"It doesn't matter anymore, what happened back then."
The clock ticks as Shikamaru lifts his black coffee mug, watching the steam curl into the air, dissipating - then he sips, bitter and dark, coating his tongue like burning moss. Grimacing, setting the mug down onto the coaster - made of fired glass, baring the kanji for Love, a gift from his soon-to-be brother-in-law - he makes a mental note to hire a new intern.
He was promoted two weeks ago and is still in the process of moving. So far, the wall remains unadorned, except for a map of the Ninja Continent, as well as a woodcut featuring the Gyuki - a gift from the Raikage - partially blinded by the sunlight coming in through the window behind him. The drapes are still "in transit," tinted and woven like the surface of sea-water, a gift from the Hidden Mist.
Then, there is his new desk, arrived just that morning, a massive thing made of cut limestone, crafted by the next Tsuchikage candidate herself. Already, it's cluttered with stacks of manila folders, various unused paper-weights (including a snow-globe from the Land of Iron), a grass-woven pencil cup (from Hozuki Castle), stuffed tight with pens and highlighters. His new computer is still on order (manufactured by the tech department of the Hidden Rain) as such half the desk is taken by an old PC the size of a boulder, with a small dark screen, and a noisy monitor.
According to Shizune, it is the first computer that was ever in this office. The previous occupant, for decades, since the era of the Second War, was Koharu Utatane. The wallpaper was chosen by her: long vertical stripes of alternating mustard yellow and eggshell white, now peeling in several places along the edge of the ceiling. In the maroon armchairs (which were a gift from the Fire Daimyo), her scent still lingers: lemon candles, old age, and something almost aluminum. She was a hard old woman, whose threads to traditional feminine norms were the style of her hair-bun and the general expectation that kunoichi hold their tongue. Now, her office is used by the boyfriend of one of the most outspoken kunoichi in the Alliance - Temari of the Kazekage Lineage.
Returning to the matter at hand, Shikamaru clears his throat.
"I know this is - uncomfortable," he says, sitting up straighter, "For the both of us. But I can't reinstate you as a Shinobi unless you talk about it. We need a document describing it, and the doctors need to sign off that you are mentally stable. Sakura's the one who pushed for this new legislation, when she opened the Children's Clinic. Blame your fiancé."
"We're not getting married," Sasuke responds, curt, dry, un-sarcastic, a voice made of wood and tin, a stature of a de-fanged python. Sitting like a scarecrow in the chair across the desk, he does not brush away the bangs covering his left eye. His long pale hand rests palm upwards on his lap, his left sleeve dangles like a windless black flag.
Observing, Shikamaru twirls a black pen with his left hand, a nicotine itch emerging in his thoughts. He feels like his own father, now, lately, since the war, and he knows this is how it will be for the next several decades until, eventually, one year, he becomes older than his father. Until then, he is a man of offices and board meetings, diplomacy and micro-decisions. Stoic, watchful, ambassadorial. The next Hokage's closest shadow, responsible for keeping the strongest man in the world at ground level. For now, in the early years of his political office, Shikamaru is simply in a constant act of mental and fiscal preparation. In time, the Hero of the Fourth War will don the red-and-white cap, and the world will, once again, change.
"You're not? You're not getting married?" he asks, chewing that thought around in his mind. Sasuke simply stares back at him, a man who doesn't like to play word games.
"No," he responds, picking at his thumb with his forefinger, adjusting himself in the chair. He shakes his head, as if to confirm to himself his ongoing status as a bachelor. Sunlight, from the window behind the desk, reflects on his dark-black eyes, turning them almost tea-colored.
Sasuke is a wiry man, a weapon of a man, like a piece of metal beaten into shape. He knows the mechanisms of his body, his exact limits, his exact tendencies - the mathematics of fighting. In combat, he is fluid and seamless, a series of metallic glints, engorged fireballs, webs of electricity. His eyes which flicker, darken, and do no hesitate. When they dilate, turning black-and-red, taking the shape of pinwheels, this is indication that numerous terrible things may happen to his enemies: devoured by black hungry flames, collapsed into nightmarish comas, destroyed by violet arrows the size of buildings. His jutsus are endless and massive, yet he still keeps four shuriken sealed into an armlet, and the Kusanagi remains loyal at his waist.
