The Lexicon of Feelings

by Lilemesis

Summary:

"You wanna lecture me while you're fucking around with a guy on meds, Kisame? A guy who can’t even sleep, who’s got memory gaps, who starts shaking if he’s alone too long? A guy so lost he doesn’t even know if he’s still alive? And, by the way... a guy who just so happens to be your fucking colonel’s son?" he shouted. "You're not a good guy, Kisame. You're just a fucking shipwreck clinging to someone else so you don't drown."

Kisame didn’t answer.
He knew it was true.
He wasn’t a good person.
At least, not for Itachi.

---

Warning: Some parts of the story will deal with heavy topics such as sexual assault, drug use, and racism.

I've already written 35 chapters of this story (and it's not finished yet). They will be published very regularly (don't worry).

Notes:

Hello everyone!

Thank you for taking an interest in this story! Here are a few things to know before you start reading:

♡ English is not my first language (please be kind!) I really do try to do my best to make your reading experience as pleasant as possible. If you have any comments or advice, please let me know.

♡ Warning: Some parts of the story will deal with heavy topics such as sexual assault, drug use, and racism. If you are sensitive to these issues, please take care.

♡ The story is not set in any particular country or continent. There is mention of certain places or origins, but I always try to be vague so as not to “lock” the characters into a setting too quickly.

♡ You'll see that there are a huge number of characters and couples (both canon and non-canon) in the story. I can't mention them all in the description because that would be too confusing for readers. Don't ask yourself too many questions and just read on ;)

♡ If you speak French, this story will soon be published in the language of Molière!

♡ This is the first time I've published something here. I sincerely hope you like it. Don't hesitate to leave me a comment to let me know what you think!

Enjoy your reading!

Chapter 1: Support Group

Summary:

When violence is no longer an option, all that remains is to speak. Kisame isn't ready — but fate doesn't care.

"Kisame Hoshigaki, right? Please sign here."

The staff member handed him some documents, which he skimmed without really reading. It was his first time attending a court-mandated group therapy session. He had dreaded this moment. The humiliation of being forced into something like this sickened him, but he had no choice. If he wanted to avoid prison, he had to comply.

So he had accepted, though not without his lawyer trying to negotiate. But the judge had been firm: the charges were too serious for simple community service. Psychological monitoring and participation in a support group were mandatory.

He nodded to the staff member, then stepped into the gym and sat down on one of the many chairs arranged in a circle. He acknowledged the person next to him with a nod and waited for the room to fill up.

Once everyone was there, the facilitator closed the gym door and sat down beside them. He was average height, wore a warm smile, and had a messy ponytail. Kisame might have found him naïvely harmless if it weren't for the deep scar that marred his face.

"Hello, everyone!" he began. "I’m Iruka Umino. You can call me Iruka. I’ll be leading today’s session, and all the others from here on out. If you have questions, concerns, or things you’d rather not share during the group, you’re free to come see me afterward, or contact me using my professional number here."

He passed a stack of business cards to his neighbor, who began distributing them around. Most people looked at the cards with mild confusion. Some entered the number into their phones, others jotted it down in notebooks. Kisame was among the few who didn’t even read it. He simply folded the card and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans.

"Let’s get started," Iruka continued, placing his hands on his thighs. "I introduced myself, now it’s your turn. Tell us who you are—your age, your job, your hobbies, anything you like. But most importantly, tell us why you’re here. No need to get into the details of your trial. Just explain what brought you to this gym."

Kisame tensed. It was exactly like the movies. They were going to introduce themselves like some AA meeting.

Fuck, he thought. It was a nightmare. A complete nightmare.

He clenched his teeth and rubbed his face, exhausted.

"Any volunteers?" Iruka asked.

Surprisingly, a hand went up among the group. Everyone turned to the speaker, who introduced himself by name and age. He explained he was here for assaulting a supermarket cashier. Iruka didn’t ask why. He just thanked him and moved to the next person.

The next participant struggled to get his story out. After several painful minutes, he admitted to kidnapping a coworker for almost forty-eight hours. Iruka nodded and passed the floor again.

One by one, the stories unfolded.

