  

“How about you let me carry you?” Kakashi offers, shielding the boy from the sun with his body so it doesn't shine directly on his face. "You shouldn't push yourself too hard, kid. The doctors worked hard to help you, we can't let all their effort go to waste." It's a bit dirty to use that little bit of guilt against the boy, but something he has learned apart from the fact that Sasuke is unfailingly polite is that he is also very stubborn, so it takes some trickery to convince him to do something that he would otherwise be too proud to accept.  

The boy weighs his options. His attention fell to the floor, and he looked very much like an intimidated kitten. Kakashi smiled slightly at the image and smiled more freely when the boy raised his arms as if commanding him: pick me up.  

Yes, yes, Kakashi thought, once a little prince of a clan, always a little prince.  

He lifts the boy without effort, letting him settle into his arms however he pleases. 

Walking around the village with the boy in his arms is easy, in fact, this way Kakashi is sure they attract less attention, with people on the street not looking twice at the boy. Walking around the village in his full ANBU uniform meant that civilians shunned him, not wanting to look at him directly, because although they are highly respected, ANBU members are also feared, and ordinary people step aside, not wanting to get in the way of an ANBU doing his job. The boy hides his face in Kakashi's neck, doing well to take refuge from the sunlight that still bothers him. In addition, the clothes lent by the hospital are simple, with no logo to distinguish Sasuke as the last Uchiha. With all this, he is just an ANBU walking with a child, both calmly crossing the village.  

There are other ANBU nearby, scattered through the rooftops and alleyways. Kakashi is not the only agent assigned to protect Sasuke Uchiha; he’s merely the leader of the detail. There is an entire escort scheduled to watch over Sasuke for the foreseeable future, although none of them are authorized to interact directly with the boy.  

They continue, moving further from the hospital and closer to the Uchiha district.  

As they make their way to the Uchiha compound, he realizes that the world has moved on. People are going about their lives and their tranquility, but that does not mean that everything is the same. There are fewer people walking the streets than there would normally be at this time, and this is due to the wave of fear and dread that has hit the village. Although there has been no other attack like the murder of the Uchihas, Konoha remains cautious, and shinobi patrols the streets. Kakashi has even heard that the Hyuga Clan has temporarily secluded itself, forbidding its members from leaving their residences— if another clan were to be attacked, the Hyuga would be the most likely next target. Their visual abilities are just as famous as the sharingan, and they are egotistically paranoid. He hopes, at the very least, that the Hyuga Clan will not want to use that as an excuse not to show up to pay their respects to the dead...  

All that's left is the funeral, Kakashi thought.  

Now that Sasuke is out of the hospital, all that remains is to say a final goodbye to the Uchiha Clan. The construction of an extension to the village cemetery is already underway, and by the end of the week it should be finished – on Saturday, or perhaps Sunday, the funeral ceremony will take place, one of the largest in the Fire Nation since the end of the last war. He understands that the elders have wanted to postpone the matter, but to delay it any longer now would simply be disrespectful. One cannot cover the sun with one finger. Once the funeral is held, it will be impossible to contain the information from reaching enemy villages, and the Hokage has been preparing for this by rejecting missions that send his men far away. If one of the other villages plans to take advantage of this tragedy as an opportunity to strike at Konoha, all available forces will remain nearby for that eventuality. 

He makes a note to question the Hokage further about it. And also, to see if he can get some information about the progress of Lord Danzo's men in the hunt for Uchiha Itachi. 

The entrance to the forest is the same as always. Sunbeams pass through the foliage and create dancing shadows on the path. Of course, Kakashi didn't expect the path to be any different, although it feels different this time as he walks through it calmly instead of rushing through it like he did on his last trip. He doesn't feel like he's taking the boy home; in fact, he feels like he's taking him to his mausoleum to be buried alive or turned into a guardian of all his dead. Did Sasuke even know all of his murdered relatives? The Uchiha Clan was so vast that Kakashi cannot imagine what it must have been like to grow up in a place like that. His own Clan is a joke in comparison, and like Sasuke, Kakashi is the last of his name. But his Clan was never that big to begin with, all of whom died before Kakashi could have known them, so much so that he has never thought of his family with that adjective.  

In that sense, he cannot understand everything that Sasuke's small mind and soul resent. His dead do not compete with those of this child.  

The weight of it constricts his ribs, feeling more like a villain as he enters the Uchiha residence. Even when the rain has returned here repeatedly, all Kakashi can smell is blood washed away and baked into the stone by sun. A slaughterhouse, he is bringing this child to a slaughterhouse, and his steps do not falter. He is forged by missions harder than any other, so he does not hesitate in this. He does not. Even if he imagines this child wandering blindly through a ghost town, Kakashi does not back down. The mission must continue. 

But how can he do it? A part of him is horrified to realize how easy it would be for him and everyone else to abandon Sasuke here to his fate. What does that say about them? What does returning this child to this place make them? Finally, he forces himself to stop in front of the main residence, on the street where he found Sasuke. That miraculous relief he felt at finding a surviving child takes a 180-degree turn.  

If he goes through this door, the putrid smell of decay will hit them even harder. He is sure that no one took the time to clean the place after taking away the bodies, just as no one thought to remove the bloodstains from the pavements. He is sure that the boy will have to do such a task on his own - he will have to wash his parents' blood from the floor and scrub the wooden boards until his fingers are tender from the water and vinegar.  

Once he leaves Sasuke at his old home, Kakashi's obligations to the boy will become easier. He will only have to worry about the boy once or twice a week, stopping by to check on his progress and eventually taking him on as a pseudo-student. His life will not be very different from Kakashi's at his age. Orphaned. Lonely. Spending his afternoons scrubbing a stained floor only to realize that blood never fades from memory. He will live in a house haunted by ghosts until their whispers rob him of sleep.  

If Kakashi fulfils what the Council and the Hokage expect of him, then what?  

Sasuke's breathing has slowed down – the boy has fallen asleep, and Kakashi hugs him slightly.  

In his moments of greatest moral uncertainty, Kakashi thinks of the man who was his father. What would he have done? Not the sad man he was at the end, but the larger-than-life figure Kakashi loved. His father, who chose to sacrifice the mission to save men who didn't even thank him. But gratitude wasn't the point. The man who told awful jokes and visited his wife's grave every morning — what would he have done? 

Like his father, like Obito. Now, years later, Kakashi understands things he couldn’t then, when he was a bitter, disillusioned son who once felt ashamed of that great man. If he’d been less naive — if he had seen through the sadness... 

Would his father have left this child here? 

Would Obito? 

Would Fugaku and Mikoto Uchiha have wanted their son to return home like this ? 

Not that it matters, of course. They are dead. It’s what the living do that counts.  

So what will you do, Kakashi?  

What will you do, Kakashi? He could do many things. He can think of hundreds of options that would ease his conscience. But he is not the one who needs comfort, he is not the one who has lost everything and nothing. No one seems to have considered the most important part in this matter. Everyone is too eager to dictate this child's life and at the same time strip him of his childhood. His cheeks are round, his hands are thin — he is a child in every way. How can the Elders look at him and believe this is the right thing to do? But then, they haven’t seen Sasuke. They never even visited him in the hospital. And yet, if they are so sure that this child can take care of himself, then they must also respect his decision if he chooses something different.  

Kakashi pats the child, waking him up. “Sasuke,” he calls, “Come on, buddy, wake up.”  

If Kakashi leaves this boy here, he thinks of one idea that is equal parts dramatic and disproportionate, that his father might die again.  

Sasuke lifts his head and tilts it. Sleep still weighs heavily on his light brow, but the tension in his limbs betrays his awareness. He knows where they are. 

“We're in the Uchiha district, in front of your house,” Kakashi clarifies, nonetheless. He ponders his words, never having been good with them, not when they mattered most. “Do you... want to come back here?” he asks directly, not wanting to beat around the bush or sugarcoat anything.  

Sasuke is surprised, as if no other option had ever crossed his little mind. Kakashi imagines this child walking blindly through the dark corridors, stumbling at every step until he becomes familiar with the echoes and creaks of a dead home. No child can grow up that way, they can only survive. 

“You don’t have to,” Kakashi says, quieter now. “You don’t have to be alone, Sasuke.” He proceeds to say, believing it with all his heart, a lesson that the child Kakashi came to learn late in life, after bitterness had already shaped him.  

Sasuke's mouth trembles, and his lips open to conjure words that are trapped in the turbulent silence of a fractured mind. You? Kakashi thinks he understands the boy's fruitless attempts to say something more complex.  

He nods, “Yes, me,” he affirms, “I can stay with you,” he says it as a promise, with no intention of falsehood. He is not the right person to make it; he does not have what Sasuke might need to put his lost pieces back together. He is just a man with too many burdens on his conscience, with no desire for more.  

And he does not make this offer expecting loyalty or gratitude. That is not the point. It is his own gesture of kindness. Like that of nurses getting a child a warm blanket.  

He sees a reflection of himself in the child. The same loneliness, the same stench of death. But they are not the same. Or they will not be. They could have been, if Kakashi were a different man. In this way, Kakashi understands all his flaws for what they are. He is a young adult with an emotional block, who wears a mask in his daily life and reads trashy books for fun. His schedule is unpredictable, and he may spend more time outside the village than in his apartment. He prefers the company of the dead to the living. He chooses to listen to the advice of the dead, too distrustful of his own morality.  

And yet — this he can do. 

He can stay. 

He can list a long list of reasons that make him the last person Sasuke Uchiha should trust. But if he has to give one, Kakashi will give this one: Sasuke won't have to be alone. That's the difference that will mark them forever. Sasuke Uchiha doesn't have to grow up with ghosts on his back, bloody faces of horror translating into comfort like Kakashi did. He will not need to cling to bitterness and hatred to find meaning in his loneliness-filled life. All the things Kakashi had to learn too late — this boy can learn now. A silly lesson about how the world doesn't end in one night, and life is less about what we lose, and more about what we let find us. 

“So, what do you say kid?” He asks. His heart beats too loudly in the quiet. 

It's imperceptible, somewhat unsure, but Kakashi senses the silent nod. Immediately after, Sasuke yawns, and leans his head against Kakashi’s neck again. His body loosens again, a limp weight without strength. That last is a stronger testimony than anything the boy could have done, and Kakashi finds some wonder at the gesture. Who could see him, he thinks, with a child in his arms sleeping so comfortably. Over Kakashi, whose hands are calloused and hard, wrapped in the skin of an assassin - and yet he has this child trusting him fully, and sleeping as if he believes Kakashi will take care of him from anyone who wants to disturb his sleep. He would. 

That was all. Retracing his steps, Kakashi left behind the Uchiha residence. The ghosts, the dead. The bloodbath and the smell of suffering. He swore, the air had become lighter, and his steps more purposeful. The empty houses he was leaving behind seemed to look at him with something like gratitude, something like peace. If the dead could see them... if something of them still cling here, perhaps this action might allow them to step over to the other side and leave without a problem. 

Gone were the orders, too inhumane. Gone was Sasuke's home, with the doors to be open. 

All that mattered was with him. 

Chapter Text

It's the first night of all this, and Kakashi cannot catch a wink of sleep. The cicadas sing in the darkness, and the window beside him keeps him cool and grounded, ideal companions for hours like these. All the lights in the village are off, people sleep in the warmth of their sheets and drift through peaceful dreams.

There’s a child sleeping in his bed, but Kakashi cannot say if the dreams of that little one are as peaceful as anyone else’s. Still, the boy does not stir or give any sign that would betray the existence of a nightmare.

Surely, he’s too tired to even dream , Kakashi reflects. Or maybe, he’s already had enough nightmares for a lifetime.

If that’s the case, it sounds like a fitting trade to Kakashi — though not a just one. A week trapped in a realm of macabre illusions in exchange for nights of white, untroubled dreams. It’s a steep price, and no one knows if the reprieve will last. Maybe now Sasuke doesn’t have the energy to dream about what happened, but one day, the artificial calm of these past few days might break, and the weight of that hell could return — ready to burn him again.

He watches the boy, curled inward, limbs drawn tight. He curls so small he becomes almost invisible  and if Kakashi didn’t know he was there, he might believe the bed to be empty. Beneath two thick sheets, only strands of black hair peek out from Sasuke’s cocoon. 

This apartment is too small for two; and one of them is a child, which only makes the truth of that statement more brutal. Fortunately, the child cannot see the hole Kakashi has brought him to. So far, he’s been content with a soft place to sleep, and nothing more. 

Temporary. The word is clear as day in his thoughts. They will only be here temporarily — preferably before Sasuke can remove the bandages. As well — behaved as he is, Kakashi has no doubt that Sasuke will wrinkle his little nose in disgust when he sees the small, simple place. The child is so obvious in his displeasure — that’s how the hospital staff learned to keep peppers and sweet juices out of his meals. 

The wind blows a little harder, and the sound of trees swaying is part soothing, part unsettling. He feels an urgency for something, anything. A bitter sip of sake or some less refined liquor, for example. A cigarette might do too. Something that burns his throat and gives him an outlet for his worry. Yet, he doesn’t go out to find any of those things. He knows himself and sarcastically congratulates himself for at least being self-aware enough to not keep any of that in his home. 

Still, his fingers itch. He hasn’t held a cigarette in a long, long time. 

The funny thing is, he thinks, he didn’t even smoke long enough to get hooked. Rin took care of that, like she took care of many things in Kakashi’s life. He hasn’t touched one of those tricky things since Rin nearly made him choke on one. She hated them — no, she detested them.  

Back then, Rin always made sure he wouldn’t be diverted by the deceitful path of vice — by sweet liquors and bitter fumes. She did that for all her friends, and most of the time, she was heard. Why wouldn’t she be? Rin was... Rin was just like that. She was firm in her beliefs and direct in her affections. She cared . But, well, for some people, their demons were so large that pleasure was the only thing keeping them from falling apart. 

The shinobi life is harsh, and Kakashi isn’t one to judge those who find comfort at the bottom of a bottle — or something like it. Everyone’s just trying to keep their seams from coming undone, trying to make the misery bearable. Some, like Kakashi, are lucky enough to have a friend to lean on. Had - he reminds himself. He had a friend like that. 

He didn’t even like it that much. It was just something different — and he dropped it as quickly as he picked it up, because back in those days, there was nothing he would’ve denied her. After everything they’d been through together, it sometimes felt like they only had each other to rely on.

But Rin is gone now, and his hands feel numb for some reason. He chooses to believe it’s a hunger for an old vice rather than dig into the other reasons behind the tingling at his fingertips and the familiar sensation of electricity rippling in his palms. He forces himself to take a deep breath and hold it. The air smells like summer breeze — but also like ozone and petrichor.

When he exhales, he tells himself he’s letting go of self — pity and sorrow, too. This is not a night for that kind of thing — he hasn’t had an episode in a while, and he refuses to have one with the boy sleeping within arm’s reach.

He knows what he has to do next. He can’t go halfway with the child. The apartment is too small for both of them, and Kakashi just happens to have a larger property available. A proper place, where a child like Sasuke could grow up well — and comfortably. The house needs a bit of maintenance, but nothing a few days of work and cleaning couldn’t fix.

Still, just imagining going back there sends a chill down his spine and leaves him curled up on the floor by the window, surrounded by hundreds of unwelcome thoughts. 

It would be a good example.

Kakashi steels his resolve around that phrase. If he returns to that house — home to so many dusty memories — then maybe it could be an example for Sasuke. That, at the end of the day, even the painful memories are finite. That they’re heavy, yes, but not endless. 

He remembers the happy afternoons with his father on the terrace, watching the sunset with warm cups of tea in their hands. The lazy mornings with the smell of soy and leeks in the soup to wake him. Oh, he had such a peaceful childhood. And gentle. And full of morning light and the songs of cicadas. 

He remembers — it’s not like he could forget. Just like he remembers those last weeks with his father, when the silence turned oppressive. Just like he remembers the soapy water, painted red. 

It’s just that he has allowed the pain of a few moments to deprive him of the joy found in hundreds of others. 

He has let it happen for so long that he no longer knows how to face his days any other way. But his father was not only a sad man, and Rin was not only a dead girl. People carry more meaning than their deaths — and their lives matter, perhaps even more. It’s not a surprising realization; it’s not even a discovery. It’s a quiet, sincere observation about time and life. People come and go. Pain remains. But there is more — other things linger too, hidden beneath the sensitive, aching nerves. There is laughter, and love, and stories.

He would very much like for Sasuke to one day see those things — and to remember his family as something more than a series of tragic deaths. And if, in order to teach him that, Kakashi must lead by example, then he will gladly return to that house and wipe the dust from the countertops and floors.

The true loss lies in what we allow pain to steal from us — and Kakashi has spent many of his years letting pain twist every part of his youth. He suppressed every memory, leaving very little to hold onto — just enough to give strength to his movements and air to his lungs. It’s strange how the sharpest memories can drive a person forward, if taken in the right way — if pain is turned into intention, and misery into purpose. He set aside the bright, colorful moments not because they were easy to forget, but because they became unbearable in the face of absence and loneliness. 