Some small faraway part of Shikamaru fears him. This is the part that remembers the Fourth War, the two Uchiha he battled there, and the helplessness he felt as the Infinite Tsukoyomi took hold. That fear, or perhaps it is wisdom, both troubles and defines his role. He is making himself into an anchor for those that could destroy everything. Sasuke must go through him to become reinstated. Naruto must listen to him, when political action is needed.
This part of him that intends to control the all-powerful is a small part, however. The rest is loyal to Naruto. To that warmth, that light, that unconditional trust. Naruto is the ideal, the most compassionate, the most powerful, the more forgiving, the most naive. His worldview is the only, truly correct one - this is something both Shikamaru and Sasuke believe - yet that worldview is also the least applicable, the least obtainable, and the least possible. It is too good. Naruto is too good.
Of their little cabal, the famous Konoha Eleven, only Naruto emerged from the war uncorrupted. That continued undiluted light gave way to a shared understanding amongst his peers - under no circumstances should he dirty his own hands. Each of them, now, have their specific role as the Ninja Alliance veers towards peace, and each of them is the most qualified for their specific role. The two sitting across from each-other share this unspoken mutuality, this rule of living, and are the dual shadows of the future Seventh Hokage. Sasuke must banish the darkness from entering Naruto's world, while Shikamaru must control the darkness that already exists in Naruto's world. Together, separately, they plan to create a peaceable society in which their saviour can exude his natural warmth.
However, something stands in the way of this. And that is Sasuke's personal growth. His willingness to become new, to give up on the sour past, capitualting to a sudden desire to come home, to marry and reinstate his clan and find that domestic bliss he was never able to experience in life. If he becomes a member of Konoha, again, then the darkness surrounding Earth will be free to flourish and invade. In order for Naruto's worldview to permeate, Sasuke must leave, must roam, must remain restless.
As such, an order has arrived, two days ago, to Shikamaru, from the top, from the Sixth - "Do not reinstate Uchiha Sasuke as a Konoha Shinobi…. Make his re-instatement contingent on him giving up information on Orochimaru's training methods."
Shikamaru sighs, takes a drag of his coffee. His cigarettes sit in his desk drawer like a leaden weight, with an almost oppressive gravity.
"Why aren't you getting married?"
"Convention," Sasuke says, staring into his hand, curling and uncurling his fingers, watching the mechanism of his tendons.
"You don't adhere to convention?"
"… Convention as in - choosing between passion and convention."
"Habit, you mean. You're choosing not to marry, so that you can more easily undergo your current lifestyle."
Rubbing the back of his neck, Sasuke nods. They are quiet a moment.
"What does Sakura think about that?"
"She has the hospital. I have my mission. It doesn't make sense to interrupt any of that."
"Well," Shikamaru sighs, scratching his left temple, leaning back slightly, the chair creaking, "I can understand that, sure. It's the same way with Temari. She has a good job right now, as an Ambassador. Suna, like the other nations, is re-building, and that idea - reconstruction, change - it's a fragile thing."
"Right," Sasuke nods again, glancing at Shikamaru's eyes, something like acknowledgment flickering between them.
"Unless?"
"Unless I am re-instated. As a proper Shinobi."
"Of course," Shikamaru says, scratching his left wrist, "Then, you can start a family, properly. You can have an income, a house, a wife, maybe a child. You're making that domesticity contingent on your re-instatement. Otherwise, how could you provide? That's oddly paternal of you, Sasuke."
He does not respond. Sasuke is an intelligent, cunning man and knows when he's being manipulated.
"But before we can move forward on your re-instatement. Before we can stop interrupting our lives, we have to talk about Orochimaru."
Sasuke's body stiffens, narrows. Shikamaru takes note, in the paper on the clipboard. Black pen scratching. Closing his eyes, Sasuke re-focuses himself. Shikamaru looks up, pauses, then speaks.
"It was decided, as you know, in the post-war court proceedings, to give him amnesty, along with any other missing and rogue ninja, including yourself, Yakushi Kabuto, Team Taka, etcetera, etcetera," Shikamaru says, a strange joy in his tone, waving his hand through the etceteras, "With all the secrets of the Shinobi world coming out - ROOTs, the truth of the Bloody Mist, the Thunderchild program - It was realized how much damage we really had done against one another and against ourselves. From the way Pakura died, to Danzo implementing the Uchiha Massacre, to the feaux-betrayal of Kinkaku and Ginkaku, and even more recent events we thought we'd gotten over, like the Sand-Sound Invasion - it all came out, people were angry again, the alliance threatened to crumble.