Kisame slouched in his chair, arms crossed. What the hell was he doing here with these people? How had it come to this? He pressed a fist to his mouth. If he could go back, would he change anything? No. He would have acted exactly the same. His presence here was inevitable.

"Your turn," Iruka said, snapping him out of his thoughts.

The facilitator was looking at a visibly uncomfortable young man, who cleared his throat.

"I’m Kidomaru. I’m 23. I work at a sporting goods store. And I’m here because..." He hesitated. "Because... I hit my girlfriend."

Kisame raised an eyebrow and glanced at the speaker. Average height, dark skin, covered in cheap-looking tattoos. Kisame smirked with disdain.

"Is your story similar to his?"

Kisame looked up. Iruka was watching him, the scar on his face even more visible now.

Kisame pointed to himself.

"Me?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes," Iruka said.

All eyes turned to him. He was the last one who hadn’t spoken. He smiled, more surprised than embarrassed.

"No," he answered casually.

The question had seemed so absurd he hadn’t realized it was directed at him.

"Alright," Iruka said. "Maybe you could introduce yourself then?"

He didn’t want to. Sharing his name, job, hobbies with this group of idiots... it was the last thing he needed. But he had no choice. He cleared his throat.

"I’m Kisame. Thirty-five. Marine biologist."

That was a lie. He wasn’t a marine biologist. He had been a special forces operative—until his trial, when he was barred from all public service jobs for the next ten years. Currently, he was unemployed.

"And so you didn’t hit your girlfriend?" Iruka asked, gently pushing for clarification.

Kisame gave a bitter smile and crossed his arms gruffly.

"No," he scoffed. "I’d never do that."

His comment seemed to hit a nerve with one participant.

"Then what did you do?"

Kisame’s smile faded as he glared at the man. Surprisingly, the man didn’t flinch. Most people backed off when faced with Kisame’s monstrous build and imposing size. Not him. His violet eyes stared back calmly.

"What was his name again?" Kisame thought. Stephan? Evan? No. Hidan.

"Well?" Iruka encouraged.

Kisame clenched his jaw, irritated at having to explain himself to strangers.

"I hit my wife’s lover," he said in an impressively neutral tone.

Hidan burst out laughing.

"'Thou shalt not commit adultery,' Exodus, chapter 20, verse 14," he quoted cheerfully.

He pushed his white hair back and let out a bark of laughter, a predator’s grin stretching across his face.

"Hidan," Iruka reprimanded calmly.

Kidomaru turned to Kisame.

"How’s that any different from what I did?" he asked, confused.

"Tch," Kisame sneered. "I don’t hit women."

Kidomaru flinched visibly, his face twisting into a grimace.

"So you’re better than me, huh?" he snapped.

Kisame shrugged.

"I’m responsible for what I say, not for what you understand."

"Kisame," Iruka said sharply.

For the first time, his warm smile was gone. Kisame was surprised. Until now, Iruka had seemed so easygoing, almost soft. He had been wrong. The look Iruka gave him now was firm, serious—it said clearly, "I know exactly what you’re doing, and I won’t tolerate it."

"Excuse me," a voice interrupted.

The woman who had checked them in peeked through the door.

"Yes?" Iruka asked, startled.

"We have a latecomer. Can you still take them?"

Iruka’s features softened immediately.

"Of course."

The woman stepped aside, letting in a young man. Kisame turned to watch him approach. His first thought was that the kid looked like an inkblot splattered on a sheet of white paper. Pale skin, shoulder-length raven-black hair, oversized black T-shirt, dark jeans. His eyes, framed by enormous dark circles, radiated an eerie mix of danger and fragility.

He stopped just at the edge of the circle, looking straight at Iruka.

"Please excuse my tardiness," he said, his voice calm and unnervingly emotionless. His speech was almost excessively polite compared to the rough, sometimes vulgar way the others spoke.

Iruka didn’t seem bothered. He just smiled warmly.

"It’s fine this time. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again."

"Understood."

Iruka nodded, looking for an empty seat.

"You can sit next to Sakon."