Soon, all he could see was the ending — and nothing that came before. That was easier. Safer. He can’t imagine his life being any different now, so accustomed as he is. But when he looks at Sasuke... he thinks of this child, whom he has only just met, and who has already lost more than shinobis twice his age. What a terrible fate, to condemn that boy to live only with the final moments of his family. To fall asleep each night wrapped in the stench of death and call it kindness. 

And if, when Sasuke grows up, he decides never to look back at the dozens of houses in the Uchiha compound — if he throws away the key and lets it sink — that will be acceptable too. But he should know that there is also the option of reclaiming those homes, and the legacy within their walls. There can be no death where there was no life. And the Uchiha clan was full of life.

“Captain.” The voice cuts through his thoughts. It comes from an ANBU, whose tiger mask gleams pristinely in the darkness of night. “Lord Third summons you to his office.”

Kakashi observes the man with indifference. His silhouette, outlined in moonlight, appears almost sinister — ominous in its stillness. So soon, then. He had thought they would at least give him the night before calling him in to explain himself.

Without much effort, Kakashi rises to his feet. The crack of his knees brings a fleeting sense of satisfaction — he is not old enough for his joints to ache, and yet, he often feels as though he carries the body of an old man. He wears his scars without care, displaying them like a mosaic of old fractures. Scars are something to be cautious about — especially in his line of work. An informed outsider could easily identify him by them alone. 

"Very well, very well," he downplays it. "You may leave. I will go now."

The ANBU nods and vanishes in the blink of an eye. Kakashi knows he doesn’t go far — and the fact that he cannot see him doesn’t mean he isn’t there. The appearance of solitude is a lie, and Kakashi is well aware of the team of shinobi roaming around the perimeter. After all, he was the one who gave the orders on where to position them, just as he was the one who sent his comrade to inform the Hokage of the change in plans.

He watches the gentle movement of the cocoon of blankets on the bed. Sasuke’s breathing is calm, and the boy is fast asleep. He won’t wake up any time soon. Kakashi envies him — oh, how he wishes he could sleep a few hours as well. 

They are alone in the office, with the view of the village cloaked in shadows serving as the only witness to this meeting. Late at night, even the most popular bar on a Wednesday must have already turned off its lights and sent everyone home. A different Hokage wouldn’t stay this late — there’s an excellent administrative team in the village for that. But like Kakashi, the Lord Third has no one waiting for him at home. 

Since reassuming the post of leader and protector of the village, Lord Sarutobi has devoted himself with renewed energy to his work, pouring all his efforts and intellect into restoring order after the Nine-Tails attack. He, too, has turned his grief into something useful. A widower. With all the losses suffered in that catastrophic incident, Kakashi sometimes overlooks the death of Lady Biwako Sarutobi — it’s easy for many to do so. That alone speaks volumes about the man who wears the mantle and emblem of fire. 

But the night is silent, and the catastrophes of recent years continue to come. He sees the weariness on the Third’s face, the skin wrinkled and stained by the sun and understands that his leader is now an old man. The weight of his responsibilities has surpassed him, yet he cannot pass the position. Not now. The village is still too fragile, and after everything that’s happened, a succession would only bring further instability. But it must weigh heavily; it feels more like punishment than reward. Every child dreams, at some point, of wearing that hat and those robes. Perhaps that was once the Third Lord’s dream as well — a dream that has now become a duty with shackles made of steel. 

Few shinobi ever come to see the true weight of that position. Those who do no longer view it as a prize. It isn’t a reward or an honor; it’s a job. It is duty in its highest form. To be Hokage is no privilege, quite the opposite. 

“Sir,” Kakashi greets, bowing his head in a gesture of honest respect. He has left behind his ANBU uniform, glad to finally remove the armor and exchange it for the standard Jounin attire. It is also a way of expressing intent — any decision that has been made did not come from his position as ANBU captain, and its consequences should not involve his subordinates. 

He keeps any further words to himself, preferring not to make a misstep. But perhaps that isn’t something to worry about right now. It’s only the two of them. There is no trace of the Elder Council in the office. If they know anything about the new development, it seems unlikely. With their carefully laid plans and their intentions made more than clear, those elders would have been waiting to lecture him if they were aware. 

Somewhere in his mind, Kakashi discards plans B and C. The Elder Council will certainly disapprove of the new housing arrangement for Sasuke, but Kakashi won’t allow himself to be brought down by a few conniving old men. If necessary, he’s willing to play whatever political cards he can muster — gathering support from clan leaders who, like him, would understand his reasons and could back him to prevent the Council from interfering in the life of the last Uchiha. That is off the table for now, though not entirely dismissed. When the Council finally hears of this, who knows what kind of move they might make. 

The bloodiest battlefield is none other than politics. And clan politics, in particular, has its own set of rules. 

"You arrived quickly," the Third says, bringing his hands together beneath his chin. His eyes narrow slightly. He does not appear angry, merely thoughtful. "Somehow, I expected you to take a little longer to get here — you do have something of a reputation for that." 

“I would not dare keep you waiting, sir.” 

Lord Hiruzen laughed—a sound like dry leaves. “Perks of being Hokage,” he joked lightly. 

Kakashi felt only slightly embarrassed. He did not care that the entire village knew him for his tardiness—that was the least of it. But it did bother him, if only a little, that the Third Lord was aware of it. Perhaps someone had already filed complaints to the office— one of the shinobi in charge of distributing high-level missions, perhaps. They, in particular, knew well how often he was late to pick up assignments and deliver his reports. 

“I must say, the stories that occasionally reach me about you are quite charming. Your friendship with young Guy is widely known, Kakashi.” The Third’s words were complimentary, although not the kind of praise that was truly sincere—more like the kind of words one gives to children after they scribble on the walls. “You have a very good reputation, and that makes me glad. Lately, I have been concerned — well, there is no point in saying it now. It seems you are doing well.” 

Kakashi felt confused and could only manage a slow nod. “I am doing the best I can, sir.” Not entirely understanding what the Lord Third might be referring to, Kakashi settled for a safe and neutral answer. Doing well? His last ANBU mission went smoothly, just like the one before that—and the one before that. His high-ranking shinobi assignments had also produced good results. On the larger scale, Kakashi had been performing well for quite a long streak. It puzzled him why the Third would have been worried. 

“One might say you have exceeded your bounds, boy,” the old man replied. His gaze hardened, and the earlier joviality shifted into something more aligned with the night and silence. Kakashi did not allow himself to feel cornered, though he also did not immediately shift into a defensive stance. He needed to wait a little longer and allow the tension to build just a bit more. 

“Have I?” he asked, feigning ignorance. He understood the double meaning — Kakashi had overstepped his duties and would now have to answer for it. If Lord Hiruzen were to order him to undo his actions and leave the matter as originally planned, Kakashi steeled his resolve. Backtracking with Sasuke would only do the child more harm than good at this point. 

Lord Third sighed. “Yes, you have.” With a smooth motion, the man reached under his desk and opened a small drawer. When Kakashi looked again, he was not surprised to see the old man holding a lit pipe. The scent of tobacco soon filled the room—a strong and distinctly unpleasant smell. 

“I shall have to apologize to the boy later. As you can see—” the Hokage gestured toward the orderly but overfilled desk, “I have had a fair amount of work, and have not found the time to visit the child. I also do not think that a visit from me is what he would want right now, do you?” 

“I believe it would not have made much difference to him.” 

“I believe the same,” the man said, taking a puff from his pipe and leaning back in his seat, content. He did not appear insulted at being brushed aside by a child—though many children Sasuke’s age would have bounced on their little feet at the chance to meet the strongest man in the Village. “He has already been through enough, and enduring this senile old man would not bring him anything he might desire. I do not believe there is anyone in our village who can give that boy what he must be longing for.” 

“He will learn... to live with that longing,” Kakashi stated, knowing from personal experience what it meant to desperately wish for something unreachable—something so far out of reach that chasing it led only to a cliff’s edge. 

“He has a good teacher for that now.” And again, it did not sound like praise. Because it was not. It was a direct observation, and a veiled criticism. Kakashi did not take it personally—it was something all those who walked the shinobi path understood. 

“Kakashi, do you understand what will happen now?” Without giving him a chance to reply, the Third continued: “For all practical purposes, you are now entirely responsible for Sasuke Uchiha. This is not just about watching over young Sasuke—you are now responsible for the child in front of anyone, and in front of me. Before the Academy, and before the other Clans. This is not a responsibility you can enter into half-heartedly, because other forces will take advantage if you treat it as such.” Immediately, Kakashi thought of the Elders and other morally questionable figures he had encountered. “You are... Sasuke’s guardian until the child reaches the rank of genin — perhaps even longer. Medical decisions, management of his estate, food, clothing — you will be in charge of that. At the very least, you must care for the child as a parent would.” 

Put that way, the matter became very serious. And at the same time, it felt so little. These were obligations so superficial that any moderately competent adult could handle them — without ever touching the complex depth of a genuine connection. 

Like a parent? Sasuke already had two of those, and he would never have them again. Nothing and no one could give that child the true love and affection of a parent for his son. All that remained were substitutes and stand-ins. 

“I am fine with that, if Sasuke is fine with that.” 

The Hokage smiled softly, appearing satisfied with the answer. As if he had been waiting for it all along. Had this been the Third’s intention from the start? To Kakashi, it certainly seemed that way—though he didn’t feel deceived or manipulated. Simply, their interests had aligned to give them a favorable outcome. 

“If that is the case,” said the Third, “I will see that you receive a monthly stipend for the boy. We have already settled the finances of the Uchiha Clan, but I would recommend you keep an eye on them. Accounting is a very sensitive matter, and some within the finance division have already proposed ideas to ensure that the funds do not remain stagnant - You should also know that the arrangements for the funeral have been concluded, and we expect it to take place on Sunday at first light — I must tell you, the Council hoped that Sasuke might say a few words, but given his state, I will do what I can to dissuade them from that idea. There is no sense in turning this matter into a spectacle.” 

Disgusted, Kakashi frowned. What kind of people would find it acceptable—let alone entertaining —to have a child Sasuke’s age and size give a speech at a funeral like this? Granted, the entire village would attend the event, and important figures such as the Fire Daimyō had also been invited—that should already be enough pageantry. More than a funeral, it was a state event designed to mask the uncertainty within the village and revitalize Konoha’s image before allies and enemies alike. And yet the Elders still looked for ways to dramatize the matter. 

“Yes, I feel the same,” acknowledged the Hokage, reading the open disgust in Kakashi’s expression. “However, I urge you to present this request to Sasuke, nonetheless. Even if not for a political reason, the boy might wish to do something for his family.” 

“I will,” Kakashi replied, more willing now to give Sasuke a place in his family’s ceremony for the right reasons. 

“Well then, I will not keep you any longer. You may go, Kakashi—but do not forget to come and bring me your reports. The conditions have changed, but you still have an active mission.” 

They fall into a quiet routine. 

In the mornings, Kakashi rises early enough to make his long, habitual visit to the cemetery and returns to the apartment just in time to prepare something for breakfast. Fish. Rice. Oatmeal. Eggs. His culinary repertoire isn’t very extensive, but Sasuke eats willingly, and each day his plates return emptier than the day before. 

Unable to do much else without risking a stumble, Sasuke sits by the window like a cat, soaking up the warmth of the sun. Without a word from him, it falls to Kakashi to do his best to fill the silence with idle, one‑sided chatter. Perhaps Sasuke doesn’t yet have the strength to reply, but that shouldn’t mean the child is condemned to be left aside. In his own way, Kakashi considers this might be helping Sasuke find the will to use his voice again—at least, the boy’s doctor had agreed with that approach. 

“Mah, Sasuke,” Kakashi whistles, impressed, seeking to lift the boy’s spirits. “Am I to believe you like tomatoes very much? You left nothing on your plate.” 

Somewhat shyly, the boy nods. The tips of his ears turn into a soft reddish shade, and Kakashi smiles with amusement. He’ll add extra tomatoes to the shopping list, though he’ll have to get a little creative when finding dishes for them. The boy’s stomach is still recovering from his time in a coma, so Kakashi has leaned toward easy‑to‑digest foods. The remnants of tomato and myoga salad look at him approvingly. 

Seeing his chance to introduce a topic neither of them is eager to discuss, Kakashi leaves the dishes in the sink and returns to sit across from the boy. Perceptive as always, Sasuke turns his attention to him. 

“Kiddo,” he calls, his tone more serious, “there’s something we need to talk about.” 

Sasuke presses his lips together, his entire frame tense. 

“You know that on Sunday we’ll have the funeral for your clan,” Kakashi continues, ignoring the way the boy shrinks slightly at his bluntness. In these past few days, the matter had been firmly set aside, but it’s already Friday, and they can’t play in ignorance much longer. “Everything is ready for it, but this is your family, and I want to know if there’s anything you would like to do that day.” 

There’s no answer for a long time — not even one of those clever little gestures Sasuke uses to make his thoughts known. The boy merely lowers his face toward the table, his expression impossible to read. 

Not for the last time, Kakashi is confronted by the fact that — even if his intentions are good — he is not the right person to deal with this child. He acknowledges that, among his flaws, Kakashi is not the best suited to teach someone how to carry their emotions. 

He tries to remember what it was like for him to face the funerals of those dearests to him. As for his father, he recalls that the matter was terribly pitiful, with so few people present at the ceremony it might as well have been only him. For Obito, his body was never recovered, so he was buried long after his death, together with a dozen others who had died in that same moment of the war. Of Rin and his sensei, he could not even speak of the weather those days — so overwhelmed had he been by loss, he believes he embarked on blurry, potentially deadly missions in a foolish attempt to numb himself as soon as the soil had settled. 

The only thing he can do for Sasuke now is walk the boy all the way to the front when the day comes. He hopes that will be enough. He wishes the day would come quickly so they can both put that sequence of events behind them. 

He does not envy the boy for what awaits him. It will be anything but a moment of intimacy and mourning. He knows that. It will be a political display, a performance of appearances, where they will make a boy parade in front of the entire village, presenting himself to those people as the last of his bloodline. 

And yet, at the very least, Kakashi truly wants Sasuke to be able to say goodbye to his family as he should. To hell with the schemes behind the funeral — no one should take that right from the boy. 

With uncertainty, Sasuke lifts a hand to his throat and opens his mouth. Kakashi thinks that all the pressure and stress are about to make the boy speak his first word in weeks— but of course, that is not the case, and Kakashi is left watching the child, already searching for how to interpret the gesture. 

“Ah,” he understands, “Words… well, they don’t have to be words. It can be anything you want.” 

Sasuke frowns, thinking. His mind is working on it, and Kakashi lets him take his time. It is Sasuke — and only Sasuke — who can make the decision about what to do. It is his family, and whatever the boy chooses, no one has the authority to contradict him. 

As if a bright idea had struck him, the boy hurriedly began to scribble with his finger on the table. Somewhat caught off guard — since Kakashi had not seen such emotion in the child before — he almost misses part of the message Sasuke is trying to convey. 

Paper.  

The boy traces the word paper.  

“You want to write to them?” He asks. 

Sasuke shakes his head emphatically. 

“All right. Let’s see — you want paper, but you don’t want to write. Did I understand that correctly?” 

Sasuke nods, and Kakashi can only imagine the moment Sasuke will finally be able to remove those bandages. As it is, he can already sense that the exasperation radiating from Sasuke would only be sharper when paired with a deadly glare. 

“Excellent. Is there a particular kind of paper you want?” 

Now, Sasuke traces another word on the table: rice.  

“Rice paper,” Kakashi repeats, somewhat confused by the request. “That’s good. Tomorrow morning I’ll buy paper at the market. Do you need anything else?” 

The boy shakes his head, retreating once more into his subdued and melancholic state. 

Kakashi is struck by an odd realization: he has not heard anything resembling a laugh from Sasuke. Nor seen a smile. Nor any sign beyond apathy. In that brief moment, Kakashi mourns for a child he never knew — and now perhaps will never truly come to know. He feels it from the deepest part of his bones — and it feels like a personal affront. 

Sasuke is intelligent and very astute. From what little he has been able to glimpse of the boy, Kakashi knows he is an incredibly skilled young one. But, with reluctance, he also remembers what the boy’s brother once had to say. About a somewhat spoiled and bossy child, but with good intentions at heart. Shyness mixed with gentleness. Intelligence and good character. A personality that was both bubbly and quiet. He does not know how much of that imagined child remains in the real one. If everything that is lost can, in truth, ever be found again. 

Not long after, sensing that the evening has already been eventful enough, Kakashi helps the boy into bed and combs through his hair with his fingers until he falls asleep. The fine strands of dark hair are like threads of silk slipping easily between his fingers. 