Konoha, in particular, was in jeopardy, as a result of Danzo's activities, and given that all three masterminds behind the Fourth War were former Leaf-nin.
The war, by many, became viewed as a Konoha-centric struggle, rather than one involving the Shinobi Continent as a whole, given that both the villains of the war, and the major fighters on our side - Naruto, you, the edo Hokages, the Sixth, Might Guy - all Konoha shinobi. Some even went as far as to claim this was a Konoha civil war that everyone else got manipulated into. Many, nearly half of the survivors, especially those of Minor Villages, viewed their own losses as the fault of us.
And the losses were great. Over fifty-thousand dead Chunin and Jonin in just the first day of fighting. Kumogakure was completely destroyed in the second. And less tangible losses, too - Heroes of the past were desecrated, our collective idea of what it meant to be a shinobi was shattered.
It was a chaotic time, a time of self-reflection - people were angry, confused. Adding onto that, the Hyuuga Clan wanted recompense from Kumogakure, for their attempted kidnapping of their heiress and the death of Hizashi. Kiri was a mess, after discovering the truth behind their Fourth Mizukage, that he was controlled by a former Konoha Shinobi. Even Iwagakure was still angry about the loss of the Kamizuru Clan, to our Aburame, as well as Leaf-nin perceived roles in corrupting Deidara.
And, of course, the generally peaceable Samurai, who lost far far too many in the war, in a shinobi war, still remembered your attack on the Gokage Summit that winter, how you killed their members, and the jailbreak which your Team Taka later implemented. Yet, we gave you amnesty, we never did hunt you down, never did call you a Rouge Ninja - at least, until Danzo did…. The Ninja World is still angry about that.
Only Suna still stood beside us, but not without their own grumblings. Gaara's shinobi populace still bares scars from the failed invasion, and their elders still recall our history of taking their jobs from the Wind Daimyo. It was hard, as you remember. Konoha was becoming hated, almost suddenly, despite our victories in the war. The peace between the Five Great Nations was halted, fracturing.
Of course, there was Naruto. The strongest shinobi in the world. And you, the other strongest shinobi in the world. Both loyal to Konoha. The other villages had to tread carefully, their word choice was precise and deliberate. The peace proceedings were going nowhere. And the memories of our experiences in the Infinite Tsukoyomi, those perfect lives we never led yet - those memories pervaded our thoughts in ways you, and Team Seven, could not understand.. It was frustrating, to have lived out our ideals lives, only to wake up in cocoons, on a battlefield, our wounds un-healed, the dead surrounding us… I - I lived a boring life, in the Tsuokoymi. It was peaceful, calm, and wonderful. My father was alive, Asuma was alive, raising his daughter, with Kurenai… and we played Go, again, and I beat him like always. Temari was there, with me, and we had a son, and - Naruto was, was Hokage, in a time of peace. And - it's hard to even talk about, to be honest. It was a wonderful dream. There was no violence, no dead fathers, or dead comrades, nothing bad happened. I simply lived out a long, easy life and passed in my sleep. When I awoke, it was on the battlefield, the bandages falling away, the land around me destroyed, the dead splayed out around the ground, body parts, dried blood everywhere - that's how I knew time had passed, the blood was dry, that's how I knew something had - well, anyway. It was - difficult - and it was like that for everyone, for literally everyone. As the time passes, we're forgetting the events our our illusion lives. Yes. But we cannot forget that feeling of peace. It's become the reason for striving. Everyone in the world knew peace, knew what that really feels likes, and everyone in the world realized we've never actually had that, not once in history. So - it's what we strive for, now… In the end, I guess, the Tsukoyomi - and Naruto - became the reason we still have this alliance. We cast an "Infinite Forgiveness." We had to forgive one another. Naruto, as you know, was in the center of that. He was the symbol of it. He publicly forgave Kurama and Obito for the deaths of his parents, Nagato and the Rain for the death of Jiraiya: he spoke for Konoha, too, for all atrocities that had been done unto us as a Village.
Those speeches he gave, he inspired people again. One by one, people stood up and forgave each-other. Sai spoke for his fellow surviving ROOTs agents. Anko spoke for people like you, Sasuke, who had been inflicted with the cursed seal. Kabuto even offered to use Zetsus to revive some of the old enemies, so that we could all find our final peace with them. And it wasn't just Leaf-nin, either. The old violences between Kiri and Iwa were healed. The famously prideful Raikage prostrated himself to Hyuuga Hiashi. Sunagakure agreed to help re-locate, and re-build, the Hidden Sound refugees. You were forgiven, too, by the Samurai, by Killer Bee, and Karin.