He gestured to a grayish goth boy with dark green lipstick. The newcomer observed him for a second, clearly assessing the risk—and Kisame couldn’t have blamed him. Then he moved with surprising grace and took the seat.

"We were just introducing ourselves," Iruka explained. "Kisame here was telling us why he’s here." He gestured politely toward Kisame. "Would you mind repeating it for our new friend?"

Kisame barely suppressed a grimace. Introducing himself once had been painful enough. But if he wanted out of this group quickly, he needed to cooperate.

He took a deep breath and nodded stiffly.

"I’m Kisame. Thirty-five. Marine biologist."

"And?" a voice prodded slyly.

Sakon was watching him through a curtain of gray hair, not smiling, just innocently waiting for an answer.

Kisame resisted the urge to glare. He tried to recall why this corpse-looking guy was here. Assault on a bus driver? Beating up a rival team's fan? Insulting a cop? He couldn’t remember.

"Kisame?" Iruka prompted again.

He shook off the thought and looked at the new guy.

"I’m here because I beat up my wife’s lover."

The new arrival, Itachi, showed no visible reaction. He just stared into Kisame’s eyes for a second before calmly turning back to Iruka, waiting for the next step.

"You can introduce yourself now," Iruka said with encouragement. "Tell us your name, age, job—if you have one—and why you’re here. Feel free to add anything else you want."

Itachi blinked slowly, then, for some reason, looked directly at Kisame.

"I’m Itachi. Twenty-eight. I’m a biotech engineer."

Everyone except Iruka raised their eyebrows. Until now, Kisame had been the only one with a supposedly respectable job. Most of the others had technical trades, manual jobs, or none at all. A biotech engineer was well out of place here. Even Bourdieu would’ve been baffled.

"And why are you here?" Iruka asked.

This time, Itachi turned his gaze away from Kisame to answer.

"Because I stabbed my father and strangled my mother."

An unusually long silence filled the gym, until Kidomaru finally broke it with a booming voice:

"Holy shit..."

Notes:

First chapter in English for me (omg)

Here we are, the first meeting between Kisame and Itachi. You'll see that their relationship will be complex, but intense. For the time being, Kisame's denigrating just about everything that moves, but you know what he's like: rough on the outside, quite thoughtful in reality.

I hope this first chapter has whetted your appetite for the rest! <3

Chapter 2: Nobility

Summary:

A new opportunity for Ino. An old wound for Sakura. Some secrets change everything — whether you're ready or not.

"I have a meeting with a member of the Aurea Mentis Club later today. She agreed to sponsor me. You have no idea how happy I am! She’s my ticket into the club. It’s absolutely insane! When I contacted her through social media, I never thought for a second she’d actually say yes. My motivation letter must have impressed her. I’m so happy!"

Ino bounced in place, nearly bumping into a student trying to enter the library.

"I have so many questions to ask her... I don’t even know where to start. I made a list, but I’m not sure that’s the right move. Maybe I should just try to be as pragmatic as possible. I don’t know... What do you think?"

Ino turned to her friend.

"Sakura?" she called.

Sakura looked up from her phone.

"Sorry, I was reading a message..." she said, shaking her head, the worried crease between her brows disappearing. "You were saying...? Oh, right. You have a meeting with a club member, right?"

Sakura’s smile stretched from ear to ear, making Ino bounce even more with excitement, thrilled by her friend’s enthusiasm.

"YES!" Ino exclaimed. "My dream is finally coming true! If I pass the entrance selection, I’ll finally be part of the most prestigious university club in the entire country! Can you believe it?"

"Yeah. I mean... not really," Sakura admitted. "I don’t really get why... it’s such a big deal to you."

Ino barely held back a groan.

"I’ve explained this a hundred times, Sakura... Aurea Mentis is an all-women’s club that connects you with some of the most powerful women in the professional world. Joining the club means guaranteeing yourself a brilliant future among the absolute elite."

"Okay, okay, I get it," Sakura said quickly, trying to ward off the inevitable lecture on Aurea Mentis. "But couldn’t you have made those connections without going through the club? You’re amazing at getting noticed. And your social network is already pretty impressive—"

"It’s not the same thing," Ino insisted. "Aurea Mentis is the shortcut to social ascension. Instead of taking the stairs like everyone else, I’m taking the express elevator straight to the top."