It is the most comforting gesture Kakashi can offer — just a touch of warmth to remind the boy that he is here, present. Sasuke does not dislike the attention, though he shows no clear signs of enjoyment either — but his breathing becomes calmer, and his face softens into that of an innocent child. 

Innocence.  

It is an entirely foreign concept in the shinobi world. There is no innocence in the children who graduate from the village; there is certainly no innocence in Sasuke. More than teaching them how to protect themselves, children like these are taught to dig beneath their own skin until they find that tiny weakness. 

It is a birth defect that must be killed before it can kill you. That might very well be the first murder they must commit in order to survive. 

Yet, when he looks at this boy, Kakashi is convinced there must still remain some minute particles of innocence within Sasuke. There must be — for how else he could explain that someone so small could trust someone like him enough to fall asleep, like the flowers that close their petals at dusk. 

In that moment, he finds himself unable to determine whether that is a good thing or a bad thing. He fears that if this journey continues, he might take drastic measures to ensure that tiny particles remain and grow. As if, through sheer determination, Kakashi could make a lost limb grow back. 

But that would be foolish, and a waste of strength. Sooner or later, if there truly is such a thing still within the boy, it will have to be lost once again. That is simply the way it must be. 

But… would it really be so bad? If it lasted only a while longer — a few years, perhaps — would that be too much? 

Perhaps Kakashi needs it more than Sasuke does. That way, he would feel that he had finally done it. That, finally, Kakashi had been able to protect someone — and had been able to save him. 

Sleep takes him unaware as his thoughts slow from coherent notes into colors and textures — yellows and blues, cotton and feathers — until words themselves dissolve. It wouldn’t be a bad thing, he thinks, with clean and calm scents, vivid and comforting. 

He does not notice when it happens, but he falls asleep with his head resting at the edge of the bed and his fingers moving in a slow, methodical back‑and‑forth. It is not the most comfortable position to sleep in, but he has had worse. 

Much, much worse. 

Early in the morning, Kakashi makes his way out of the apartment. He adjusts his shoes in the entryway and takes his satchel from beside the door. The sun is only just rising on the horizon, and Sasuke still has a long stretch of sleep ahead of him. He won’t wake up until after Kakashi has returned. 

The hallways of the building are quiet and empty. Gloomy, even. Once, Kakashi didn’t care about such details. It isn’t the finest building in the Village, but it serves the purpose of being livable. In his very frank opinion, there was no point in spending more on an apartment he barely used, and no sense in paying for unnecessary comforts. Bathroom, bedroom, kitchen. The indispensable trifecta, and more space hadn’t been worth the trouble. 

Things, however, are not the same as they were a month or two ago. And as if a switch had been flipped, Kakashi now finds himself highly critical of everything and everyone. Sooner rather than later, he’ll have to start moving them into a place less dreary and heavy. A place like this would only make things harder for the kid. Light and fresh air. The elderly ladies at the market swear that’s the remedy for any ailment, and since they know more than he does about raising children, Kakashi will heed their wisdom. 

The only remarkable point about this building is that it’s well‑situated in the center of the Village. The shops and the market are only a short walk away. 

“Good morning, young man,” greets an older lady with crooked teeth and equally crooked fingers. Dawn glows faintly behind her, but for merchants it’s never too early, and already there are a few people moving along the narrow paths, snapping up all the good products before they can run out. “Are you looking for something in particular?” 

Kakashi studies the woman’s display with interest. There is writing material of every quality—well‑made inks from the Hidden Waterfall Village, as well as a spread of papers from every Nation. 

“I was hoping to find some rice paper — do you have any you would recommend, lovely lady?” 

Properly flattered, the older woman lets out an indulgent little laugh. Flirting with elderly ladies is second nature for someone like Kakashi, who is not above charming his way into a good discount. He knows more than he lets on about merchants’ tricks, and given the sort of wares she offers, her prices must be higher than affordable. Clearly, these are luxury goods rather than necessities, and luxuries rarely come cheap. 

“Let us see, let us see.” The woman adjusts her colorful shawl over her shoulders, quite animated by her newly arrived customer. “I have a few bundles here. Are you planning to use it for something in particular, young man? This paper here comes straight from the Land of Rice — perfect for writing!” She declares, pointing at a stack of sheets at the end of the table with lively, expressive gestures—far too lively for what is still more dawn than morning. 

It certainly feels like paper of good quality. Thick and pleasant in texture. With a fleeting thought, Kakashi wonders whether this type of paper might work well for seals. “That will do,” he replies, smiling with his eyes at the woman and waiting, patient, to see if his subtle games have worked. 

Three or four stalls later, the streets are fuller, and the morning bustle has swelled into a cacophony of scattered commotion. Satisfied with his morning purchases, Kakashi retraces his steps back to his apartment—he carries with him a generous supply of tomatoes and a few other vegetables, as well as his bundles of paper acquired at a very good price. He walks at a faster pace, in no mood to be caught in the growing stream of people that thickens up by the minute. 

The Village has grown so much, and it has recovered so well after the war. Anyone seeing it now could hardly believe the desolate, hollow state it was in just a few years ago at the height of the war—and although people now walk with a certain wariness, their nerves still tender from the latest disaster, there is still life reclaiming itself day by day. 

The trees have long lives; their leaves fall, but new ones come.  

He walks with his gaze lifted to the sky, briefly enjoying the gentle wind and soft sun. The blue of the sky still holds some dark streaks, but they are insignificant against the vastness of the tinted blue. It is a good morning, which he takes as a sign of a good day. Yet despite his relaxed steps and wandering thoughts, he remains alert. He is always alert, consciously or not. In the same way that he hasn’t had a night of deep sleep in a long time, he hasn’t had a moment when he was unaware of the movements around him. 

It doesn’t surprise him, then, to recognize the figure of the man leaning against the wall beside the entrance to his building. A man of respectable height, with his hands in his pockets and a plastic bag hanging from the crook of his arm. 

“Lord Shikaku,” he greets with all the non‑ironic courtesy someone like Kakashi could offer. Though he’s well aware of the influence and positions of the Village’s Clan Leaders, Kakashi does not hold honest respect for all of them. Many of those leaders have airs of undeserved grandeur, though a select few live up to their reputations. Shikaku Nara is one of them. He is a good man and a good shinobi. “Am I to assume you are here for me?” 

Shikaku Nara smiles with a certain sharpness; his features and mannerisms tend to lean that way, and Kakashi has never seen the man wear anything else. “To some you might seem elusive, but it doesn’t take much to catch you,” Shikaku says in a calm, easy tone, answering without truly answering. “I hope you don’t take offense.” 

“Not at all, sir.” 

“How is the boy?” Lord Nara continues to ask. 

“Better, I believe,” Kakashi replies, unwilling to delve into details that, with all due respect, are not Lord Nara’s concern. He doesn’t forget that only a few nights ago, his plans had been neatly placed in the hands of Shikaku Nara’s grace and goodwill, trusting that a man of his stature would gladly intervene for the sake of the last Uchiha— but, since those moves had been discarded, there’s no reason to involve whichever Clan in the affairs of his small ward. 

“I find that his recovery has gone better than anyone could have expected, and his spirits are more than agreeable given his circumstances. From my part, you’ll hear no complaint about the boy,” he adds, deciding that, after all, it would not hurt not to be evasive. 

Quite satisfied with that answer, Lord Nara hummed, “Mhmm. That is good, of course,” he said, and although he otherwise sounded sincere, Kakashi didn’t believe Lord Nara meant to sound concerned on any level beyond simple decency. Without a doubt, for Shikaku Nara the state of Sasuke wasn’t a matter of personal interest; rather, it was the kind of care that arises from good values. 

“I am convinced that hearing this will allow my wife to stop being so restless. It has had her quite anxious, you know?” 

“She is not the only one,” Kakashi replied, well aware of the murmured gossip that floated through the streets. 

Oh, how many women raised their voices in drama and tears at the great misfortune of Sasuke. For them, it was unbearable that a child should have to live through such a thing — their worry born from a maternal and human place, so different from the detachment with which other shinobi did not hesitate to think. 

Shikaku clicked his tongue, an exaggerated gesture of disdain. “Yes, of course. But my wife… well, I suppose she used to be a friend of Mikoto Uchiha. They were not very close in recent years, but, nevertheless, she has grieved it quite deeply,” Shikaku explained while scratching the back of his neck in discomfort. “That boy worries her. Me as well, of course. He is the same age as my son, and one cannot help but think… it can’t be easy.” The man gave Kakashi a look of steel, perhaps wanting to measure whether someone like Kakashi had what it would take. 

“Here, take this.” After a few moments of silence, Shikaku offered him the bag, something dark and bulky inside. “My wife was worried about whether the boy would have something appropriate to wear tomorrow. We didn’t doubt that the Uchiha Clan surely had garments for this, but we also thought it might be too much for the boy now. In our Clan we say that mourning clothes should never be new, and my wife gathered some garments for Sasuke.” 

Somewhat taken aback, Kakashi accepted the bag. For not being new, they were certainly well cared for. Although, how many times could one wear funeral clothes in a lifetime? If Sasuke were to have a ceremony for every one of his relatives, then he would already have attended more funerals than most people ever would. 

“I appreciate your kindness, Lord Shikaku. And that of your wife as well,” he said, offering a brief bow. The truth was that Kakashi hadn’t thought much about that part of the ceremony; as far as he knew, the Council and the Hokage would see that a proper outfit was provided. But, all things considered, this might be better. Without doubt, it was a kinder gesture than anything the Elders might do, and Sasuke would benefit from any kindness he could receive. 

“I am certain Sasuke will be moved by your thoughtfulness.” 

“Nonsense,” Shikaku dismissed. “Do not think there is a debt between us for this, Kakashi. My wife and I do not do this from our place as Clan leaders. We do it as parents. If our son were ever in such a miserable position, we would want someone to look out for him. And I am sure Mikoto and Fugaku Uchiha would want the same.” 

With that said, the man straightened and started down the street, walking past Kakashi. “Take care of yourselves. You will not have an easy road.” 

Shikaku Nara departed with his back to him, a wry little smile the last glimpse Kakashi caught of the man’s face. 

In all of this ordeal, even if Shikaku Nara swore that this would not create obligations between them, Kakashi would still remember this for the future, whenever his service might be of use to the leader of the Nara Clan. 

Kakashi didn’t think of himself as a man of honor — and yet, he knew the Uchiha Clan had been one of great honor and dignity. 

The Uchiha Clan would have liked to honor this gesture.  

In his own way, he would have to pay his respects. 

Breakfast passes with the same calm sequence. Kakashi places a bowl of oatmeal with honey in front of the boy, feeling a flicker of quiet amazement, as he always does, at how effortlessly Sasuke maneuvers his utensils and bites. He would think that having his eyes bandaged would be a hindrance, but Sasuke is surprisingly capable. 

“I managed to get the rice paper,” he informs, without lifting his eyes from a very good book, but certain that the boy has already finished his breakfast. A little more than the day before — at this pace, Sasuke will soon recover the appetite befitting a boy his age. “Why don’t you go brush your teeth and then show me what it is you want to do?” 

Over the rim of his book, he follows Sasuke’s movements as the child sets his spoon aside and makes his way down the narrow hallway. He keeps an ear on the boy, knowing he hasn’t seen Sasuke stumble in his blindness, but also not taking for granted that the first time couldn’t surprise them both. 

By the time the boy returns, the kitchen table is once again clear, and the breakfast dishes are draining beside the small kitchen window. The apartment is small but comfortable, though Kakashi knows they couldn’t receive any visitors without everyone feeling boxed in. If anyone were to ask, and Kakashi were to answer honestly, he wouldn’t deny that such inconvenience had crossed his mind before signing the lease for the place. 

“Well, here you go,” Kakashi says, handing the boy the sheets of rice paper he bought at the market. Sasuke takes them, tracing the texture with his fingers and carefully running his hand along the edge of the sheet as if measuring it. Kakashi watches him closely, curious to see what the boy has planned. 

Finally, Sasuke folds the paper down the center once, then again, and again, forming small rectangles. Kakashi is surprised. “Ah,” he murmurs. “Do you want me to help you cut that?” 

Sasuke pauses and nods. He sets aside the folded paper and then takes another sheet to repeat the process. He is silent and calm. They are preparing for the funeral, and the solemnity with which the boy dedicates himself to it moves Kakashi in a devastating way. 

Kakashi is not aware of the Uchiha Clan’s own funeral rites. He suspects that the Elders of the village do not know much about them either. The funeral has been arranged to be simple and standard, like the ceremonies of any other shinobi. But Clans are complicated, and they tend to carry their own customs for such matters, as Shikaku Nara had mentioned in passing. They are old, deep‑rooted traditions; many of them passed along the vine of the Clans. 

It’s just that now there is no one from the Uchiha Clan left to take care of it, and Sasuke is so small that Kakashi wonders how much the boy even knows about his family’s funeral traditions — how much he knows about anything concerning them and their legacy. Had his parents managed to teach him all they could have? The techniques, the stories, the small things so deeply rooted that Sasuke may not even know they are there. How much truly dies with the Clan, and how much of the Clan remains for this boy to pass on? No one can know. 

In any case, Sasuke has every right to bring what he can of his family and say goodbye to them in the way he believes is right. The scraps and fragments can be pieced together into something. 

“Are you going to burn them?” Kakashi asks after having already cut a good number of sheets. The papers pile up to one side, white and simple. He imagines, from what is known of the Uchiha Clan, that it wouldn’t be unusual for them to use fire in their traditions — the majority of the Uchiha had an affinity for fire in their chakra, famously known for their eyes and famously known for their fire‑style ninjutsu. 

Sasuke nods without pausing to give another fold to a sheet of paper. 

“Is this… something they used to do?” He asks next, unable to hold back a touch of curiosity. 

The boy presses his lips together, seeming to hesitate about something. At last, he nods, and Kakashi lets it be. He notices the pain — it’s impossible not to. It must be difficult for Sasuke to hear his family spoken of in the past tense, just as it must be difficult for him to fold those papers on his own. Perhaps his mother once did this with him, or his father spoke to him about it. If there is any truth in those suppositions, Kakashi sees no need to know it now. Another day, perhaps. 

In the end, Sasuke gathers all the little pieces of paper he created and counts them. He discards a few, and Kakashi counts one hundred and nineteen in the end. Sasuke has counted three times, and still the extra paper remains. Kakashi does not know who it is for.  

One hundred and eighteen were killed, and one hundred and eighteen will be given burial. 

So, who is that extra paper for? 

Is it perhaps for Itachi? Perhaps for Sasuke himself? Kakashi feels the answer is something far too private, something he should leave alone and not pry into. 

He pretends not to notice that detail and hands Sasuke a length of cord so he can tie his offerings. It is private; they are not his dead, and Kakashi will not question the boy about his mourning, no matter for whom or why. 

There is silence — peaceful and unbroken. Kakashi has discovered that life passes in moments like these, that stretch and happen. He does not know if it is the right way, if there is another path for people like them. He imagines there must be. But calm and silence are not inherently bad, and when one’s insides churn with a whirlwind of furious winds, a measured exterior is a relief. 

He looks out the window, over Sasuke’s small head. There is not a single gray cloud in the blue sky, and not a single sign of searing sadness on the horizon. Life is not like the sappy novels he reads. There is no rain to set the tone for mourning, and there is no darkness to mask the sadness. What there is are clear skies and bright suns — there are nights with twinkling stars and afternoons painted with the most beautiful colors to witness. 

“Sasuke,” he calls for the boy’s attention, and takes quiet joy in the fact that the child does not startle or find it odd. They are no longer such strangers as they were at the beginning — perhaps they never truly were. “Is there anything else you would like to do?” 

The boy stretches his hand across the table, a finger poised to trace the wood. His nails are already looking a little long, and Kakashi notes that detail for another afternoon. He follows the movement of the small hand, and, in the end, he smiles just a little. He already imagined what it would be. 

There is not a single sign of rain, nor is there anywhere to seek refuge from the rising sun. But it does not burn, nor does it scorch. It falls softly upon them, like a pleasant blanket. It is early enough that the morning dew dampens the hems of their trousers, and night and day can still be seen sharing the horizons. 

Ahead rises an opulent row of white flowers, perfect and beautiful. There are no photographs. One hundred and eighteen would have been far too many — they would have turned the event from beautiful to unbearable. The goal of this is not to magnify what is ugly, but to rekindle the spirits of the living at the expense of the dead. It is about closing a chapter that is far too bloody, one better forgotten with a dazzling ending. 

And the flowers are beautiful, arranged in heaps before everyone. Chrysanthemums, cosmos, and irises. Some white roses as well. Kakashi imagines that only on the flowers must the entirety of Lady Koharu’s and Lord Homura’s budget have been spent. On a table rests the crest of the Uchiha Clan, standing out in the sea of white — and below, on the ground, a brazier burns with lively, playful flames that sway slowly with the morning. 