Things were going well, Sasuke. Then, it came to you. All that was left was for you to forgive Konoha, the elders Homura and Koharu, for what they did to your family. Of course, you couldn't. You refused to. You placed that burden on Naruto's shoulders. Indra still lived, lives, in you, in that way, with his eternal grudge. That's fine, I understand it, sure, I do. But in order to reverse the cycle of hatred and violence, we needed to iron out all the knots, Sasuke. It was hard, I remember. But you did it. With the help of Naruto and Sakura, you were able to do it, you were able to forgive them. In response, the elders retired and spend their time volunteering, helping people, they wear that cross of repentance, Sasuke, like you do.
But, now we need to talk about what happened with Orochimaru, too. He was given a lifetime's worth of house arrest. Yamato offered to keep watch on him, claiming it was his duty as one of Orochimaru's creations and in order to repent for his failures during the war. Even Taka, who had all been forgiven, volunteered themselves to work there, and live there, with Orochimaru, their abuser, in order to protect the world from him. Only Karin, likely, was still loyal. The other two, Juugo and Suigetsu, only did that because of you, Sasuke. Because you told them to…. Sakura noticed something odd when you did that, when it was Orochimaru's turn to speak in the courts, how you shrank, how you lost something about yourself. What was it, Sasuke? I think we all know. And I think we all know that you live well despite your pain, that you help people and are loyal to Naruto, but we need to talk about it. Frankly, I need to be able to confirm your mental stability before I can re-instate you, Sasuke."
"It doesn't matter anymore."
— — —
"They won't reinstate you? Don't - don't you want to be a Leaf Shinobi, again?"
Sasuke looks past her face, towards the front door of her apartment. It's a small, messy place. Dishes are stacked, obstructing his peripheries. Covering the carpet, a fine layer of cat hair. And on the coffee table, between a coaster sticky with congealed popsicle rind and a coaster overflown with burnt out match-sticks, sits a puddle of water with a flat surface winking under orange lamp-light. For the past three days, it has been slowly, quietly evaporating.
Between her work at the hospital, her continued studies under the Fifth Hokage, and recently campaigning for the founding of a new children's mental health ward, Sakura has not found time to clean.
"I haven't been a Konoha-ninja in years, now. Not since we were kids."
"I'm surprised at Kakashi-sensei," she says, re-directing her complaint, a huff in her tone, a folding of the arms, a leaning back on the wooden stool. Then, a mote of quiet, that awkward unspoken thing hovering between them.
They sit together, on stools, drinking coffees at the kitchen counter-top. Granite, stained with onion juice. Several half-drunk glasses of water, milk, orange juice. A roll of paper towels lying on it's side, torn to shreds by the cat whose nails have not been trimmed in weeks. Was Sakura always this messy, he wonders.
"You need to clean, Sakura - and it was your idea, anyway, to ascertain the mental health of shinobi returning from the war, before re-instating them. That was your idea."
"You need to clean," she retorts, a raised eyebrow, "Since you're staying at my place, and - obviously you're not busy, except for these meetings with Shikamaru, and wondering around the city at night - you should help out a little."
Picking up the mug, he takes a sip of coffee. Too much sugar and cream, it's like drinking lukewarm vanilla sweetener.
Sakura's mugs are all different sizes, colors, shapes, materials. Her's, right now, is from the hospital. White, mundane, porcelain, gleaming slightly from the lamp-light. The most basic of coffee mugs, comfortable in any setting, sterile or otherwise.
His, on the other hand, the one he's drinking from, that she poured for him, is larger and rounder and made of fired clay, colored with baby-blue glaze, and baring a small cursive inscription - You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don't take. She found it at a fleet market, she said, and 'just had to buy it'.
Blinking once, unwilling to expose his feelings about this mug, he takes another sip and grimaces. He likes to grimace. And he likes the way sugarless coffee tastes, how it coats his tongue and gums and teeth. There's something unabashed about it, something almost compelling or endearing or inspiring about plain black coffee. Yet, this coffee is sweet, and Sakura sits there, observing and reacting to the smallest of his facial expressions.
He sets the mug back down. She does, too.