"Not bad," Sakura acknowledged.

Ino nodded firmly.

"Joining the club isn’t just a career move for me. It’s sentimental too."

"Sentimental?"

"Yeah. My paternal grandmother was a member. So was her mother. And her grandmother before that—my great-great-grandmother. Joining the club would be the ultimate fulfillment of a legacy spanning generations."

Sakura opened her mouth to reply, but her phone buzzed, cutting her off. She quickly unlocked the screen and frowned again at the new message. Ino tried to sneak a peek over her shoulder, but Sakura shut off her phone with a frustrated gesture.

"What is it?" Ino asked, curious.

Sakura opened her mouth, then closed it again, hesitating. Ino raised an eyebrow.

"Come on, spit it out," she urged.

Sakura took a deep breath, like she was about to talk about something difficult.

"It’s... Sasuke," she sighed. "He says he can’t come over on Sunday."

"Oh..."

It was the only thing Ino managed to say. There was just one taboo subject between the two friends—and this was it. As interesting as he might have been, that boy almost never came up in their conversations for a very good reason: the rivalry he had stirred between them had nearly shattered their friendship.

Sakura scratched her temple nervously, and Ino felt an awkward tension settle between them. She hurried to act like nothing was wrong.

"Is it serious?" she asked calmly, as if the conversation didn’t bother her at all.

Sakura bobbed her head side to side.

"It was my only day off this week. With my hospital internship, I can’t go out any other day except the end of the weekend. He knows that perfectly well."

"So what’s his excuse?"

Ino forced herself to keep asking questions to avoid an awkward silence.

"Family gathering. The Uchiha love getting together at their country house to chat about everything and nothing."

Ino knew that already. She knew the Uchihas well. The so-called "country house," as Sakura put it, was actually a sixteenth-century castle, with buildings and gardens listed as UNESCO World Heritage sites.

"Aren’t you usually invited?"

"Yeah," Sakura said flatly, surprising her. "Normally, I’m always invited. Sasuke went out of his way to make sure of it. But lately... he’s been pushing me away. I asked if I did something wrong, but he told me it had nothing to do with me."

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and sighed. Ino crossed her arms.

"How long has this been going on?" she asked.

Sakura rolled her eyes, thinking.

"Two months... maybe three. Why?"

"Try to see if something happened around the time his behavior changed."

Sakura grimaced.

"There might have been something..."

"What?"

"There was a problem with his brother."

"Itachi?"

"Yeah. Something serious."

Ino felt her whole body tense, alert and curious at the revelation.

"Serious how?" she asked.

Sakura hesitated, torn between confiding in her friend and keeping a family secret. Ino smiled inwardly. If Sakura had been born into a noble family like she had, she'd know certain things were never discussed—not even with your closest friend. Family business was one of those things. Ino would bet anything Sasuke had forbidden her to talk about the Uchiha family's issues.

"Serious enough that his father decided to remove every family photo that he appears in," Sakura finally explained. "I tried asking Sasuke about it, but he refuses to tell me anything. He’s like a vault."

Ino couldn’t help but raise her eyebrows.

Now that was interesting. She hadn’t heard anything about trouble with Itachi. Even though the Uchiha were notoriously secretive about family matters (like every other great clan in the country), Ino sometimes caught wind of a few rumors—her father being close friends with Sasuke’s father. But not this time.

"And Itachi? Did you ask him?" she asked, curious.

"I haven’t seen him in three months. He’s just... gone. And as for the rest of the family, forget it: secrecy runs in their blood. They’d rather cut out their own tongues than tell me anything."

Ino elegantly tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder, thoughtful. Sakura had been dating Sasuke for three years. The noble and powerful Uchiha family had had plenty of time to get used to her presence. It was surprising that they were shutting her out... or maybe not. Sakura and Sasuke weren’t married. No formal ties bound her to the clan, and that was all the reason they needed to keep their distance.

"I’ll ask my father if he’s heard anything," Ino said.