It is an enormous event, on the scale of a Kage’s funeral. At the front of the crowd, the Hokage himself and the Council kneel in a gesture of solemnity, with the Fire Daimyō beside them. On Kakashi’s and Sasuke’s side stand other figures, less prominent but still important. Clan Leaders, a few leaders of allied Villages, and some renowned shinobi. To the left, the rest of the Village’s population keeps their heads bowed, and Kakashi hears murmurs rising from them. 

They are prayers. 

They are not loud or overwhelming. 

Though they make everything more real. 

He observes how, from the center, along the path that has been cleared, the Academy children walk in a line with their teachers. Their small hands hold white camellias, heavy with petals, and, one by one, they come forward and place the flowers on the table. So many pile up that a few falls from the table and land in the brazier. They smell sweet, woody—putrid, metallic. It is an aroma difficult to describe, and somehow so fitting. 

Sasuke presses a little closer to him, one hand clutching the edge of Kakashi’s clothes. He glances down at him and lets him be. The dark clothing highlights his sickly pale skin and does little to disguise his still-convalescent state. But it suits him, though slightly loose — for them to not be new the fabric is well cared for, and a few stitched threads reveal the adjustments that Lady Nara surely made. 

The last of the children makes his offering and, like the others, disperses back into the crowd. The bandages over Sasuke’s eyes prevent him from seeing; it is an ironic kindness that this child does not have to watch his classmates return to their families. For the other children of the Village, this moment is only a second, just an instant of respect before returning to the embrace of their parents and families. The kind of comfort Sasuke now lacks. 

Seeing it would have hurt.  

It would have burned. 

But it does not burn now — though it will. It is inevitable. 

At the front, Lord Third stands and begins, his voice as firm as ever: 

“Beloved people of Konoha, we are here to remember and honor not only our comrades, but also our friends and family. Regardless of the circumstances or the moment, you must have no doubt that the Uchiha Clan remained proud and upright until the very end. Those who held bonds with them stronger than camaraderie, take comfort in that. Their deaths are painful for all of us, and without doubt, their absence will be something we will always remember. 

Carry these honorable people with you and allow their deaths to touch you. Let us not allow the hatred and malice of what occurred to cloud our integrity and our memory. As a Village, we must hold firm and show the other nations that, even if the greenest leaves may fall, that is not their end. Those leaves that fall and touch the earth do not leave; they simply nourish the roots and drive them toward a new tomorrow. 

Turn suffering and hatred into fire and let us continue fighting together. In my heart there is no doubt that the Uchiha Clan burned with the greatest intensity, and that, as a founding part of our Village, their will has imbued each and every one of us. May that will persist in these dark times and may the fire of their courage remind us of the love and happiness for the future. The will of fire that they have passed on to us must survive.” 

Just for a moment at the end of his speech, the Hokage’s gaze turned in their direction. It must survive. The wishes, the dreams, every family and every future of what might have been has been undone. But Sasuke is still here as the last of his kind. As long as this boy survives, the Uchiha Clan will remain present for everyone. They will not be able to forget it; they will not be able to ignore it. This boy, who carries one hundred and eighteen ghosts on his back will be the horrifying reminder of what happened. 

Sasuke is the keeper of his family. The gravedigger. Guardian and custodian, as well as a living legacy. He is all the stories he will never hear, and all the names he will never use. He has every face — childlike, mature, and aged. He is the future, but he is also the past. In Sasuke, every lost life converges to form a new one. 

Kakashi does not envy his burden. It is heavy. As suffocating as the earth over a coffin. 

Understanding the moment, Kakashi places a hand on the boy’s shoulder and gently urges him to take a step forward. Sasuke hugs his bundle of papers with one arm and, with short but steady steps, makes his way toward the front. Kakashi follows a few paces behind, giving him the chance to make that walk on his own — but not alone. 

The warmth of the flame guides Sasuke, like a moth. The fire must be familiar to him, the scent of ash and the heat of flames. He must feel it as something. Love. Family. Union. 

He feels the weight of the Elders’ watchful eyes. He even catches the faint, almost amused glint on the Feudal Lord’s face. Kakashi forgets them and stops one step behind the boy. 

The fire is intense, but Sasuke does not step back from it—the flames lick the edges of his clothing and paint his face in the colors of dawn. For a foolish, fleeting moment, Kakashi thinks the fire grows stronger — that it feeds on something. It’s only an illusion of the wind, a trick of shifting light. But in moments like these, accidents do not exist, and the naïve thought is not dismissed — the thought that Sasuke, somehow, like his family’s crest, feeds the fire and makes it stronger. 

Without fanfare, Sasuke lets one of the papers fall into the flames. 

One by one, one hundred and eighteen pieces of paper drop into the fire and burn, charred slivers of ash rising into the air and filling the space with something harsh. They burn quickly. They are not made to last, for they are not meant for the living to enjoy. They are offerings to the dead. 

And if this gesture proves unsatisfying to those present — if it fails to meet their expectations of spectacle and performance — that is the very least of Kakashi’s concerns. 

Do they wish to honor the Will of Fire of the Uchiha Clan? Here it is. Here it stands. It is this wounded boy. This is the will of the Uchiha Clan. Small, solitary, but no less bright. 

When the final paper remains between Sasuke’s fingers, it flutters once in the wind —delicate, stubborn, almost reluctant to leave. Then, with a small movement, that one, too, goes into the fire. 

Chapter Text

Sasuke’s hands are cold, so cold he can barely feel them.  

Hospitals are cold. Sasuke finds it unpleasant – not that there are many things he finds pleasant these days. Although, to be fair, he does not think much about anything right now. His days drift by in the same contemplative haze, as if he were floating in a lake, gently rocked from side to side by the ripples around him. Still, he makes a mental note to acknowledge the hospital staff — the people here are kind, and that makes the whole situation more bearable. Or so he thinks.  

With the hospital’s chill numbing his fingers, Sasuke tucks his hands beneath his thighs. He does not know when he started swinging his legs in such a childish gesture, but he stops the moment he realizes it. He sits up a bit straighter and waits for the doctor to return soon. He is a big boy now; he must behave like one. Even if the boredom is enough to make him miserable.  

All around him there is a lot of movement, hustle and bustle. It is a silent bustle. Easy to ignore, but with his sight blinded, he finds that in the last few days he has begun to rely more on his other senses. It's not as if his ears have become superhumanly sharpened, but he is more sensitive to his surroundings. Thus, the muffled footsteps outside the room are audible to him with the door closed, as is the quiet breathing of Mr. Hound.   

Mr. Hound is... pleasant. He's not very talkative, but he's not that quiet either. For someone who specializes in high stealth missions, Hound is somewhat different from what Sasuke thought of other ANBU. He's not scary, nor is he cold.  

Sometimes Sasuke wants to say something to Mister Hound. A greeting, a thank you. Anything. It is just that every time the thought comes, his throat tightens and he cannot do it. He just cannot. As embarrassing as it is to admit, Sasuke is afraid. So much time alone with his thoughts has made him realize things. He recognizes the sting of fear that clings to him when he wakes.  

He is terrified of losing these peaceful days.  

There is a part of him that constantly questions whether this is real. Whether what he is experiencing is actually happening, or if it is just another, more elaborate illusion. And if Sasuke opens his mouth and says anything, there is a very real chance that, if this is a trick, it could all turn against him. Just imagining that is enough to make his heartbeat thunder in his ears and his breathing turn frantic.  

He digs his nails into his palms.  

Even pain is not something he can fully trust. He—his—Itachi also knew how to replicate that, he remembers. Itachi knew how to make pain feel as real as air. But still, he digs his nails into his skin and grounds himself, because otherwise he is going to drift away again into his own mind, and that is an even worse place to be.  

It is easy for Sasuke to get lost.  

These days, there is not much he can do except sit under a window and meditate. The warmth of the sun on his head, the light that comes through the window, brings him comfort. It no longer hurts, his eyes no longer feel like burning spheres. He can spend time there listening to the sounds of the street below, to Mister Hound moving around the room. But if he lets his guard down for even a second, time slips away and minutes turn into hours in an instant. It is a disturbing feeling to realize that moments of his day have vanished, lost to memories of all that has happened.  

He suspects that Hound has noticed this, because when he starts to drift into that space, Mister Hound calls him back. Hound makes silly conversation. He is bad at it, but Sasuke appreciates the gesture, nonetheless. It is clear to him that Hound is not very good at talking or anything particularly social — in that, Sasuke relates. He is not good at that either. Connecting with others outside of his family, even children his own age, is a skill Sasuke lacks. Too withdrawn, too introverted. Sasuke is aware of this — as the second son of the main family, his father wanted — used to want — him to facilitate relationships outside the Clan. But Sasuke is not good at that. In fact, Sasuke does not have any friends.  

He does not have friends, and it is not like he ever wanted them before. He definitely does not want them now, and he is glad to have a break from the Academy under the guise of recovery. He has never really felt like the other children in his class. They are so childish, and Sasuke feels strange around them. Compared to them, Sasuke might be the one who takes Academy classes the most seriously. He does not hate them, though. At least his group assignment grades show he can work well with others and complete a task successfully. But he has no idea how he could even share the same space with them now. If they were so different before, now... Sasuke feels like an even more broken doll, even more defective.  

Itachi’s last words returned to torment him. They circle through his thoughts at all hours, and he does not know what to do with them.  

“Something tells me your doctor will have good news for us, kid,” says Hound, effectively snapping Sasuke out of it. “Maybe today is the day those bandages come off.”  

Tentatively, Sasuke brings a hand up to the bandages. They are clean and soft. Just this morning, Mister Hound helped him change them. Mister Hound does many things for Sasuke. He cooks for him and fixes his hair. He helps him adjust his clothes and dries his hair after a bath. At first, Sasuke felt uncomfortable with all that attention, too unnerved by the warm, living hands. The cold touch of his parents’ skin is hard to forget, and he misses it. But the warmth of another human being is something Sasuke missed too, and if he cannot have his parents' touch again, then he will settle for what he can have now.  

And now Sasuke has warm meals and soft baths. He has thick clothes and heavy blankets. He has no idea where Mister Hound gets so many clothes. He thinks they might have belonged to Mister Hound at some point. Sometimes the shirts hang down to his knees, other times they fit just right. Maybe Mrs. Nara has sent more things to Mister Hound, though Sasuke doubts it. Hound would have said something if that were the case. It does not matter. Sasuke really does not care. As long as he has something to wear and something to eat, he will not complain. He has caused Mister Hound enough trouble already, and Sasuke does what he can not to be a further burden.  

He is warm, and that is the most important thing of all. He constantly feels cold, and he seeks warmth wherever he can find it.  

He never thought there would be a day when feeling the sun on his head would bring such pleasure. But he also never thought he would depend on the kindness of a stranger. Except that Mister Hound is not exactly a stranger — calling him that feels disrespectful.  

He presses his lips together, wondering what his father would have thought about Hound. Sasuke had always cared about his father’s opinion—he is—was the most incredible man Sasuke could imagine. Strong, and the very image of a Clan leader. Still, Sasuke does not know what his father would have said if he saw him depending on someone outside the family. In the end, Sasuke knew very little about his father—nothing that could tell him what would have made him proud.  

Before the door even opens, Sasuke recognizes the footsteps that stop in front of it. “I apologize for the delay. We’re in the middle of training season, and we’re a bit short-staffed at the moment,” announces the voice of his doctor — Doctor Ikebuki — as she enters. Her steps sound soft, with just a sharp click against the floor. “Fortunately, today is a day of good news—and good news takes less time than bad,” she says. Sasuke imagines a smile on an older face, one that matches the lightness in her voice and words.  “Your blood tests are within the expected range for your age. You’ve been recovering well, Sasuke, though I would recommend adding some iron-rich foods to your meals—your chakra flow got quite scrambled. But here’s another piece of good news: your chakra levels have finally stabilized, and there are no longer any strange disturbances in your eyes. Tell me, have you felt any pain in them these past few days?”  

Sasuke shakes his head.  

The first few days? Painful.  

After leaving the hospital? Exhausting discomfort.  

Now? At most, the bandages itch a little, but his eyes do not feel hot or irritated. His eyes are the least of his pains — but the only one that can be treated.  

“Amazing,” the doctor praises. “If that’s the case—well, would you let me remove those bandages and take a closer look?” she asks, as if she were actually giving him a choice. Sasuke knows she is kind, and that, in truth, adults will do as they wish, and there is not much Sasuke could do to resist if he refused.  

Luckily for everyone, Sasuke is eager to be free of the bandages, so it is not dishonest when he nods in agreement, shifting at the edge of the hospital bed with restrained excitement.  

Doctor Ikebuki takes a few steps toward him, her gloved hands gently touching his cheeks to lift his face, and in slow, careful movements, she begins removing the bandages. “Stop me if you feel any discomfort,” she says. “Your eyes might be a bit sensitive,” she warns, peeling back the first layer of cloth.  

With every turn of the bandage, orange light seeps through. The light on the other side feels so close, and Sasuke clutches the bedsheets beneath his fingers, tense. As silly as it might seem—and Sasuke does not think of himself as silly—he is afraid of what he will see on the other side. As if he might not remember the world—or worse, the world might not remember him—condemning him to exist as some strange entity with no place to stand.  

“All right,” the doctor steps back, the sound of her heel tapping against the tile. 
“When you’re ready, you can open your eyes. Take it slow.” 

Ready? Hesitantly, he opens his eyes little by little. His eyelids feel heavy - opening them takes effort.  It feels like waking from a long night. He blinks.  

The world that greets him is not red and black, orange and white. It is not what Sasuke remembers—those macabre illusions—and a sharp sting pierces his chest. It is more than he can process. There is... there is brown on the floor and lilac on the walls. There is yellow on a table and blue beneath his fingers.  

He swings his feet and blinks again and again, mesmerized by seeing his own limbs move without touching the ground. They dangle from the edge of the bed, and Sasuke breathes in, overwhelmed by how different it feels. It is so precious. So whole. He admits his eyes sting a little, dazzled to have his sight back. He blinks quickly, trying to adjust as fast as he can. After so many days submerged in darkness, he had forgotten what color and light even were. Even the walls, painted a soft lilac, fascinate him in the way they reflect the sunlight from the window behind him, and the shadows cast by the furniture.  

The doctor’s face is the first to greet him. Her features are sharp, her hair brown peppered with white. She looks like a stern woman—and at the same time, compassionate. Just as her voice had led Sasuke to imagine. And she looks alive, full of color from head to toe. Not shadowy or bloodstained. Alive. With the texture of age in her skin, and a discernible glint in her eyes behind her glasses. She wears a small expression that lifts the corners of her lips into something barely visible—a smile. 
At Sasuke. 

It feels strange—foreign to him. As if Sasuke had forgotten what it was like to interact with another living being. How long had Sasuke spent in that illusionary world? Could he even say that it was truly over?  

A pang of dread rises in him at the thought that this too might be taken away.  

Like the bodies of his parents.  

Like his brother’s love.  

Like his safety.  

Like his voice.  

A world full of shapes and colors and sensations.  It would shatter his soul if he – Itachi - his brother, took this away too.  

“Sasuke, how does it feel?” the doctor asks, assessing him now with a more critical and urgent gaze. He had been staring at her, unresponsive. She is worried.  

He opens his mouth, answers caught somewhere in between. He cannot. Not yet. No. He will not risk it. Not now. He is not ready to test this world that feels so real. And so alive. So full of something that his - that he - that Itachi should not be able to replicate. If he loses this now, if this is taken from him too, he will die. He will die. He would not be able to bear it — his mind, his soul would not survive.  

Maybe that would not be so bad.  

Maybe that would be better than having to live with this fear in every breath, in every heartbeat. Constantly on edge, fearing the tiniest misstep that could shatter his reality all over again.  

Maybe —  

“Hey, kid—can you see my fingers? Show me how many you see.”  

A face appears in front of him, along with a man with white hair and a mask over half his face. The man smiles, and his eye crinkles. It’s strange. Sasuke hadn’t imagined Hound would be someone like this man. He looks much younger than Sasuke had assumed, and much weirder than his imagination could have come up with. Why does he wear his hair like that? Why does he cover one eye with his forehead protector? And what is with that mask? 
But this man is Hound. Sasuke has memorized the sound of Hound’s voice. 

It is a somewhat serious voice, though it does what it can to be light. It’s deep, but not too much. A little like how Sasuke remembers cousin Shisui.  

Somewhat disconcerted by this revelation, Sasuke lifts a hand and mimics the man’s gesture of three fingers. That makes Hound smile even more.  

“I think that gives us a good sign, don’t you think, Doctor?” Hound directs his question to the woman beside him, who had stepped aside to make room for the man.  

The doctor sighs, the gesture accentuating the age lines on her face. “Don’t jump to conclusions, Hatake-san.”  

Hatake. 

 Of course, Hound couldn’t be a real name. Sasuke isn’t dumb enough to believe that—he understood from the beginning that Hound must only be a nickname for the ANBU, given by the hospital staff. But Hound is not in ANBU attire now, so it would be ridiculous and irresponsible for the doctor to refer to the man that way. Still, there’s no doubt that Hound and Hatake are one and the same.  

