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Chapter 16

and if you feel like letting go, I won't let you fall

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A/N: Happy Sunday, everyone. This is the first chapter of the Part I double finale. Hope you enjoy :D

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64年7月22日

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"Third Raikage's dead. Took three days of straight fighting to protect his men."

Fuguki sighs heavily and drowns his sake in one sip, the liquid burning its way down his throat. Across the room, the barkeeper pretends not to listen, but his trembling hands, constant glances, and gasps betray him. It reeks of spilled alcohol.

Biwa Jūzō sinks into the chair beside him, calm as you please. His hair is damp from the rain pelting outside, a soft pitter-patter against the bar's roof, and droplets cling to the edges of Kubikiribōchō's hilt like tiny pearls. For once, he managed to ditch his shadow.

Good. Zabuza is only thirteen. No need to confront the lad with so much tragedy just yet— not when it might already be too late, when he's already seen enough blood to last a lifetime. Fuguki hasn't forgotten the slaughter that was the lad's graduation exam, the scent of iron in the air, the lifeless bodies of too many small children stacked like firewood, him in the middle of it. Zabuza walked away from it too calm, too unbothered.

It even disturbed Lord Third.

At least Jūzō had the sense not to drag Zabuza on that mission to Wind Country. No point in teaching a boy the art of survival by watching comrades die too soon. Fuguki didn't take Kisame either, though he is almost sixteen now and ready for the kind of work that leaves scars no one can see. Still, Fuguki has a plan for him— a plan that needs patience and Kisame alive. No sense in losing a powerful ally before they reached their full potential…

"A death many envy," Fuguki says finally and reaches for a second glass. He fills both with sake, his hands steady as the change of seasons.

Jūzō nods, face grim. "Just so."

"His son, then?" Fuguki swirls the sake in his glass. "A as the Fourth Raikage?"

Jūzō snorts. "Aye, the kid's been prepped for it. A lot cleaner than the messes we call successions."

Fuguki laughs, dry and humourless. "I dread the day Lord Isui passes, truth be told."

He drowns his sake in one shot.

Jūzō follows suit.

"Must be nice," Jūzō says after a few moments of silence. "Having a stable succession like theirs."

"You know that sounds like treason, right?" comes a voice from behind them, dry and sharp as a winter wind. Wood scrapes against wood. She pulls out the chair opposite them, which creaks under her as if protesting her audacity, and the barkeeper begins eyeing the exit with a wary kind of panic.

"Ameyuri," Jūzō says, nodding in greeting. "You see it too, don't you?"

Her laugh is jagged, turning into coughs that rattle in her chest. "Sure, we've got a line of succession. Moyashi, Hōzuki, Hijiki— Setoka's next in line." Her grin is sharp, jagged teeth bared as if daring anyone to challenge her.

"Munashi has Shibuki," Fuguki says, disagreeing. He reaches for a third glass and pours another drink, "The Setoka don't have a candidate strong enough to take the Hat. Kaito's death sealed it— and Munashi won the sword fair, by right of battle."

Ameyuri's eyes narrow. Though she is as wild and crazy as Kushimaru and Munashi, he can rarely read her. Kushimaru is predictable, primal in his desires, and Munashi wears his thoughts and feelings on his face. "Yeah, true. Well, the Hijiki aren't much better. Katsuro might be their top Typhoon Release user, but even they can't stand the guy."

"Another Hōzuki?" Jūzō hums and leans back. "Ryūgetsu, maybe?"

"Probably," Fuguki agrees. "The Moyashi might stand a chance in a few years, once Yūji's strong enough to contend. He's already making waves out on the frontlines."

Ameyuri crackles again. "Heard he's trying to worm his way under Jin-chan's wing."

"Oh?"

Jūzō smirks. "Yeah. Heard he's swinging a cleaver these days. That and more explosives than an Iwa pyromaniac."

Ameyuri empties her glass. "Does Jin-chan even want an apprentice?"

"Nah, I don't."

Munashi, dried blood clinging to his messy, knotted brown hair, one useless eye hidden beneath a dirtied eyepatch, slumps into a chair beside Jūzō. All he needs, Fuguki thinks, is a parrot, and he would be one of those pirates from Akuto's stories. Back when he was younger and making up the wildest of stories by the day, each one more fantastic than the other.