Sakura’s eyes widened in surprise.

"Really? Thank you."

Ino shrugged. She understood Sakura’s situation: she didn’t come from a noble family. Even though Sasuke’s parents had accepted her, the rest of the clan probably treated her with quiet disdain. They didn’t like what they called "commoners." And when it came to protocol, the Uchiha were just as strict as the Hyuuga—which could quickly become a real problem.

Ino considered herself lucky not to be in the same situation. Although the Yamanaka were an ancient and well-established family, their clan was relatively open-minded about accepting the various love interests of their members—as long as they met the minimum requirements in terms of intellect. Ino had always chosen her boyfriends with that criterion in mind. The Uchiha weren’t like that. For them, blood was everything. Sasuke had been a rebel simply by bringing Sakura into their closed and ruthless circle.

Ino had hated him for that. Ever since they were kids, Fugaku—Sasuke’s father—and Inoichi—her own father—had proudly declared that they would unite their families through their children. "I have a son, you have a daughter. We’ll marry them one day," Fugaku used to say.

Those words, repeated endlessly, had filled her with hope: Sasuke was handsome and brilliant, and it hadn’t taken long for her to fall for him. Her disappointment had been just as spectacular as her hopes: Sasuke couldn’t have cared less about her. He found her clingy, boring, and superficial. His choice had landed on Sakura.

That turn of events had sparked fights between the two girls: childhood friends, they had argued, insulted each other, and finally... made peace. Ino had backed down, realizing that nothing she could say would change a relationship that, in her eyes, made no sense. She had accepted her fate as the eternal "friend" and resigned herself to the idea that she would never bear the Uchiha name. And yet, her feelings lingered.

Even now, though she had grown used to hearing Sasuke’s name followed by Sakura’s, she avoided seeing them together whenever she could. Witnessing their love on full display still stung her pride.

"I have to go," Ino announced suddenly. "I’ve got a meeting."

Sakura smirked.

"A secret admirer?" she teased, wiggling her eyebrows playfully.

"Not exactly," Ino said, waving her hand dismissively.

She wasn’t sure Saï could really be called an admirer. What she did know, however, was that he could very much be described as her "hookup."

"I see..." Sakura murmured, her voice dripping with unspoken meaning. "You’ll tell me more when you’re ready."

"If I feel like it," Ino teased. "See you this weekend? Looks like your Sunday just opened up."

Sakura nodded.

Notes:

Now we're really getting to the heart of the plot: class warfare! In this story, you'll see that the big clans are "noble families" (old money vibes). I drew inspiration from French and English aristocratic families to establish the habits and pace of life of the Uchiha, Yamanaka and others (you'll see as you go along). The world of these very wealthy clans will often be confronted with the (very modest) world of certain characters: there will be Ino and Sakura, but not only them. Class struggle will be omnipresent in this story.

I hope you still like it :)

Chapter 3: What he took from me

Summary:

Kisame and Itachi get to know each other through a game of questions and answers that is more interesting than they imagined.

"In your opinion, what could justify resorting to violence?" Iruka asked.

It was the second group therapy session. Night had already fallen, and Kisame was starting to get hungry. He had zero interest in debating with the rest of the group. Maybe he should’ve just gone to prison after all. At least there, no one would’ve asked him to answer philosophical questions. He would have served his time, walked out free as a bird, without having to justify himself to anyone.

A smirk flickered across his lips at the thought of his lawyer—and lifelong friend—Nagato, mortified at the idea of Kisame thinking like that. After fighting so hard to keep him out of jail, Nagato would’ve probably struck him dead on the spot for even considering it.

"What Kisame went through."

Kisame cut off his yawn and turned his head toward Kidomaru. Arms crossed, Kidomaru was staring at the floor, looking pissed off.

"Meaning?" Iruka asked.

"Adultery."

A heavy silence fell over the room, then several people nodded, clearly agreeing with him.

"Why?" Iruka pressed.

He had turned toward Kisame, as if he were the one who had just spoken. Annoyed, Kisame crossed his arms. It wasn't his job to answer; Kidomaru was the one who had said it, so the explanation should have come from him.