ANBU is a secretive organization; the identities of its members are among the Nation’s most closely guarded secrets. Those who act in detriment to that secrecy are considered traitors to the Village. The doctor is simply behaving as any shinobi should when made aware of sensitive information.  

Realizing that his train of thought has taken him into a textbook-style mental rant, Sasuke lowers his head, feeling his ears heat up. He had read a lot about the ANBU some time ago—and had also harassed Iruka-sensei with endless questions about it between classes. Even his classmates must have found his curiosity annoying.  

“Ah,” Mr. Hatake snorted, and focused his attention back on Sasuke. With one eye, the man had read him right, for the next thing he said was, "I guess introductions are in order, eh, Sasuke-boy? I'm afraid they've taken so long, I hope you can forgive me for that. My name is Hatake Kakashi, though I'm sure you must remember me in... another way. It’s a pleasure that we can finally see each other.” at the end, the man winked, kind of like they were both keepers of secrets.  

“You—you’re saying you hadn’t told the kid your name before? You shinobi are something else,” exclaims the doctor, with such emphasis that it’s clear shinobi was not the word she wanted to use. Maybe ANBU . Or maybe something more degrading. Her expression even turns sour, the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes deepening.  

“Doctor, doctor. I just wanted it to be something special—was it special, Sasuke?”  

And something surprising happens. It is only proof of how surreal everything feels.  

Sasuke laughs—a short and quiet sound that does not mutilate his throat. 
It is not a word, not a phrase. It is just a sound, so worn and poorly made it can hardly be called a laugh. But with a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, what else could it be called? 

So many silly jokes and fleeting comments—Hound had never been able to make him smile like Mister Hatake now. He had offered him comfort. He had offered him something like peace. Mister Hatake looks little like the figure Sasuke had imagined. He is not an all-powerful and terrifying shadow. He is a young man, with something heavy in his step.  

Sasuke had felt like he had forgotten how to create happiness. His laugh feels so strange to him—a cursed sound.  

It is short and brief.   

Light and weak.  

It is genuine, to the point of filling his lungs with new and pure air—none of that sadness. None of that anguish.  

Sasuke does not like hospitals. They are cold and full of noise. But he discovers there are certain things he does like.  

He likes the practicality of the hospital staff. Everything they do has a purpose, and they do not stop getting distracted by pageantry or nonsense. The doctors are direct. The nurses are honest. The food is not that bad either — if somewhat bland.  

Also, it is an interesting place.  

The medical field is hardly explored at the Academy, and Sasuke had never met so many medical shinobi in his life until now. It is fascinating. Sasuke does not consider himself the kind of person who is hungry for knowledge—but he recognizes when something is useful. And medical ninjutsu is, by far, the most useful thing he can think of.  

If maybe he had known some medical ninjutsu... He wonders if that would have made any difference. In any way.  

When Doctor Ikebuki pulls her chakra away from him, Sasuke keeps his attention on her hands. The green glow recedes back into her gently. It is a pleasant color, and an equally pleasant sensation. His eyes feel different, more relaxed. The headache from being exposed to light again vanishes along with the doctor’s chakra.  

Doctor Ikebuki cannot ignore the attention Sasuke gives her—the intense look of a boy hungry with interest. “Have you ever seen a shinobi use medical ninjutsu before, Sasuke?”  

Sasuke shakes his head, retracting his eyes toward the doctor’s face. In a corner of the room, leaning loosely, is Mister Hatake with his gaze absorbed in a pocketbook. Sasuke knows the man is paying more attention to them than to the words on the page — he hasn’t heard him turn a single one since the doctor began examining his eyes.  

“There really aren’t many people in the village who know how to use medical ninjutsu — Here, follow my finger,” the doctor explains, not stopping with her tests. “You must have heard of Princess Tsunade. She taught many courses during the last war, although not everyone managed to learn the more complex healing techniques. It’s difficult, and it requires a particular set of aptitudes to do it correctly. My skills are nowhere near the excellence and mastery of Princess Tsunade.”  

Following the doctor’s movements, Sasuke’s eyes go from right to left, up and down. The task makes him turn his head, turning a simple exercise into a physically exhausting challenge.  

Princess Tsunade.  

 Sasuke would not say he was intimately familiar with her. He knew a few of her stories— her feats had marked not only the last great war, but the one before that as well. But in truth, there was not much Sasuke knew about her or her equally legendary companions. Although now, his interest in the lady begins to take shape. With Doctor Ikebuki being so competent and skilled, for her to say she’s not even close to Tsunade’s level... Sasuke imagines what kind of things the woman could do. Could her abilities heal every illness? Could Princess Tsunade mend broken bones just by touching them?  

Could she bring back the dead?  

The question, without a doubt, is dangerous.  

 Not many days have passed since Sasuke attended the ceremony for his Clan, and he knows firsthand that his people hold great respect for the dead. Sasuke knows—because it was instilled in him—that for the Uchiha, honoring the lives of their dead is of great importance. If they are not given a proper farewell, their souls cannot find peace and are condemned to remain in the earthly realm, in invisible and painful existences. Sasuke, however, does not know what all the steps for that farewell are—and he worries he has not done enough.  

He could not even protect them. And he could not even give them a proper burial? What a failure of a son he would be. But… if a part of their soul is still here, could that be enough to bring them back?  

Sasuke pulls away from those thoughts forcefully, knowing his mother would have scolded him for having such dark ideas.  

Nothing that death can take was ever his to begin with. Everyone has a time limit—they live on borrowed seconds and must spend them with intensity while they can. Even fire must consume itself. And what is gone can only be mourned and loved.  

So, Sasuke refuses to entertain ideas like those. Who is he to take children away from death? Who is he to disrespect his Clan that way?  

Death is not his enemy. Death is not that creature of dark and biting jaws.  

She is a mother who waits for all her children and receives them equally. Some, death must greet with firm words — like a disappointed but compassionate mother. Others, she sings lullabies to soothe their fears.  

Sasuke was taught to see death with respect, not with fear, hatred, or resentment. It is a natural step, a path to a new adventure that the dead must walk and the living must honor. And nowadays, all Sasuke has is what he has been taught. If for a single moment he lets himself be swept away by thoughts like those, then he is lost.  

He is lost. He becomes a heretic. Everything his Clan was — even the things he does not know — vanishes, and he becomes nothing. He does not understand why he is the only one left; he does not understand how things came to that end. 
But he does not need to understand—he only needs to play his part. He must keep his family in his thoughts and pray for them from time to time. He must burn paper on their birthdays and every important date. 

He must.  

He must.  

Steady in the face of the storm, and brave before uncertainty.  

He cannot be a whiny child.  

He throws himself with renewed enthusiasm into continuing the doctor’s tests. They do color tests and reading. They make him walk around the room and spin in circles. Although the doctor explains the reasons behind each test, Sasuke only understands parts, lost in how one thing connects to the other. He can see Mister Hatake hiding his amusement behind the cover of his book while Sasuke acts silly around the room.  

But Sasuke does not complain, even as tiredness creeps up little by little. His chakra levels have already begun to settle, but the residue of that instability still drains his strength.  

“Well, that would be all, Sasuke,” announces the doctor, sounding in a good mood with whatever conclusion she has come to. Sasuke, for his part, returns to his place on the bed, satisfied that it is over. “Your vision has almost fully recovered. You had some trouble with the visual acuity test, but I wouldn’t want to jump to conclusions too soon. We’ll repeat some of these tests at your next appointment, understood?”  

“Is there anything in particular we should be worried about, Doctor?” Mister Hatake closes his little book, and the snap echoes sharply in the room.  

The doctor pauses to consider, with a thoughtful expression.  

 “I wouldn’t call it a concern,” she says. “Sasuke had some difficulty focusing at short distances, and from what I’ve seen in his family medical records, that’s not an uncommon condition within the Uchiha Clan. My recommendation, however, would be to seek some visual support if the problem persists.”  

“Like glasses?” asks Mister Hatake, sounding just as surprised as Sasuke feels. An Uchiha with glasses? They, who have one of the most envied visual techniques. Not even the oldest people in his Clan ever used anything like that.  

“Glasses, yes.” The doctor clicked her tongue, exasperated. “Don’t act like that. It’s not even something you would have to use all the time. And it’s not definitive either. You’re still adjusting to having your sight back, Sasuke, so your results today are by no means conclusive. Give it a few days to get used to it, and at your next appointment, we’ll talk about it a bit more, alright? For now, rest and take it easy. Don’t strain your eyes too much, okay?”  

Sasuke nods, and just like last time, extends his hand, somehow hoping to thank the doctor for her time. Good manners, he reminds himself. The children his mother raised are not rude or ungrateful. Sasuke rarely took his mother’s scoldings about the importance of being polite very seriously — but for her, Sasuke wants to be the son she hoped for.  

Wherever she is now, may she not worry about what her son is doing.  

“You want to thank me?” asks the doctor, to which Sasuke nods again. The woman sighs, something like affection in it. “You’re quite the case,” she says softly. “Would you let me teach you something?”  

Intrigued, Sasuke nods again and waits, expectant.  

A medical trick? Some shinobi secret?  

If the doctor wants to tell him, then Sasuke is ready to listen.  

With clear and precise movements, Doctor Ikebuki brings her right arm to the level of her abdomen, the back of her hand facing up and her fingers pointing to the left. Her other hand positions above the right, fingers pointing at Sasuke. The right arm remains fixed, while the left rises to chin level.  

Sasuke watches it all with fixed attention, though no less confused.  

“Thank you,” says the doctor. “That’s how you say thank you in sign language,” she explains kindly, not wanting to be rude or cruel — and unknowingly, giving Sasuke something more than gestures and signs. “Your turn, Try it.”  

With wide eyes and excitement filling his head, Sasuke tries to imitate the doctor’s movements, putting enthusiasm into each step. This feels so incredible, so wonderful. It is like discovering a new delicious flavor of ice cream, or an unexpected birthday gift.  

This new discovery — new for Sasuke — translates to him as strength and conviction. Renewed, or recovered, confidence.  

His chest warms with a thousand little spark sticks.  

Maybe the doctor doesn’t know it.  

Maybe she does. But this—this is a balm for his wounds. Just as comforting as warm blankets or his mother’s hugs.  

“Good,” praises the doctor, wholeheartedly approving Sasuke’s enthusiasm. 
Her eyes, however, soften into something different from her usual patience and tact. Something firmer. “Listen, Sasuke. You’re a very smart child, and you’ve been through something indescribable. I would love to tell you that you have all the time in the world to heal—I really would like to tell you that. But the truth is that nothing is that easy in this shinobi world. One day, I know you will find the strength to speak again. But until then, do not shut yourself away. Do not let them ignore you. Take everything you can to keep moving forward, understood? Make yourself heard. You’ve done very well so far, and now you must go further. You are a fighter. You are a survivor. And I believe you are a good boy. Someday, I would like to see you stronger than you are. And maybe—hear you thank me with your own voice. But these can be your words too, and none of that makes you a sick or broken child. Only you can define what you are, Sasuke.” 

The doctor reaches into one of the pockets of her coat and hands him a pamphlet as an offering.  

 Her smile is warm, and Sasuke is tempted to return the gesture.  

 It is like taking off the blindfold again — everything shines, everything fills with color. But the glow goes even further, and the color seeps into everything.  

His throat tightens — his voice is still trapped. So many things locked up with no way out, scratching at him from the inside with sharp, poisonous nails. But it is less restrictive than before, and he does not drown in it — in the millions of thoughts, dark and agonizing.  

A survivor sounds better in the doctor’s words than in Sasuke’s thoughts. In the way she says it, the word is gentle, an echo of better things to come. It doesn't sound quite like a curse, but something else entirely that Sasuke is not yet ready to understand.  

Sasuke knows immediately that Mister Hatake is not taking them back to wherever it is they had been staying these past few days. He has his suspicions as they leave the hospital, but only confirms them the farther they walk from the village center. It is true that Sasuke barely had a vague idea of where they had been, but that vague idea is not as empty as it might seem. From what Sasuke had gathered, he knew they must have been in an apartment—he remembers going up and down stairs—and that it must have been somewhere close to the hustle of the civilian population, because at all hours of the day he could hear, from the window, the unmistakable movement of people below.  

With every step they take farther from that direction, Sasuke wonders—and, unable to hold back his curiosity any longer, he taps Mister Hatake’s shoulder, prompting him to look at him. Mister Hatake is carrying him in his arms—Sasuke sees no need to fuss about it. In this position, he does not have to worry about walking carefully while reading through the pamphlet the doctor gave him.  

When Mister Hatake looks at him, Sasuke does what he can to convey all his curiosity through his gaze, not really knowing how to ask his question with his limited tools. More than ever, he wants to return to the hospital as soon as possible and look into the courses mentioned in the pamphlet about sign language. While the paper has examples and clear explanations of certain words and phrases, none of them teach him how to ask the kind of question Sasuke has.  

“Yes?” asks Mister Hatake, with an intense look. Sasuke taps his shoulder again and shifts his eyes toward the road, as if saying: Where are you taking me? If Sasuke did not know better, he would think Mister Hatake is taking him to the Uchiha complex—but for that, they would have had to take a different route many streets ago, to go to the opposite side of the village.  

“Ah,” murmurs Mister Hatake, continuing at the same calm pace but bringing a hand to Sasuke’s back to support him. “You want to know where we’re going?” he asks, with a hint of amusement, but not mean-spirited.  

Sasuke nods firmly and only makes half a pout. Just half.  

“Would it be all right if we leave it as a surprise for now?” asks Mr. Hatake affably, a chuckle tinkling in his eye. "I promise we're not going anywhere nefarious. I think you might like it, actually."  

Sasuke frowns slightly but decides to return to his very interesting reading, choosing to trust the ANBU’s judgment for now. If he turns out to be wrong, Sasuke will simply be merciful and not tease him outright.  

“You got really excited about that, huh?” Mister Hatake at times reads along with Sasuke, and he too seems to find it interesting.  

Sasuke nods, and seeing a good opportunity, raises his right hand in a fist to the height of his nose and mimics stretching it outward. Good. It is a short response, but for now it works better than staring at Mister Hatake and hoping the man understands the meaning behind his eyes.  

"Yeah, it's definitely good. A little better than good, I'd say. A lot of shinobi use signs when they're on missions, I use some myself now and then - I think learning this will be good for you in a lot of ways, kiddo."  

If Sasuke wasn't already excited, then this would have made him ecstatic. He thought he might be shaking with emotion. Could something like this really be this useful to him? Could he be an ANBU as Hound? Just imagining it... Sasuke vowed to himself to learn everything he could and then he could be one of those super mysterious and cool ANBU's protecting the Village in the shadows. He almost sounded like a kid his age, and even though he was genuine in his imaginings, something still kept Sasuke from being able to fully sink into that world of silly fantasies.  

Sensing one of those moments of unease, Sasuke turned his attention to their surroundings. They were farther from the commercial and civilian areas of the village, but not so far as to be near the outskirts. The area was slightly familiar to Sasuke, though he had definitely only come here a handful of times. But Sasuke knew that his Clan used to live around here before he was born — along with many of the other important Clans in the village. Sometimes, the oldest members of his family — whose memories were already beginning to blur — would come here unknowingly, hoping to find their homes and neighbors. And Sasuke or anyone else would come for them to bring them back home. Not a particularly nice memory, it always hurt Sasuke a little to see that look of confused and cloudy eyes.  

The streets were getting longer, with high walls meant to keep the curious eyes of occasional passersby from interfering in private matters. Clan matters. Sasuke felt something strange about being here — something… unpleasant. He would not find anything of his Clan in these parts, and that is precisely what gave him that invisible itch. After the Nine-Tailed Fox’s attack, many parts of the village suffered enormous damage, which led to widespread reconstruction. The Uchiha Clan, given its size and prominence, was moved to a larger and more private area, and what had once been their grounds was distributed among the other Clans.  

That was the explanation he – his - Itachi had given him once, when Sasuke had come with one of his many obvious questions.  

But his family had lived in these parts for many years—since the village was founded. When Sasuke was even younger, he could not imagine what it must have meant for his Clan to see their home taken away. But now—now he knows. And it is — it is...  

It is indescribable.  

And it hurts.  

They reach what appears to be the end of the street, where the walls give way and only stones remain along the path and old trees. Mister Hatake veers down a side trail. Sasuke blinks at the neglected state. Compared to the large residences and elaborate walls, this final part is the opposite. It is wild and aggressive. He likes it. He likes the tall, leafy trees that remind him of the ones he passes every day on his way to and from the Academy. He likes the earthy path that splits from the main road of gray blocks.  

Even though Sasuke cannot see it through the thick trunks and bushes, he is sure there is a stream running along the trail; he hears water flowing over stones, and the flapping of nearby birds shaking their feathers at ground level.  