Munashi glares at the barkeeper, orders an ale, and looks at Fuguki. "Why? Who's interested?" he asks, voice like gravel.

"Moyashi Yūji," Fuguki says.

Munashi lets out a bark of laughter. The barkeeper flinches as he sets down the drink. "That little shit? Been following me lately, thinks I wouldn't notice."

Ameyuri leans forward, the grin on her face promising nothing good. "Would've been embarrassing if you hadn't, Jin-chan."

Munashi jerks to his feet, ale and sake spilling across the table. Killing intent crashes over them. The barkeeper finally bolts, clearly having reached his wit's end, leaving the apron hanging on a hook by the door. Chairs scrape.

Fuguki raises a hand. He takes a deep breath. "Let's all calm down," he says and pours another round. "Challenging days are ahead of us."

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64年7月26日

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The kitchen is quiet, except for the soft hum of the fridge and the faint patter of rain against the window. Akuto sits on the large windowsill, the only one big enough to. The mist is thin tonight and he can see the stars and constellations watching them. It's late and he needs to get up early but he can't sleep again. He peels his eyes away from the empty streets and stares at his shaky fingers. They're clean— he washed them before and after dinner, and again just before— but he can still see the blood.

It feels like it's soaked into his skin. Deeper than water can ever wash away.

Nanami walks in, then. He knows it's her without looking. She's the only one who doesn't bother with hiding her footsteps in the house and hers are heavy, confident. Like she's about to challenge the world to a fight and win.

"What are you doing up this late?" she asks. She sounds tried, annoyed, concerned, and suspicious all at once. He doesn't blame her. Lately, every time they talk, it feels like he's holding something back. And he is.

"Nothing," he says, eyes still fixed on his hands.

"Uh-huh," she says, unimpressed. He doesn't need to see her to know her eyes are narrowed, her brow wrinkled, and her lips pressed together in a thin line. If she's particularly stubborn, her arms'll be crossed and her frown might be closer to a glare. The chair closest to him scrapes against the floor as she pulls it out and sits down. "You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

He doesn't know why he asks. He knows what she means. He never meant to pull away from her, from Mei, but every time he looks at them, he can hear Hijiki's voice, the laughter of the Tawdry Three, and the merchant begging— Don't you have a family?

Every time he looks at his family, he cannot help but feel judged. Every time he looks at his family, shame crashes over him like a wave. He feels like he's drowning in it. He failed them. Hijiki was right. How can he protect his family, when he couldn't even save that merchant? How can he protect anyone, when he can't even protect himself?

"That thing where you sulk like some tragic storybook hero and act like everything's on your shoulders."

"I'm not sulking," he snaps, sharper than he means to. He can feel her watching him, those sharp purple eyes of hers cutting into him like a needle. He shifts on the sill, hating how exposed he feels— how he knows Aneki sees right through him and his flimsy attempts to hide.

"Alright," she says, dragging the word out. "So, what's eating at you? And don't even try 'nothing.' You're shite at lying."

His jaw tightens. He tries to think of a response, but his mind feels blank, like someone's erased all the words he knows. His stomach churns, bile rises in his throat. "It's nothing," he mumbles because there's nothing else he can say.

Aneki snorts. Tonight, Okan isn't here to stop her pushing. "If it were nothing, you wouldn't look like you're about to hurl. So? Out with it."

He clenches his hands into fists. "I'm fine," he says through gritted teeth.

"Akuto. Otouto." Her voice softens, and he hates it. Hates how it cracks something open inside him. She leans forward, resting her arms on her knees. "Talk to me."

The words hit him like Hijiki's blow to his ribs, knocking the air of his lungs. He wants to talk to her— he really does— but every time he tries, the words get stuck in his throat. Japanese has roughly five hundred thousand words and yet he cannot seem to find the right ones to string together what he's feeling. He swallows hard. His vision blurs as tears prick at the corner of his eyes. He wills them away, wills himself to keep it together.

He pulls his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around them, and rests his trembling chin on top. "I can't stop thinking about them," he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers curl around the fabric of his pyjamas, and he clenches it tightly enough until his knuckles turn white.

Nanami doesn't push. She doesn't press for details or demand explanations. She just waits, ready to listen.

"They're always there," he continues, voice trembling. His breathing is uneven, and his hands won't stop shaking. "The merchant… all the shinobi I killed. I see their faces. Every time I close my eyes, they're just— there." He swallows thickly, a lump rising in his throat. "And I can't get them out of my head."