"You can, you can always talk to me about it, too, you know. Not just - any health professional is fine to talk to. I'd be able to vouch for you, I'd just have to file for permission to fill out the forms as your proxy."
"It doesn't matter, anymore."
"It does, it does matter. Don't you want to come home? To be a shinobi, again?"
Sasuke doesn't respond, he just stares at the front door. The bronze chain hanging from the lock, like a tired thing. The knob gleaming slightly in the afternoon sunlight. The inflated shadows cast from the potted plant on the windowsill. He's been fighting for years, since he was seven, and now he is sitting on a stool, in a small messy apartment, everything he's learned and wants to say turning sour in his throat.
Silence is easier, smoother, more composed. Has it always been that way? No - he was different when he was six. When he was six, he was happy. That was the last time, maybe, that he felt true, sustaining joy. When he was six. Everything since then, every feeling since then, has been a rebuttal.
"Sasuke," she whispers, something almost erotic about her voice, her forefingers touching the edge of his chin - and he flinches, he re-coils, like a surprised feline. Her eyes are green and unafraid, open and wet and tender, a complex litany of emotions evolving in her pupils: anger, sadness, fear, courage, compassion, composure, vulnerability, wisdom, kindness, exhaustion, poise, clutter, stress, simplicity, complexity, inner strength, and something maternal. Almost constantly, in recent days, she astounds him, and he feels things he doesn't understand, and desires that frighten him, and when the painful memories begin to recede against her light, he clutches them with desperate thoughtlessness. It's almost involuntary, how he keeps hold of his pain, how he continues to be oppressed by his own past. When that happens, he knows his life is wasted.
They were both child soldiers, but even within that generational tragedy, her life was somehow suburban. How did her parents do it? How did they love her, and put up with her, and raise her, and urge her, push her, compel her, and how did they not crumble in fear every time she went on a mission? Or, maybe they did. Maybe they did. He's met them, once. He had dinner with them, at their home, Sakura's childhood home, and when he entered their house many things about her suddenly made sense, her existence became rational and expected. But - her parents: they are exuberant and normal. Strange within their style, their aesthetics and tastes, but almost banal, and happily banal, within their day-to-day, their ongoing messy lives. They treated him like family, he recalls. They tried to make him laugh. They quickly ascertained his social tendencies, and gave him personal space, unshadowed warmth, and they made him pray before eating. They gave him dinner. Smoked quail eggs, dusted with paprika. Jasmine rice, with salt and soy sauce. Steamed carrot cuts, broccoli stems, and - the cooking reminded him of his mother. This mixture of the traditional and the strange, the western, the foreign. He felt so ashamed of himself, of his sullenness, his somber personality, his cold flat hard face. How dare he invade their home with his barbed anger. How dare he interrupt their family with his orphanhood. He left as fast as possible, as soon as dinner ended. It was like a heist, being there with them, meeting her parents. It felt like he was stealing something, an intangible something, and then retreating back to his own personal slum, the empty disheveled crumbling Uchiha district, with all those boarded up windows and wide open doors leading to empty hallways, rooms, and basements. A maze of loneliness. A -
"Sasuke," she says, commands, her tone equal parts pity and love, snapping him back into the moment. Her fingers curled against his jawline, the smell of her lime hand-soap, her unwashed hair tied back into a sharp ponytail, her eyes infuriatingly compassionate and soft.
Gritting his teeth, he looks away, for she is too close, too incredibly close.
"I have to go to work," she says, removing her hand, and he can taste a hint of her breath, toothpaste, mint, her mouth, "But I'll be back tonight, late. I only have one set of keys, so - please leave the door unlocked. Or - or you can stay up late enough to let me in?"
"Okay," he says, unblinking. She smiles at him, a crooked forgiving smile, and kisses his forehead before departing. After she leaves, the door closing behind her, her footsteps receding down the hall, into quiet, into silence, the apartment feels smaller, messier, and less cluttered. He wants to sit and relax, to be alone for as long as possible. But something is nipping at his feet, something compels him to stand, to walk, to wander.
Exhaling, standing, he picks up his coffee mug, takes a sip, and almost smiles at the sweetness of it.