The movement of the branches casting shadows in front of them is a hypnotic dance, and Sasuke swallows his disappointment when their walk among the trees comes to an end. At the end of the dirt path, a clearing opens up with an old house in the middle. The wood looks discolored and very old, with some of the window panels torn. But it stands, nonetheless, and Sasuke has no doubt that the building must have survived many hardships until now.  

Mister Hatake brings them to the house, to an entrance that has seen better days but holds on bravely. Something like a wind chime sways gently with the breeze—it has missing pieces, but the remaining ones are pretty and reflective. It hangs and sways, and Sasuke is hypnotized by it, remembering how, outside the houses in the Uchiha neighborhood, it was common to have ornaments like those to attract protection. However, it does not resemble the wind chimes from his family, and Sasuke dares to think that this one must be merely a decorative object.  

It is still pretty, with its broken musical sound.  

With a somewhat laborious movement, since the door gets stuck halfway, Mister Hatake brings them inside, which is much better than the exterior lets on. It is still early in the day, the sun has not set, and the house is easy to observe—there are no large shadows, no blinding gloom. Mister Hatake sets Sasuke down on the floor so he can explore and let his curiosity run.  

“Well… Welcome,” announces Mister Hatake. The man takes off his sandals and leaves them at the entryway, and Sasuke follows his example to join him on the step that continues into the rest of the house. There is another pair of shoes at the entry, but they are so old and dusty that Sasuke does not ask about them. 
“I’ve already started working on some of the rooms, but we still have long days of renovations ahead—I'm sure we’ll make it work… Welcome to my old home, kid.” 

Sasuke blinks, stepping up the high step. His feet land on clean floor, firm and fresh wood.  

“Why don’t you go explore a little? I’ll go make us something for lunch,” announces Mister Hatake, placing a hand on Sasuke’s head and affectionately ruffling his hair.  

Sasuke sinks into his shoulders but finally nods. His hair sticks out in every direction, and he runs his fingers through the strands to comb them again—Mister Hatake is quite… affectionate? Sasuke is not entirely sure if that’s the right word. He is a different kind of person, without a doubt. Sasuke has never had people give him physical gestures like that, and, surprisingly, he does not entirely dislike them. Maybe it’s because Mister Hatake has been so kind, and Hound was always gentle with his movements—whether lifting Sasuke to help him reach the bed after dozing off in the middle of dinner, or untangling the knots in his hair after a bath with soft oils.  

He sees Mister Hatake take a turn to the right, presumably where the kitchen is. Sasuke stays in the entryway and decides to go the opposite direction. It’s a long hallway, with three sliding doors on one side. Having been given permission to snoop around as he pleases, Sasuke is only a little shy when opening the first door. It’s a sitting room, with tatami mats in the middle and two pieces of low, long sofas. There’s not much else—just a few empty flowerpots and a large window that opens into an unkempt inner garden. The most notable thing is what seems to be an altar in the corner of the room. It has no photos or any distinctive sign of who it might be dedicated to. There are half-burned incense sticks and discolored ceramic containers.  

Sasuke takes a step back, closing the door. He moves on to the next but leaves just as quickly. It’s just a bathroom—Sasuke finds nothing interesting about it. The next door leads to another semi-open hallway that crosses the inner garden and connects to the back part of the house.  

Four doors, spaced well apart. The first two are bedrooms, by far the best part of the house. Clean, fresh. With clearly new sheet sets and repairs made, to the point that Sasuke gets a slight jolt from the change in atmosphere. The next is a bathroom, slightly larger than the one near the entrance. And the last door is in the worst condition of them all. It’s not very big—not a bedroom—but it’s spacious.  

It is, perhaps—Sasuke is not entirely sure—an office, with flowing paintings hanging from both side walls. Something like shelves too, but the wood is worn, and the books and decorations are scattered across the floor. If he squints, Sasuke remembers his father’s office—so sober and severe. The memory is bittersweet, and Sasuke leaves, continuing his tour with his heart pounding and ghosts at his heels.  

He walks faster, wanting to flee from that invisible, sickly thing. The shadows swallow him, falling over him in the hallway, and Sasuke weaves between doors and paths, going into rooms and being just slightly disappointed when he doesn’t find something to calm his heartbeat or chase away the ghosts. He’s sure he reaches the other side of the house and throws open a final door. He shudders at the clatter of splintered wooden slats.  

It is a tearoom, with cushions and a low table. He understands almost immediately why the tearoom was set up here, as there is a round window that fits him directly as soon as he opens the door. It is wide, from the missing pieces of the paper panel, Sasuke sees specks of green and orange from the landscape. Rays of sunlight stream through those gaps, the finest threads of sunbeams raining down on the low table in the center of the room, illuminating the dust stains and traces of cups on the surface.  

They fall like light fingers on the wood.  

They shine like little specks of dusty glitter in the wind.  

The evening sun enters through one of the broken panels of the window and beautifully illuminates the center of the dusty table. It is something insignificant, Sasuke knows that. And yet, it overwhelms him. It hits between his ribs, nearly breaking them. It must be because he has been holding it back for days, wanting to put on a brave and indifferent face.  

He doesn’t want to do it. Mister Hatake’s intentions in bringing him to this house were none other than offering him a home. But Sasuke can still remember his home—and more than ever, he misses it. He misses them . And Sasuke cannot find them. Without the bandage to protect him, Sasuke faces a lonely world, and that loneliness is hard to ignore when the sun lights his path, and he can see everything with perfect clarity.  

It is so simple.  

It is so beautiful.  

Something Sasuke might have ignored before, but now he cannot. He sees beauty and warmth.  

It means...  

It means every person he has lost and will never find again. The world is still beautiful, so radiant in every minuscule detail, because it does not stop.  

It does not stop.  

And it is true that in the history of the world, more people have died than in his entire Clan that night—and the world has gone on. The sun sets and rises again. Summer will come to an end and then it will be autumn, winter, spring. But Sasuke is there, standing, unable to move forward. Because he is a child, and is not ready to understand it yet. He only feels this blow between his ribs and something warm that wets his cheeks.  

It wears him down until he is nothing but bleeding wounds and bruises. Until all that remains is a child who misses his mother’s hugs and his father’s stern presence. A child who sneaks into his older brother’s room at night after a nightmare. Sasuke remains—battered and covered in severed threads. He becomes sobs. He is burning tears and harsh sounds that escape one after another in an unstoppable series of laments. Finally, he cries and cannot stop. He cries for his family as he could not do at their funerals. He cries for his parents like the orphaned child he now is.  

Loud, desperate, and broken.  

The artificial silence vanishes, and the tide and storm arrive, stirring his insides and trying to force him to let go.  

He cries for his brother, the one he never had. He cries for that invention of kindness and love. He cries for his hero and his favorite person—the way Sasuke remembers and imagines him.  

Fear and anguish feed his sadness.  

They are dead. They are gone.  

And he is the last one left. No family to return to, no name to use. No one to share a table with, or to look for him if he gets lost in the crowd.  

He brings a hand to his chest and clutches it, unable to face the painful truth.  

Every last moment with his parents feels insufficient. Every last gesture is overshadowed. The world does not and will not have the same color as before. Could he ever find the same dark shade of his mother's eyes? Or the red embroidered on his Clan's clothes? In this vast world of sensations and experiences, will there ever be a day when he can find a tea equal to that of his aunts? Or laughter as deep as that of his many grandparents?  

Never.  

Never.  

Never.  

Without realizing it, someone approaches and takes his hand in a grip so strong that Sasuke breathes again from the surprise.  

“It’s alright, kid. It’s alright,” comforts Hound, gathering his open wounds and keeping them stable. He looks at him from below, with all the patience and all the understanding. Sasuke does not know what to think about someone being able to understand him. But this house is empty, and dusty, and forgotten. What that means, Sasuke can imagine—and it makes his heart ache even more.  

“It’s alright… Let it go.”  

Sasuke does not, because the thing is—Sasuke does not just want to let it go. 
He wants to cry it and suffer it. Tear open the scabs every time they seem about to heal and let himself bleed again. 

He has this urge to cling to the pain that overwhelms him. To do so for a hundred years, if necessary. He is not ready to let them go—just like he is not ready to speak and break the limbo of in-betweens, where he can have everything and nothing. It is a strong and unfamiliar feeling, one that scares Sasuke with its intensity. But there is no one else to cry for them, no one else to miss them as they deserve. And maybe it’s all that sadness and suffering of his relatives that has nowhere else to go and clings to Sasuke — and Sasuke to it. Both without anyone else to help them survive.  

He then understands what he does not dare to say out loud: that there, where his heart beats, there where there are scorched traces, he wishes with all his strength that none of it is real. He wishes he could take off the bandage and find himself in his room, just waking up from a brutal nightmare. He wishes he could go down to the living room and find his father reading the newspaper, with the sound of oil sizzling in the kitchen as his mother cooks. And that the door would open and his older brother would return after a long mission.  

But that doesn’t happen. That doesn’t happen here. Maybe, in another life, everything is just a bad dream that fades with the morning light.  

Here, the sun only exposes his lacerated skin and bleeding heart.  

The weight of it all rains down on him and floods every space.  

Hysteria.  

His little brain races to catch up. The last moments. The last weeks. The endless years trapped in illusions and torment fill his body with a pain that is more than physical. Apathy turns into emotion—and he cannot handle it. He simply cannot ignore it, but he tries. He desperately searches for any sliver of relief that might save him from this sea of fear and doubt.  

He wrecks his mind trying to remember the person he was. Was he ever real? Did Sasuke ever truly exist? What is he now?  

What does he have to keep going?  

He is afraid—but that won’t take him far. He is in pain—but he cannot soothe it. He has—he has hope. Battered, desperate dreams for everything to return to how it was.  

What can he do with that? With his fear, with his pain, with his hope? Just hold on, and grip until his hands burn and his fingers cramp. He doesn’t give up his fear — because he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t give up his pain — because he’s not ready. And he doesn’t give up his hope — because he is a child, and no one ever taught Sasuke not to dream. Even his father, so harsh and so critical, never told him there was something he couldn’t achieve.  

The tragedy is that Sasuke learns that lesson this way, when he is still not ready.  

But so many emotions are not meant for a child like Sasuke to carry. It is like water that rises and drowns him.  

If he only clings to these useless scraps of himself, then he will find his family too soon.  

And who will mourn them?  

Who will miss them?  

His life is no longer his.  

So, not knowing what to do with it all, unable to stay afloat on his own, he clings to what he has at hand.  

He clings to Hound—hugging him tightly and crying on his shoulder. He stays afloat with Hound, who urges him to let go, but Sasuke isn’t ready. He isn’t ready to let go. He isn’t ready to live.  

But it’s scary. It frightens him. He clings to Hound as if imploring him: Help me.  

Do something.  

Make it stop — make it all stop hurting, make everything stop being.  

In his logic, too young to understand or face it, Sasuke just wants an all-powerful figure from fairy tales to chase away the fear and the suffering.  

He wishes and dreams of his mother hugging him one last time. And her hands are warm. Her voice is sweet. She is as delicate as a ray of the afternoon sun, and as fantastic as he can remember her. She would cradle his cheeks with warmth and tenderness, drying his tears with the edge of her blouse sleeves. She would laugh softly—with no mockery or malice, only compassion.  

And though she is not here, Sasuke swears—swears and swears—he can feel her.  

He wants to keep dreaming just a little longer. And he wants to keep bleeding just as much.  

He doesn’t want to understand it. He just wants to change it.  

Death is not evil, he remembers.  

But if she is so generous — Could she not have waited a little longer? Could she not have taken him too?  

Chapter Text

Kakashi looks at the wooden altar, so simple and dusty. It is half-finished, a work left incomplete a long time ago; it lacks doors, as well as the shelves inside. It is just a rectangle of wood with a small dish to one side and some burnt incense on the other; vases without flowers in both corners guarding the place where one or several photos should be. “Poor” falls short to describe it, but “pitiful” is too strong a word. Kakashi is not surprised to see that it is already a deep, dark night outside, with no nearby light to disturb its blanket — the city is now a little far, just enough so that none of that urban hustle and bustle bothers them. Only forest and nature remain, one of the things Kakashi had forgotten he missed.

How strange, he thinks, is a silent Konoha. His ears numb, his feet tired. In these years of adulthood, the low chatter in the streets, the comings and goings of neighbors, had been part of his bedtime stories. Now he must get used to a different rhythm of life, though not a new one — it is not the first time he has been forced into it. His life has always been ever-changing, yet he has managed to preserve certain habits. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Within the mundane, Kakashi finds his center, in private moments where nothing can disturb him, only himself. In something as simple as waking with the sun and wandering through the Village, he finds enough. His furniture doesn’t matter; his tools neither — they are mere objects, not worth attachment. He won’t deny, however, he thinks acidly, that he will miss the convenience of having his apartment near the Hokage’s mansion. He will miss it — the fresh, sterile air, free from cobwebs of memories.

The shrine looks back at him, and Kakashi sits in front of it with his legs tucked in, hands in his lap. He wonders, with somewhat more idleness than real questioning, why? Why did his father leave this job half-finished? A shrine to his wife, Kakashi's mother - was it too hard for him? Like everything else in Sakumo's life… how much pain does it take for a man to leave his work half-finished? Kakashi looks at the stark empty space with no frames or pictures to fill them. His mother's face, blurred and devoid of detail, would have looked great there, he knows, even though he doesn't remember much of her, too young when he lost her. Her voice, her smell, her touch. All are things he can only imagine, and very distantly remember. Dark hair, he thinks. Brown eyes. Or were they gray? His father spoke of her with affection, and sadness. And longing. Only the best compliments, though few and far between. Kakashi didn't ask, he always knew when it was good to ask and when not to. It happened at the unexpected moments, without warning that Kakashi could recognize. Kakashi has a perfect memory of those moments, knowing them even then precious in their strangeness. 

As far as Kakashi knows, there are no photos of his mother. Perhaps paintings exist — he remembers seeing his father in the inner garden with brushes and canvases, tracing the edges of a delicate face and long hair. For months, Kakashi watched from a distance, late afternoon after late afternoon, until the sun was well hidden. He only caught stolen glimpses of those images; he never saw a finished painting. Perhaps none of his father’s works would have done her justice. Perhaps the man himself could not remember the face of a woman long dead.

Kakashi does not remember his mother, but he knows she lived. This was her home, and there are traces of her for those who know how to look — in the color of the floors, in the plant vases, and in the neglected, cracked garden. She existed, and though her memory has been forgotten, it persists in the silence. Kakashi cannot be certain, but he believes he sees traces of her in his own reflection, in the shape of his eyes.

Ah, he sighs slowly. That is why he does not like this house. The dust gets in his throat, and it is hard to clear. Every room is a constant reminder of what is no longer there. He hadn’t come in years. He lived here for a few more years after his father’s death, but after graduating from chunin, he packed his things and flew away — a migrating bird. Yet every bird returns home, to the place it was born. It is hard to breathe in this house, so full of its own and unknown stories.

It is unfortunate, and Kakashi apologizes silently to his mother for it. He regrets leaving her house neglected for so long. He hopes she will find in her heart the kindness to forgive this son of hers for his mistakes and clumsiness.

“I’m back,” he says to the empty space, with genuine respect and remorse.

Years have passed since then, and Kakashi no longer sees the blood on the wood or smells the stench of death every time. It is still there, of course, in the back of his memory. But now it is distant, one thing he can choose to ignore. He has come to understand that it is his decision — and his alone — what haunts him at night. Will it be the edge of a sword glinting in the moonlight? Blood seeping onto the wooden floor? Or those quiet days of peace, watching his father paint? He is fairly certain his father never intended to torment him with the image of his corpse. After the pain, confusion, and anger have settled, and Kakashi has begun carrying his own burdens, he knows it was never Sakumo’s intention. For his father, it was about freeing both of them from the shame that consumed him. Sakumo’s existence had become a constant cycle of mockery and scorn, pain and sorrow. A tragic act of love, in the saddest, most macabre way.

Of course, no one answers him. No one says “welcome.” Too much time has passed since anyone received him that way.

The wind slips through the open window, brushing his hands and cheeks like a caress. It is all he can hope for — the closest thing to an answer. Wherever the dead may go, Kakashi wishes his parents could have found each other. He lets that thought flood him and cloud his mind - something like praying and begging is not in his nature, but this resembles it in essence. And just without being able to help it, Kakashi can't but wish the same for the Uchiha clan and their dead. May they too. May Kakashi one day. 

Knowing there is no point in spiraling down a familiar path, Kakashi rises. He shakes the wood splinters from his pants, just another household task to add to his list. He was surprised to find the old family home still standing; he expected only ruins and collapsed roofs. Even the electricity works, though he will need new bulbs to replace the ones he discarded long ago. Floorboards, walls, doors — there are many repairs to make. Turning this house into a home will take weeks, but Kakashi is in no rush.

Something to do, he reminds himself.