(Bulging eyes. Trembling chin. Rasping breaths— Sour bile— Grating laughter, beady eyes— A sickening twip. Soft cries— terrified brown eyes— A spray of red—)

Aneki sits down on the counter, close to him, and takes his shaking, cold hands into her warm, calloused, steady ones. "They were going to kill you," she says softly, voice steady as the stars in the sky, and warm like the summer sun. "You didn't have a choice."

"But I did," he snaps, sharp and bitter. He finally looks at her, knows his eyes are red-rimmed and wet. They sting and a headache is growing in the back of his head. "I could've run. I could've… done something. Anything else."

"And then what?" she says, challenging. "Think they'd stop chasing you? Spare you because they're just so full of mercy? Don't kid yourself, Akuto. You know better."

He doesn't answer. He can't. His teeth bite into his lower lip, the sharp sting and bitter taste of blood grounding him just enough to keep from spiralling entirely.

"Do you think I haven't killed before?" Nanami asks. Her voice is softer now. She traces soothing circles on the back of his hand. "Do you think Okan hasn't? Or Fuguki-oji? This is the world we live in, Akuto. It's brutal. Cruel. It forces you to make choices that stick with you. But you made it back. You're here. Home. That's what matters."

"At what cost?" His voice breaks, and he presses his forehead against his knees. "Every time I look at my hands, all I see is blood. It doesn't matter how much I scrub, it's still there. It always will be."

Aneki leans back slightly, exhaling slowly, steadily. "You're not the only one, you know."

He glances up, confused, and she lets go of his hands and rolls up her sleeve, revealing faint scars crisscrossing her forearms. "This? From a mission last year. We were ambushed while escorting a caravan. It was us or them. And yeah, it still haunts me sometimes. I think about it— just like you're thinking about them now. And it sucks. The guilt always does. But that's the price we pay to survive."

Akuto stares at her scars, silent. He's never noticed them before.

"It's not about forgetting," she continues quietly. Softly. "You don't forget. You can't. But you learn to live with it. You have to, or it'll tear you apart."

He shakes his head. "I don't want to live like this!" His voice rises slightly. "I don't want to feel like I'm drowning every time I think about it. I didn't ask for this, Aneki. None of it!"

"No one asks for it, Akuto." Her voice hardens, just slightly. "But this is the life we've got. There's no running from it. What we can do is decide how we deal with it. You think you're alone in this? You're not. We've all been there. Hell, we're all still there."

His shoulders shake as the first tear slips down his cheek. He wipes it away angrily, but it's no use. More follow, hot and relentless. "I can't do this," he chokes out. "I can't… I'm not like you. Or Okan. Or anyone else. I'm not strong enough for this."

Nanami's expression softens, and she shifts to her knees, her hands gripping his shoulders firmly. "Listen to me," she says firmly. "You are not weak. You're ten, Akuto. Ten. And you've survived more than some ever will. That's not weakness. That's strength. You're still here, aren't you?"

He nods weakly, barely able to meet her gaze.

"Then you keep going," she says, her grip tightening. "You keep fighting. For yourself. For Okan. For Fuguki-oji. For Kirimaru, Shizuki, or Mei, or whoever the hell you care about. You keep going because that's what we do. That's how we survive."

He bites his lip. Wants to believe her. He really does. But— "What if I can't?" he whispers, the words barely audible.

"You can," she says. "And you will. Because you're not alone, Akuto. You've got us. You've got me. And I'm not letting you fall. Got it?"

His vision blurs, and he doesn't fight it this time. The tears come freely now, and he lets himself cry, lets himself feel everything he's been holding back for so long. Let's himself grieve. Nanami pulls him into a tight hug, one hand cradling the back of his head as he buries his face in her shoulder.

"I'm here," she says gently. "I've got you."

For a long time, they stay like that, the rain pattering softly against the window. When the tears finally stop, Akuto pulls back, his face flushed and his eyes swollen. Nanami gives him a small, encouraging smile.

"So, Grass Country, huh?" she says lightly, though her eyes are still warm and sparkling with some sort of mischief. But then she bites her lip, the way she always does when she's worried. "Be careful out there."

Akuto exhales shakily, and smiles faintly, tiredly. "Don't worry," he says quietly. "I'll be fine."