— — —
Her keys jangle in his pocket as he stops in the alleyway. He likes alleyways, the privacy of them. And how they look out into busy streets. All those people passing by, and they don't see him there, leaning against the brick wall, next to a big blue dumpster. And he likes the aesthetics of alleyways, too. The clotheslines and power-lines colluding, tangling above him. The seam down the middle of the concrete, parting the alley in two. All the trash - wet plastic bags, smashed two-by-fours, aluminum cans and cigarette butts - pushed to the sides, the walls, the back steps of apartments and restaurant kitchens. There is a somewhat depraved motif about alleyways, something lowly and shinobi-like, something secretive and cunning and he's always liked the smell of tobacco, cigarettes, and trash. It makes him feel like a vagabond, like someone existing in the fringe of normalcy. So, he leans there, against the cold hard brick, checking that her keys are still in his pocket, and stares out at the street beyond the alley, and the people passing by, all those normal everyday people, carrying wicker baskets of herbs, fruits and vegetables, carrying purses and bags and knapsacks, walking with haste and purpose and direction, disappearing from view as they pass the edge of the building. A stream of people like that, those normal people. Some of them wear shinobi headbands, or flak jackets, or open toed military sandals. Most of them are just citizens.
Then, he hears a familiar voice. All sunlight and unabashed confidence. Obnoxious and loud and declarative and annoyingly doubtless. The voice of the man he owes his life to, who he owes everything to, whose values he does not share even to the slightest extent, but whose pain he understands on the deepest level and whose worldview he would uphold and follow into the darkest places.
Sasuke ducks behind the dumpster, listening. He hears them outside, passing by the opening of the alleyway. He does not recognize the other voice.
Well…. He did always like it when I used the Sexy no Jutsu. Sometimes he'd make me use it in exchange for training. But he never went too far with it.
Jiraiya-sama used to drink a lot, right?
Oh yeah, totally! But he actually got less lecherous when he drank. Alcohol kind of lowered his libido, I guess.
He never asked you to - do anything, for him?
Oh! All the time! Totally! But it was just a joke, I guess. He liked to joke.
Naruto…
He was a great teacher. Not necessarily a great person, sometimes. When it came to liquor, women and gambling. But in general he was a good man, I think. He saw the goodness in people. He saw that the world we live in, the system we perpetuate, isn't good enough. You know? He called it madness, once, the shinobi system, the child soldiership, the need for child soldiers… He showed me the world, you know? He brought me all across the continent, and I met all sorts of people, and I saw - mostly, almost entirely - good people trapped in a corrupt system. He showed me that people, generally, maybe even all people, maybe even the absolute worst people, want to live good lives, want to have self-respect and survive and - If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be who I am today. I wouldn't forgive people or see the light in people. I - I probably would have gone down a dark path, honestly. He saved me. And just because he was like that, just because he asked me to turn into a girl for him sometimes, that doesn't ruin all the good he did, you know? It's up to me to decide how I feel about that, you know?
Yeah. Yeah, you're right, Naruto, you're right. I'm sorry.
Hehe!, well, you helped me a lot, too, Izumo! You saved me, too!
Me?! Hah!
Sasuke relaxes as their voices drift away, down the street, out of view. He stays there, behind the dumpster, watching a rat peek out from a hole in the wall, peering it's whiskery little face about, it's tiny black shiny eyes, it's pinkish nub of a nose.
When they were kids, Naruto was not like that. Naruto was an angry, rude, unhappy child who held grudges and acted as though everyone owed him something and he would always take it too far, he would always try to destroy or take the light out of the things people held in the highest esteem, like the Hokage.
But now, he is the light, he is the thing held in highest esteem, and he has found warmth, sunlight, friendships and love. He allowed himself to be vulnerable, to be hurt, and maybe it was because he never had anyone in the first place.
Maybe because Sasuke lost everything all at once, maybe that is why he cannot open himself like Naruto can. Even after the war, and their battle at Valley of the End, and accepting Sakura's feelings, and all those longs months of court proceedings and house arrest and appeals, requitals and finally amnesty - even after all that, he remains closed and distant. Sasuke still cannot stay in one place, and he still cannot let people in - and it feels to him like he failed his life. Like he had this one, precious life, but he tore it to shreds.
And now, in that existential place, the only thing he can do, the only good thing he can do, is let Naruto and Sakura guide him. He knows that, and he feels warm within that, but the shame is persistent and present.
How does a person get over his various abuses? His brother who loved him. His brother who killed their family, and who tortured him twice, and whose eyes are now his eyes. His mentor who made him strong, who taught him the secrets of ninjutsu. His mentor who manipulated him, and violated him, and cursed him, and tried to kill him. And Indra, he is still there, somewhere inside, angry and unamused and vindicated.