If he can give Sasuke something to occupy that little head of his, something meaningful, Kakashi will have done something right. And among all things, he considers it better for Sasuke to focus on rebuilding a house than follow a familiar path of injuries and darkness. Kakashi has traveled that trail himself; it is narrow and cold. He cannot imagine Sasuke walking it. He's young, and he's - well, Kakashi wouldn't call him weak. Sasuke is not weak; the boy's breaths alone are proof of that. Others would have collapsed under the weight of it all by now. But Sasuke is like a bird with its wings clipped - he is young and fragile. All children are, to Kakashi they are. Here's one of many reasons why Kakashi would be useless in a classroom. He sees those tiny children and his guts twist at throwing them into a suicide mission. Academy teachers must be tough instructors to perform their job, Kakashi can try, but he knows his limitations. Sasuke is proof of that. Just seeing the sobbing boy has sent him pondering in front of his mother's shrine - it touches him to the core of his being. Kakashi could not be too hard on the child – not now, perhaps never. 

Was it like that for you Minato-sensei? You saw a boy heading for a cliff and you couldn't help but stop him? A soft man - that must have been the biggest criticism of his mentor. Those who knew him and had nothing good to say accused Minato-sensei of being too soft and weak. Whether Kakashi agrees with those statements is something he prefers not to think about. He is not blind to believe that his master was a perfect man. He had his faults, but his virtues more than made up for it. Soft or not, Minato-sensei was kind and generous, never denying help, not even to those too cowardly to ask for it. 

His master did his best to steer Kakashi away from that destructive path, and when his efforts proved insufficient, he then kept a hand outstretched, ready to guide him back when Kakashi was ready. Kakashi wants to do the same for Sasuke - he wants to do more. Succeed where his master could not. He hasn't been called an overachiever for nothing…

Could Kakashi do it - or does his ego speak more than his actions can achieve? He doesn't know, what he does know is that Sasuke's tears still feel wet on his shoulder, and his sobs are one of the most anguished sounds he's ever heard. Kakashi had no one to cry over after his father's death, maybe if he had, just as he had his master to cry over after Obito's death. But the damage was already done then, by then Kakashi was already a broken child with fissures so old that even his mentor hadn't been able to repair it. 

But before, when the first of his tragedies came into his life, if Kakashi would only have had someone, anyone, to tell him that everything was going to be alright. If only Kakashi ever had such a person, who could see his pain and understand it - without ignoring it, waiting for him to get over it, not “giving him his space” to grow out of the mourning. Kakashi didn't grow out of his mourning - at the core, he's still the same boy who cried over his father's body. He's just gotten bigger, with long limbs and poorly healed scars. His growing pains are phantom blows of a reminder that physically he is no longer that child, but emotionally he is stuck. He had no one to teach him to be anything other than a weapon to bear the terrible burden of being human. And it hasn't been so bad, not for him. He has lived so far, hasn't he? He just wouldn't wish the same path for someone else. Not Sasuke, whose crying is oppressive, but his laughter is like wind chimes.  

If only Kakashi could show Sasuke that he can carry his mourning without the loneliness. Not like him. Not like Kakashi. He made all the bad decisions, clumsily healed his every wound. He is made of rivets and regrets. When he looks back, he can't ignore the loneliness so great that it gripped him and still lives by his side like an old companion. Whether Kakashi will ever cease to be that lonely boy, is a tight question whose answer lies in his shadow. He may have had friends; he may have had family - he has lost them along the way one at a time. The people he has left are prisms of light that will inevitably fade to join the shadow that stalks his footsteps and claws at his back without letting him escape. Kakashi is nothing but that lonely entity that has nowhere else to go, made of life and death, always in the middle. He wants to believe, despite all that life has taught him - and not in a good way - that Sasuke can be made of other things, of something like clean seams and hope. Dreams mended and not buried. Wounds that become invisible on the skin: still there but not defining. Not a weapon, but something else. 

Someone who can have compassion.  

Someone who can laugh openly and cry in the same way. Without pity. No shame. Loneliness for Sasuke would be just an old acquaintance and not a self-imposed curse. When love and happiness give way to loneliness, Kakashi knows what happens next. There is disgrace, there is disgust. Living feels like breathing stolen air, and it's very hard to find fresh air to flood the lungs. A fine line of living and surviving. And why? For Kakashi his why was knowing that just as the air he took in was stolen, so was his life - his comrades, his friends, his family. Father, teacher, brothers. Their lives were lost because of him. Because Kakashi wasn't strong enough, or fast enough, or smart enough, or capable enough. They are dead, and Kakashi could not save them, and what he has left, is to honor them. Let them know that the Village is safe, that the children are growing strong and the elders are more than they were years ago. Yes… that is his motive. But love that lasts can also drive you to do other wonderful things - those remnants of love and happiness are not always malice under pressure. Kakashi sees it every day, in men and women like him who have lost everything and more. They don't carry his moral mission, because they don't need it, they have given love one more chance and are not afraid to care and risk walking in the light. 

Walking in the light… what a strange concept. How could he…

The night greets him, silent. He lifts his gaze to the sky—the inner garden had been one of his favorite spots as a child. He liked seeing the moon overhead, hearing the water trickle in the bamboo fountain. Perhaps he’ll put the garden on his list of priorities, if only for the sake of a personal whim.

Also…he could go to his father's office and see if he can find something there to place on the empty altar. Some sufficiently finished painting of his mother. Kakashi has a couple of pictures of his father, though those he keeps well in storage and hasn't taken them out to see the sunlight in a long, long time. They're not good pictures, they're some of those pictures taken for the Village record, and some taken randomly by strangers and not-so-strangers, without his father being what he would call the protagonist of the shot. It was Minato-sensei who got them for him, and it was also his teacher who gifted Kakashi his first camera, a time so far back that fingers can't count. Since then, Kakashi has gone through a few other cameras, one of his less destructive hobbies if he may say so. He doesn't forget what his master's intention was in giving him such meaningful - and expensive, photography is a luxury of few - gift to capture what was worthwhile. People, places, moments. His master hoped that with it Kakashi would manage to connect better with the life around him, and Minato must have left satisfied that one of his many actions to help him was somewhat moderately successful.

Kakashi has amassed a fair number of photographs, enough so that, when he inevitably loses someone else, he will not have to fear forgetting their faces or expressions. A morbid reason, he knows — but he is a morbid man. He has never claimed otherwise, and many have accused him of it. Kakashi is not a person who pleases others easily, not for the person he truly is. He can charm and seduce, in that way he has gotten out of some of his worst missions. However, there are very few who find his company pleasurable without any of those disguises. The people who call him friend today, and who Kakashi considers so, are few and far between.

He knows of another person who shares — shared? — the same hobby, though surely for reasons less grim. Kakashi pauses halfway down the side hallway, the empty altar continuing to nag at him. He imagines it in use: photos, paintings, the scent of woody incense. An empty altar unused is far more lamentable—and disrespectful, in some way. Besides, this is no longer only his house, he reflects. Sasuke has equal right to do with it as he pleases.

He sighs.

It is never good for him to be awake at this hour. He becomes restless, letting impulses override rational decisions. On nights like this, everything sounds like a great idea. He should go to bed and call it a day, but his mind races with tumultuous thoughts and the pressing need to act. Sleep will not come unless he forces it, and he left his sleeping pills back at the apartment. If he goes out for them, he might as well go for something else. By morning, he will probably regret it — but for now, pausing is not an option.

There is no clear manual, no precise instructions. How do you teach a child to bear their grief? Like so many questions, Kakashi has no answer. It is another mystery of life. But that has never stopped anyone in his position, has it? A substitute father? An older brother with more responsibilities? A distant relative? Perhaps a cousin who comes home for the holidays to take charge when no one else can. He cannot be a stranger; he would prefer to be everything at once rather than nothing. All that remains is to do the best he can with what he has — to find answers, or to make them. And he will mess it up. Oh, Kakashi knows he will. He will make countless mistakes, and good intentions alone will not suffice. That is the price of caring and growing: a spoonful of salt for every spoonful of sugar. But he must try — that is what adults do: unravel the mysteries of life so children don’t have to.

He brings one hand to chin level and molds his chakra flow according to his hand position. Creating a shadow clone and then going all the way to the other side of the village is definitely going to expend some energy, hopefully just enough to put him to sleep for a couple of hours before dawn. He sees his copy, to his thinking, it's always a bit disturbing to have a copy of oneself hanging around, and even though the use of shadow clones is as usual to him as the use of kunais, the feeling lingers.  

It's such a simple skill, even the least promising of children should be able to do it to graduate. Kakashi doesn't remember what it was like to learn to make his shadow clones - he knows, abstractly, that it is one of the first accomplishments of any child to celebrate with his family. But Kakashi, prodigy that he is, learned very early, when learning early was expected. His recollections of that moment are just another endless stream of memories that have perished in time. Just like his mother's face, and his father's happiness. As the years gather, the people who have gone are lost forever; they live in his heart, they breathe in his dreams, but they are just shapeless brushstrokes. All he has to preserve them unaltered are frozen scenes - and that's more than some people ever get. 

With a nod, both Kakashi and his clone assent. The original instructs the copy to enter the house. He doesn’t care what the clone will do; he only needs a portion of his consciousness stationed in case the boy needs him. He doesn’t mind that five other competent shinobi may be on his family property, observing. His ANBU squad has a long way to go before the Council or the Hokage orders them to stand down. The constant vigilance is, let's be redundant, constant, for an indeterminate amount of time.

Has Sasuke noticed them yet? He’s a sharp boy, though Kakashi hasn’t had the chance to test his abilities — or confirm whether the Sharingan has awakened.

He casts one last glance at the sliding door at the end of the hall, where his clone has gone. He decides he’ll act quickly.

As he descends on the deserted street, straight from his rooftop tour, Kakashi shudders at the stillness. What a little time it takes to create a ghost town. There aren't even nocturnal animals scurrying around the alleys and corners. Nothing. A place once teeming with life now lacks any kind of it. At the edge of night, only the night sky dares to hover over the streets.

He eyes with apprehension the enormous residence in the middle of the street. It occupies almost the entire block, a home befitting the head of a Clan. Kakashi had never paused to study the main family home of the Uchiha Clan before — he didn’t think it necessary. But he compares the tall walls protecting the two-story residence to his not-so-impressive family home. The difference between a Clan and a pseudo-Clan is striking, and Kakashi cannot decide if that’s good or bad news for him and his ward.

Good, in the sense that at least his family’s house doesn’t closely resemble Sasuke and his parents’ home. Bad, because there’s a clear stylistic difference that might not appeal to Sasuke. It’s a silly worry — Kakashi tends to fret too much about trivial things. High walls, equally tall gates. He reflects on the last time he faced those doors just a few weeks ago — he’s back now, not to return a child, but to retrieve something. He detects the distant signatures of one of his subordinates who has taken the task of following him here. That’s how little the Council trusts him — given his position, Kakashi wouldn’t trust himself either. He has been far too audacious in meddling with things beyond his power.

Gathering his courage, Kakashi leaps over the wall separating him from the residence. Then, he makes another higher jump to land on a balcony on the second floor. He doesn’t pause to appreciate the entrance gardens, nor to look for a more suitable entry.

The window isn’t open; it barely costs Kakashi a drop of sweat to force his way inside. Could he have used the main entrance? Certainly, but… right now he has come for nothing other than a selfish reason. Coming here uninvited, he already feels like a minor offender. In his logic — and Kakashi has been told his logic rarely makes sense — entering the house unceremoniously and without permission would be overstepping. It’s as simple as that.

When those doors are opened again, it must be by someone who has the right.

With that supremely logical thought in mind, Kakashi immerses himself in the room on the other side. It’s a child’s room, and Kakashi risks assuming it’s little Sasuke’s — he doubts Itachi would be one for having a dinosaur plush on the bed. And toys. And other things so obviously childish. He debates whether he should take some of Sasuke’s things to give him — items like his Academy supplies, or even that dinosaur plush. He doesn’t. What he is about to do already risks the boy’s boundaries; he doesn’t really know how well Sasuke will take what he has brought Kakashi here, even less so if Kakashi suddenly appears with objects from what should feel like a past life. Pain is strange that way, Kakashi knows — sometimes the smallest things hurt the most.

Still, what he cannot avoid is being distracted for a second by the room and the details he finds within it. Sasuke… he must have been a very loved child. In every object adorning the room, Kakashi finds traces of what must have been a happy and fulfilling childhood. Well-used toys are scattered across the floor carelessly, and like them, other items reflect a real life inhabiting the bedroom. Colored pencils and scribbled sheets on a desk. A television atop a low cabinet, with stacks of assorted DVDs to the side. Things so childlike — glow-in-the-dark shuriken stars stuck to the ceiling, drawings hung on the walls too low, storybooks, figurines— childhood in its purest form. It reflects life and conquest over silence. He can see it perfectly, a boy just like Sasuke, but happier, more complete, rushing through the door, leaving his backpack on the ground and playing with the figures on the floor. If things had been different, Sasuke would have done exactly that that night. He would have returned home to his room and would be sleeping in it right now. He would be just the brother of one of his subordinates, the second heir to the largest Clan in the Village - someone Kakashi would know by hearsay. He would not know firsthand of the sadness in that child, nor of the thunderous sound of his crying or the spontaneity of his laughter. 

Kakashi crosses the room, placing his hand on the doorknob. He pauses briefly before stepping out into the hallway, thinking of a child with bell-like laughter and eyes sparkling with childish joy. It’s only an echo, beginning to fade. He hopes to meet that child someday. He hopes there’s still something of that child left in Sasuke. It almost sounds like a wish, but it’s something more desperate and mortal than a mere breath of longing. Deep down, he knows there’s no way Sasuke could ever go back to being a child playing on his bedroom floor. “Let it go,” his reason urges him, “let go of those empty hopes for something that will never happen.” Only Kakashi doesn’t know how; he visits graves every day, as if something more than cold stone might be waiting for him. There’s idealism behind his actions.

When the war ended, and the troops returned home, everyone was greeted in the Village by the then-children of the Academy. Kakashi remembers thinking then — his only thought keeping him breathing — that at least one generation wouldn’t have to wield weapons before their hands had grown to fit them. A peace unknown to him and any of his comrades, but normal for hundreds of children to come: to grow up free of the plague of death and the heavy burden of a conscience stained and a childhood eviscerated. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair to Sasuke that he can’t have the same privilege as his classmates.

He steps out, making sure to leave all that behind. These aren’t things anyone should carry — like certain truths, it’s better if they’re forgotten and never spoken.

In the hallway, Kakashi observes the different doors. Where could they be now? Testing his deductive skills, he turns left and opens the second door. He’s only slightly surprised to have guessed correctly. If the previous room clearly belonged to a child, this one belongs to a responsible young teenager.

Bed made, closet in order. And hardly any distinguishing features that would give away anything about the owner of the room. If anything, a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, full of well-selected titles. Nothing like the cheap novels Kakashi loves so much, but real books of deep political thought and reflection. The kind of material that Kakashi finds insufferable, but that someone like Itachi sure looks like someone who would enjoy them.  

He has fewer reservations about getting nosy in his former subordinate's privacy. The investigation department must have already stuck their noses in here, and Kakashi's hand doesn't shake as he makes his own excursion. His instinct urges him to look in pointed places - his instinct is very good. It was sure Kurenai who said that Kakashi is like a sniffer dog, a statement that countless other friends of his would agree with. Kakashi is a sniffer dog, a hunting dog. Even more important than physical talent, the ANBU looks for people who have even less common talents. The hunter badge comes from somewhere. 

He steps into the room, obsessively neat. Bed made, closet in order. But nothing betrays the homicidal desires of a volatile adolescent. Kakashi isn’t here for that, but he still searches for signs. Any hint of Itachi’s intent to massacre his entire family. Some note that explains it, a book revealing the troubled thoughts of a weary teenager. Hell, even something as improbable as a mural filled with photographs and kunai on faces. So normal. So Itachi. Just another mystery of life.

Kakashi leans under the bed and slips his hands along until he feels something.

“Lotto,” he thinks, sensing a hard, rough surface. He drags the object toward him, placing it across his knees. He opens the box, considerably surprised to find it unlocked and without any additional protections. Inside lie about a dozen photos, carelessly stacked atop one another. Glossy, intact paper. Itachi liked photography, Kakashi remembers, tracing with a gloved hand the dark trees captured in a simple shot. Landscapes, sunsets, rivers, snow. In some of the photos, Kakashi recognizes forests and caves, shadows and figures vaguely familiar to him.

Against the rules, supplies a part of his mind that still feels responsible for that young promise. He doesn't think of it disapprovingly, Kakashi was aware of Itachi's hobby of taking out his camera at the end of the missions, in the camps they set up back home. At the time, he was too soft to reprimand his subordinate for it. Maybe he should have. Maybe he should have been stricter with Itachi, firmer about the importance of rules. But this is just Kakashi and his soft spot for the Uchiha. Nevertheless, and even though he knows that one thing and the other can't have the greatest relation, he thinks that, if he had been tougher on Itachi, the boy wouldn't have done what he did.

It’s too late for regrets.

He’s grateful that very few of the photos feature Itachi. Sasuke hasn’t shown any signs of wanting to talk about his older brother, nor has Kakashi tried to bring it up. Cowardice disguised as mercy. He knows he can’t ignore it forever — at some point, Sasuke will ask about his brother, or necessity will force the conversation. He doesn’t understand Itachi’s motives, doesn’t know if something darker lurks behind his actions. Was there a reason Sasuke survived that night? A mistake, or a deliberate act? Itachi might want to finish the job, for all anyone knows. Now that he is an active fugitive, whose trail only cools with time, it would be irresponsible for Kakashi not to prepare his ward for the worst. Sooner or later, Kakashi will have to sit with the boy and talk. But not now—not yet. He can give Sasuke a few more days, months, perhaps years before they must face it.

For the time being, Kakashi takes one of the photos from the bottom of the box. It’s an awkward shot, surely one of the first photos Itachi ever took. Mikoto and Fugaku Uchiha sit in the living room, the first smiling softly, eyes bright, the second with all the severity Kakashi knew, but with a tiny smirk at the corner of his mouth — a facsimile of a smile that says more than Fugaku’s usual seriousness could reveal. Just like that Kakashi came to know, that not only Sasuke was a beloved son, Itachi was as well. Such a look in a father's eyes cannot speak of anything other than the deepest and most sincere love.

And the photo is crooked, the angle all wrong. Fugaku and Mikoto are younger than Kakashi remembers. No revealing signs of age, no distinction other than affection and tranquility. It’s the perfect photo. Just two parents existing in a single instant, captured when their child loved them, and they loved him. Kakashi has no doubt. Surely Itachi loved them. Once. Only God knows why a boy like that made the choice he did. Kakashi isn’t here to understand it —he lives with the consequences and makes the best of them. Understanding won’t change the outcome; understanding won’t make Itachi’s actions more or less monstrous. The number of children who died before losing all their baby teeth — all the elders murdered in their beds without a chance to defend themselves. Even if Itachi’s motives made sense, sense does not always align with what is right. Kakashi is the last person to give morality lessons, but that doesn’t exempt him from knowing when the right thing outweighs the fair thing.

Like the thief he is, Kakashi keeps the photo. If he is to choose how Sasuke should remember his family, let it be this way. His two parents with adoration in their eyes, an anonymous hand behind the lens. Only love — no matter to whom, why, or how. Only love. It is not a life lesson, or complicated wisdom, of those things Kakashi has very few worth sharing. It is a mere matter of verbiage he has picked up.

Love persists.

Nothing and no one can change what happened. It is a tragedy from every angle. A story told in legends, of a monster that falls in the night and destroys an entire village before the sun arrives. Only another clan succumbing to its own weight, to become a tale. What no one talks about is the morning after, how those who remain must survive. Kakashi knows how to survive — he’s honed tricks and stratagems. The monster takes what it takes in the dark, but it doesn’t have to claim the morning as well. Itachi doesn’t have to steal this from his brother too. And victory tastes best when you claim it for yourself. That much, Kakashi is sure of.

He gazes at the night rocking outside the windows of Itachi's room - none of them face the moon or the sun. It is as if morning and night will not come for young Itachi. Kakashi ponders this, wondering what this might say about that young promise. With the vastness of the rooftops of the Uchiha compound stretching across, and the Village rising in the distance - a blanket of stars tinkling. He returns what he has not come to take back to its place, and approaches the window sill, finding it unlocked and climbing out. The night wind hits the parts of his uncovered face, and he leaves the same way he came, with only a new sense of drowsiness beginning to form. He hopes his dreams take pity on him - he doesn't have much hope for it. These last few nights, he finds that in his dreams he is visited by the familiar feeling of failure; he sees all his dead falling before his eyes with the same helplessness of not being able to save them. He sees a deep-eyed young man vanish into the night, just another failure he has made his own. 

Sasuke wakes with a silent scream escaping his mouth, sitting up abruptly and disoriented. It takes him a few breaths to situate himself, setting his eyes on each dark figure. In a moment of rising uncertainty, he touches the skin beneath his eyes and blinks. His ragged breathing is the only sound filling the darkness, along with the pounding of his heart against his chest. He does not remember if he had a terrible dream to justify his reaction — and his last clear memory makes him aware of the sting in his throat and the irritation in his eyes, weighing on him uncomfortably. Little by little, his breaths calm, and his heartbeat falls into a quiet rhythm. He swallows, his throat and cheeks dry. There are no traces of tears on his face, only swollen eyes and a dull ache at his temples.

He is not embarrassed to realize that he has instinctively started looking everywhere, as soon as he understands that his eyes are working properly and that there are no bandages in his way, for Hound's company. 

Mr. Hatake, he corrects in an unconscious thought.

Not Hound.

The distinction is important. But there is neither one nor the other. When realization hits him, it feels like a punch straight between the ribs. Where? This is not the same room where Sasuke slept the last few weeks — it is wider and older. Even when his eyes were covered, Sasuke had made his own picture of his temporary home. This is not the same place. The change catches him off guard, as does the solitude. Where is Mr. Hound, who used to doze near him? Like a guard dog, like a loyal knight.

Sasuke has not done something so childish as sneaking into his parents’ room in years. He is a big boy who should not be afraid of ghosts or monsters in the closet. But this is not the room he remembers, nor is it the room of Mr. Hound that he had claimed. It is a completely new and unknown place where he finds himself left to his own devices. And like the child he is, he immediately seeks the comfort of his former life as he can remember it in the moment. His memories are at most confusing, distant echoes of shapes and sounds dispersing like ripples on a lake. He looks around, at what little the shadows let him see. He is close to the floor, and though he lies on something soft and welcoming, the thought floods him at once —this is not his bed, and this is not his room. The bed is lower, the pillow too soft, and the sheets smell new.

It is not an unpleasant place. It is an unknown place. It is not that cramped apartment, with a hard mattress and thin sheets. It is not his room, with the large window directly facing his bed and a discreet night light in the corner.

Oh, yes, it is definitely not a bad place. But it is not…it is not what Sasuke remembers. Nor is it the normalcy that had begun to cling to his skin. It is new and different, and Sasuke…

Sasuke wants his home. He wants his mother’s meals. He wants his clothes. He wants his books and his notebooks. He wants to curl up under his sheets, in his room with his stuffed animals that he is already too old to have but not brave enough to let go of. He wants and wants, but he is not a foolish or naive boy. None of that awaits him, and if Sasuke went home now, he would only find empty, oversized rooms. He would find that room that haunts him every time he closes his eyes for even an instant, with his parents’ stiff, unmoving bodies on the floor like puppets with their strings cut.

In some way, Sasuke thinks of everything as temporary, as if he were only going to stay at Mr. Hatake’s house for a few days and then return home. As if…as if his parents were only away on a mission, both coincidentally out of the village. That is not true. It is a factual reality, as verifiable as that fire burns and the moon rises. No matter what Sasuke believes, he is wrong — he is a fool. But his heart hurts less when he thinks of it that way, the turbulent whirlwind of violent gusts goes silent. It hurts less. Who is going to blame Sasuke for thinking like that? No one has to know, about his hopes or his wishes.

Hesitant, Sasuke observes the darkness around him. He listens to the calm dance of the leaves as they sway in the summer night wind. His heart beats against his chest, and an uncomfortable pressure settles there. He is alone, and he does not like it. Not anymore. Maybe once he liked it, maybe he still does. But he sees his solitude as imposed and not optional. He is alone because he has no one. Not because he prefers to return home instead of staying to play with his classmates. Not because he prefers to practice on his own in the forest around the compound. He is alone, period. Even if he wished otherwise, he cannot be anything but alone.

And where is Mr. Hound? The question comes back to bite at his heels, in the same tone Sasuke used to ask his mother where his favorite stuffed toy was, or his winter blanket, or every little thing that made him feel calm and safe. It is like when Sasuke asked his parents where his brother was, so spoiled by having his company before Itachi became something more for the entire Village and no longer only Sasuke’s brother. It is Sasuke asking and asking into the night and the solitude, only now there are no childish things he can cling to when the answer only saddens him.

Everything changes. Nothing remains with him anymore. Maybe that is what makes him greedy for any aspect of comfort and never letting go.

He puts one foot out of the bed, untangles himself from the blankets. It is summer, and yet there is a tremendous cold in the air. His bare feet chill immediately against the floor as he stands, and as a brilliant occurrence, he wraps himself in the sheets as if they were a cloak and hugs the pillow against his chest. In small steps, Sasuke totters to the door and opens it slowly, first peeking his head and then stepping out completely.

The hallway is dark, like the mouth of a wolf, though some moonlight intrudes through the entrance leading to the inner garden. He is quick to orient himself — Sasuke is quick in many things, especially when it comes to learning. With a deduction no doubt bold, he takes a few steps to his left, reaching the next door and peeking through it with a slight trace of doubt.

Someone is sleeping there. The faint spill of light catches on white hair, unmistakable. Sasuke has never seen Mr. Hatake asleep before, and the sight unsettles him. He looks like a corpse. If Sasuke didn’t already know what corpses looked like, he would have believed it.

“Sasuke?” calls Mr. Hatake, his voice heavy with sleep and with an interrogative note at the end.

Sasuke shudders and takes a step back. High-level ninja, he murmurs to himself, suitably awed. Surely Mr. Hatake had heard him wake hours ago — heard his every step in the hall, his entire clumsy attempt to reach this room. It is, at the very least, embarrassing—it always is when Sasuke becomes aware of his shortcomings and limitations. He does not have what it takes to reach the level of the best ninjas in the village, he is not that kind of prodigy. He is slow and careless compared to—to his—to him.

Eyes like mine.

“Kid, you all right?” the question arrives at the exact moment to cut short a flood of memories. Sasuke is comforted by it. He does not know how Mr. Hatake does it, to interrupt at the precise moment when everything in his head turns to a deeper darkness than when Sasuke had the bandage over his eyes. “Did something happen?”

Sasuke shakes his head, the strands of his hair falling over his cheek and framing his face down to his chin. It has grown. It's just a silly thing to think about right now, but Sasuke thinks it. He thinks about granny Ichiruko who lived near the compound park, whom Sasuke and the other kids would visit when they needed a cut. Sasuke doesn't have any of those people anymore. And there is not a day that goes by that Sasuke doesn't remember one of the countless people in his Clan, no matter how distant they were to him before. 

If only he could remember each and every one of their names. Their faces. He does not. Some elders too sick that Sasuke never got to see. Some husbands and wives who had joined the Clan. Children younger than him. Experienced shinobi who spent more time outside the Village than in it. It had never been something that concerned Sasuke, keeping up to date with all who lived in the compound. They were too many, and Sasuke…he knew he might not know their names or their faces, but he was always going to be able to trust the distinctive emblem of his Clan to identify them. Lost in a sea of people, he would only have to crane his neck to look for the white and the red and be safe.

Lost in a crowd now, Sasuke would have no one to look for. But that is a lie. There is no red anymore, but there is white. He drags his feet and heads toward Mr. Hatake, not waiting for permission and only doing what the hammering in his heart needs to stop. There is white. If Sasuke were to get lost in a crowd, he would look for Mr. Hatake. No. Sasuke would not leave his side to begin with. Or he will be alone. Completely and absolutely alone in his orphanhood with no one to claim him.

Only an expression, a subtle change in his eyes, is what betrays Mr. Hatake’s surprise at the way Sasuke settles at his side, climbing into the bed with too much ease and leaving his pillow to the side. An embarrassing act. Sasuke is not a little child afraid of the dark. But he is a child, nevertheless, and now he begins to fear something just as overwhelming: loneliness.

Mr. Hatake does not throw him out of the room or scold him for his probable insolence. He is strange, Sasuke reminds himself, only judging a little the tranquility with which the man moves to the side to make room for the two of them. When Sasuke finishes settling under the sheets, he looks up and blinks toward Mr. Hatake. The man looks at him with the heaviness of sleep softening his features, and a smile hidden beneath his mask but that turns his eyes into half-moons. He does not have the protector over his right eye and a frankly horrible scar cuts from his eyebrow to the upper part of his cheek.

It is an old and deep scar. Does he still have that eye? If Sasuke had the words to ask, he would have no qualms about doing so. He thinks of the ugliest scar he has, a whitish incision over his left shoulder that he got a few months ago in the Academy with a shuriken. Even that mark does not come close to the dreadful line on Mr. Hatake’s face. It is not unusual for shinobi to suffer deep, sometimes disabling wounds. They are synonymous with the sacrifices made for the well-being of the Village. It is, then, only a sensible conclusion that that wound over Mr. Hatake’s eye must be just as deep and severe as his commitment to the Village.

“If you keep thinking at that speed, your head is going to start burning.” Mr. Hatake warns, with what could be a muffled laugh in his words. However, that joviality fades, and the half-moons in his eyes give way to a feeling of greater misery. There is stillness for a moment, Mr. Hatake watches him intently and Sasuke just knows, it is not him whom he is seeing. “I’m sorry, kid, I brought you here without notice… I — I’m really bad at this.” the last part is barely a murmur, just as light as a night wind. It is, nevertheless, audible in the sterility of the deep night, and for Sasuke…

For Sasuke, Mr. Hatake has not been terrible at all. He has been the farthest thing from terrible Sasuke could imagine. He thinks of the before, when the people of the Village did not like the Uchiha very much—they did not like the police, and consequently, they did not like the Clan. Sasuke knew it, the way many things are known: by simple observation. His Clan was seldom invited to the Village’s celebrations, festivals, or ceremonies—not unless they were big and formal events. Nobody wants the police watching them. The Clan had its own festivities, so Sasuke never came to give importance to those things. But he knows, he just knows, that not many others in the Village would have given him the same generosity as Mr. Hatake, or Doctor Ikebuki, or the Nara Clan leaders. When all was said and done, there were very few who came close to him to give him sincere condolences.

With slow gestures, Sasuke brought a finger to the height of his chest. “I’m happy,” he signs, knowing that Mr. Hatake would know how to understand it — a faster learner than Sasuke. There are only about ten words in his repertoire, for now they have been enough. And without a doubt, happy would be an exaggeration. Happiness tastes so strange, so stale. Sasuke could not call himself happy. But neither is he resentful or bitter with Mr. Hatake. Those ugly and negative things that pile up near his heart, Sasuke knows whom not to direct them at, though he does not know at whom he should, if they are only stones to keep, or if there is a place where he can set them down. There is much that Sasuke does not know. He does not understand if the pain he harbors is a constant, if he must keep it forever.

His eyes swollen, his throat scratchy. He has already shed more tears than he can bear. For now, he no longer wants to cry, no longer wants to sink up to his neck in water. A breath, just one. Like a game. Playing pretend his world isn't sinking and lost. If only he could be a child waiting for his parents to return. Would his mother have liked Mr. Hatake? His father? Would Itachi have met Mr. Hatake?  

Sasuke takes Hound's hand and holds it above his head. A measured and concise demand.  

“You're a bossy punk.” Mr. Hatake laughs dryly, Sasuke barely flinches. With slow strokes combing through his hair, sleep is already seeping into him, inviting him to a bright, silent place. “You know, kiddo, I was to wait for the right time, but, I don't think there is such a time…” Mr. Hatake shifts, then places something between Sasuke's hands. A thin sheet. Sasuke blinks sleepily, his eyes tired from everything he has strained them with in a single day. Still, he makes out just enough in the darkness and haze. “I thought you might want something like this,”  

If Sasuke had more tears to give, maybe he would have a couple of them wetting his face now. If his voice didn't crack before he made any sound, maybe now would be the time when everything he keeps and can't say comes out in a torrent of gibberish. As it is, Sasuke strokes his mother's black hair sleepily and is mesmerized by the softness in his father's face. It brings peace to his heart and is as peaceful as a lullaby. Her mother sang lullabies. While cleaning the house, while patching the crests on their clothes. While doing the accounts and while healing their wounds.

The irony is, Sasuke came looking for Hound, perfectly aware that he wouldn't find his parents. But here they are. He doesn't recognize them, doesn't reconcile these two people with stiff, withered expressions. Blood does not stain their skin, and the sun shines behind them through the window. It's them, only Sasuke had begun to forget what they were. His parents, they were - they are…. They are his most precious people. 

Slowly, sleep enters him and Sasuke falls asleep with fingers in his tresses and distant lullabies. He won't remember it in the morning, the fanciful dreams he's had of his family gathered at the breakfast table, with Mr. Hatake as a guest, laughing all of them, happy all of them - a friend of the family, or something like that. All so big that it can't be anything but a dream, otherwise Sasuke's hands are too small to hold all his dreams and illusions. A small poison that tastes like warm milk. He won't remember, and that's all the grace and gentleness Sasuke can afford for himself.