The Second Hokage said the Uchiha are naturally bipolar. That they love too much, then hate too much, then - but what about his clan? And - his children, one day? Sakura will want children. What will they become? If he cannot triumph over his abuses, what will they become? Are they destined to legitimize the Second's racism? Is this just a conspiracy of fate? Would he, always, in every lifetime, turn out like this?
He wants to destroy, again. So, instead, he breathes, and he quiets his thoughts, and he acts like a shinobi.
No, he decides, No, I will not hurt my children.
For a long time, Sasuke sits there, staring at the rat as it scavenges. Then, all at once, he stands to his feet and checks that her keys are still in his pocket.
— — —
"I see. So you're not coming back."
Sasuke nods, knowing now, in this moment, it is what they wanted all along. For him to live a life of repentance, for him to go out into the peripheries of reality, into those places and realms only he, with his special eyes, can venture. Yes, Sasuke realizes, nodding, settling into his life's purpose - fine, good.
Kakashi watches him, assessing him from behind clasped hands.
The Sixth Hokage, The Copy Ninja, once known as Kakashi of the Sharingan, Divisional Commander of the Fourth War, former ANBU Captain, son of the infamous White Fang, student of the Fourth Hokage, teacher of the inevitable Seventh Hokage, and the man credited with the defeat of several S-Rank Shinobi, including Momichi Zabuza, Kakuzu of the Akatsuki, has even successfully battled Bijuu, was instrumental in the sealing of Ootsuki Kaguya - this is a man of countless achievements and accolades, possibly the greatest of which was receiving a compliment from the Sage of the Six Paths himself. Yet, despite all that, he is surpassed by his students, particularly the one standing in front of him right now.
Uchiha Sasuke, the last of the hated Uchiha Clan, who has clashed with Kages, Perfect Jinchurki, S-Rank Rogue Shinobi, and a God, credited with the defeat of countless powerful Shinobi such as Deidara of the Clay Release, Yakushi Kabuto the Dragon Sage, Shimura Danzo the interim Sixth Hokage, and his own brother, Uchiha Itachi, implementor of the Uchiha Massacre. He is the former pupil of the White Snake, the son of a Hokage candidate, a former S-Rank rogue ninja, former leader of Team Taka, has ties with the fabled Ryuuchi Kingdom, possesses two of the three Legendary Dojutsu, was blessed with power by the Sage of the Six Paths, sealed Ootsuki Kaguya with his own hand, stole the power of all nine Bijuu at once, and ended the Infinite Tsukoyomi and thus the Fourth War.
The two men in this room are men of experience, war, pain and conflict. Even amongst their little cabal, their Team Seven, these two share a particular relationship known unto only them. For within both, there exists a certain cruelty, a disregard for human life that is informed by the pain these two have suffered and the long bloody nights of battle.
Still, after all these years, Sasuke remembers being tied, with wire, to that oak tree, and Kakashi standing in front of him, making one last attempt to prevent him from leaving the village - "They're already dead" - those words, and the small sad smile in his sensei's closed eyes, still haunt Sasuke, still make him doubt himself and his choices, and still fill him with the tiniest grain of regret.
What might have happened had he just listened? The slow burn of want, the desire for power, and that once tingling curse mark on his neck - could he have lived a better, more proper life, if he had only stayed? There is no way to know, anymore, and that is all, now, in the impossible past.
The person he was back then, as a child, as a budding soldier, crushed with hatred and envy and - but he could not kill the person who mattered most, in the heaviest drapes of rain, on the swollen muddy banks of the river, with the towering twin statues of the two strongest Shinobi towering above them… He could not kill Naruto, back then.
There was still something good in Sasuke, and he himself could not see that, but Naruto did, who never stopped believing in him, and Sakura, who never stopped loving him, and Kakashi, who wore the same eye as him, and shared the same affinity as him, who bared the same pain as him, and was also called a genius, a prodigy - and there was always something manipulative about him, about Kakashi, that Sasuke always did admire, even as a child…
It takes something, a certain respect, a certain trust, to let a man draw symbols, in his own blood, across your body, to let him seal his own chakra into you, to then trust him with your coma, your small vulnerable form, while you are hunted by a snake…
For it was from Kakashi that Sasuke inherited lightning, and it was from Kakashi that Sasuke learned the first secrets of the Sharingan, and it was from Kakashi that Sasuke attained speed, muscular wit, a weaponized body, and it was Kakashi who trusted him to defeat the Sand Demon, Gaara of the Desert, who had already taken lives, limbs in the Chunin Exams.
There was a trust they shared that Sasuke had always taken for granted. And so when Kakashi tied him to that oak tree, maybe he really did believe he could change Sasuke, right then and there, by opening up about his past, his demons, his lost loved ones, by showcasing him pain - but in the end, it came out wrong, it came out almost like boasting, almost like belittling, and it drove Sasuke deeper into the darkness. That was Kakashi's mistake. The trust had soured. The feeling of security, something almost parental…
Kakashi was always a narrowed figure, a cruel mentor, and unwilling to reveal too much, secretive as Shinobi are, and unwilling to return any feelings of companionship that Sasuke, or the others, might have offered him.
Well, they both know this. And they both know what happened, and how things turned out, and all the jags and motes and cracks and breaks that followed, and now things are better, safer, more boring, and there is a kind of certainty to their lives, something fate-like, as if they both know things would have been the same in every lifetime, no matter what - Sasuke would always leave the village, just like the Sannin, just like Madara. It is simply his way, his restless unforgiving cruel way. He is a rurouni at heart, a seeker, a traveller.
"Sakura will be sad," Kakashi states, matter of fact, letting his hands, fingerless black gloves, fall to rest on the desk-top. The mask still covering his mouth and nose. Infinite layers of protection. A Shinobi, forever.
Sasuke nods, agreeing, unwilling to make eye contact. He looks at the tidiness of the desk, the stacks of white papers, filled with lines of black ink, reports, surveys, statistics and analysis, the unseen bureaucracy behind the Hokage-ship. He almost laughs: Naruto will hate being Hokage.
"She'll be fine," he finally intones, his empty sleeve rustling in a breeze from the open window, "Sakura is a Shinobi, a doctor… and a member of Team Seven…. She'll be fine."
"The amnesty period will end, eventually, Sasuke. If in, say, twenty years, you want to come back, for whatever reason, you might not be able to, or at least you might not be able to re-instate as an active Shinobi, with a rank, and missions - are you okay with that?"
"Shinobi do not change," Sasuke retorts, picking his tone up, making eye contact, "The Five Nations, Konoha, will always need strength, power. When that time comes, when the next crisis happens, I want to be - I want to be able to know what is right."
Kakashi blinks, hiding his smile under his mask, and sighs his way into his sentence, "And, if you're not back yet, at that time, when we need you?"
"Naruto will protect everyone."
"Naruto… Naruto is strong, I know. He is - he will be the next Hokage. But there are things Naruto cannot defeat on his own. Kaguya, Madara, beings like that. What happens if our fears are confirmed, and there is another one like her, on it's way? Sasuke, if something like that happens… Or, if Naruto is gone, then only you can protect everyone."
Sasuke stares into his mentor's face, the blank flat eyes, the crisp gray hair, the ageless cheekbones and forehead - he clears his throat, "If Naruto is gone, then I will return."
"Is that a promise?"
Sasukes nods once, like a soldier.
Relaxing himself, Kakashi returns his hands to his mouth, and closes his eyes in content - everything is contrived, everything is deliberate, everything is a small necessary manipulation - "Well! Good, then, I suppose I can confirm your request, as a former missing-nin, to leave the village."
Without uttering a thank you, Sasuke stands up from the chair, turns away and heads out the door, letting it close quietly behind him, leaving Kakashi there, behind his big Hokage desk, in his big Hokage office, exhaling, sealing closed a small door in the back of his mind.
— — —
When Sakura returns home, sticky with sweat from the hospital, hair tied up in a messy bun, she finds the door unlocked, the keys on the counter, the big blue coffee mug washed and placed neatly in the drawer above the sink - and the rest of her apartment cleaned and organized and immaculate. All the dishes in the cupboards, the floor swept, the cat hair vacuumed, the litter-box cleared and replaced, the surfaces wiped and dusted. The only remnant of the cleaning process is a bottle of spray, sitting on a the coffee table, alongside a tube of paper towels.
Sinking into an armchair, feeling dirtier within the new cleanliness of her home, Sakura doesn't even need to read the note he left on the kitchen counter, next to her house keys, underneath her coffee mug.
Holding her knees against her chest, her hand resting on her belly, she closes her eyes and lets the exhaustion of her daily routine overtake her. Deep into sleep, she falls, the last rational thought: Always, in every lifetime, he will leave.