"I don't know," Kisame said, hoping to shut down the conversation.

"You don't know why you hit your wife's lover?"

"Of course I do."

"Then?"

Kisame let his head fall back and sighed.

"He took something that belonged to me."

"Your wife?" a voice asked.

Heads turned toward the speaker. Itachi was sitting straight in his chair, his ink-black eyes locked onto Kisame.

"No," Kisame replied firmly. "She's not an object."

He had frowned, disgusted at the thought that anyone might assume he'd talk about his wife like that.

"Then what did he take from you?" Itachi asked again.

Kisame stared at him. What the hell was up with him all of a sudden? He hadn’t said a word since the session began—silent as a grave, just sitting there watching everyone else without ever contributing anything meaningful. Why was he deciding to speak now?

"None of your business," Kisame answered coldly.

"Kisame," Iruka interjected. "It's a relevant question. You can answer it."

He clenched his jaw and let a few seconds pass. Nagato’s voice echoed in his head: The faster you show you're willing to improve, the faster you'll be out of group therapy.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor.

"He took..." he began hesitantly, then cleared his throat. "He took the love she had for me."

An endless silence followed his words. He lifted his head and met Itachi’s gaze, sharp and probing as if trying to see right through him. Kisame stared back, trying to figure out what was going on in his head. Eventually, Itachi broke eye contact and turned toward Iruka, who seized the opportunity to speak:

"You were hurt and betrayed. It's normal to feel anger," he said, his voice calm and even. "Anger is a legitimate feeling. But the way we choose to express it can either make things worse or help us move past it. Using violence as a response to pain usually creates more conflict than it resolves. That’s exactly why it's important to..."

Kisame didn’t hear the rest of the speech. His eyes dropped back to the floor and he thought about his wife. He missed her. He wanted to see her. If only he could reach out to her... He would tell her he still loved her, that he forgave her for everything, and that he was ready to start over. To figure out what had gone wrong. To open new possibilities for their marriage.

The thought hurt. He furrowed his brow, feeling a sharp pain constrict his chest, then lifted his eyes. He noticed that the others were getting up from their chairs.

"Kisame," Iruka called. "You’re paired up with Itachi."

He looked at him in surprise.

"Paired up?" he repeated.

"Yes. Everyone is getting into pairs and spreading out across the gym."

"For what?"

"Each of you will get to know your partner. The idea is to have someone other than me who knows your story and can help you move forward."

"I don't see the point."

"It's called mutual support. Very useful in a society like ours," Iruka said with a touch of irony.

"Can we switch partners?"

The mediator smiled.

"No, unless I decide it's necessary—and it’s not, in this case."

He placed a reassuring hand on Kisame’s shoulder and nodded toward Itachi, who was already heading to the far end of the gym.

"Itachi has a calm and thoughtful nature. You’ll get along fine, trust me."

Calm and thoughtful, my ass, Kisame thought bitterly. He stabbed his father and strangled his mother. What kind of lunatic does that?

He shrugged off Iruka’s hand and made his way to the other side of the gym, silently repeating Nagato’s advice: behave, and he’d be done with these stupid meetings faster.

Hands shoved into his pockets, he approached Itachi—who had slid down the wall to sit directly on the floor—and spun a chair around to straddle it, resting his forearms against the back.

Itachi lifted his obsidian eyes toward him, his face expressionless. Kisame was caught off guard by the length of his lashes and the delicate features of his face: even though it was obvious Itachi was a guy, his sharp chin, fine nose, and sculpted cheekbones gave him an oddly feminine air.

The former special forces agent stared at him for a few seconds, unsettled, then decided to break the ice:

"So, you're Itachi, right? The one who showed up late to the first session."

"And you’re Kisame," Itachi shot back. "The one who would rather be anywhere else but here."

"Wouldn't everyone rather be anywhere but stuck in this gym?"

Itachi blinked slowly, as if he were seriously weighing the question, then finally shrugged, resigned.

"I guess so," he said in a flat tone.

He pulled his legs up and rested his forearms lazily on his knees, making him look more like a teenager than anything else.

"Not gonna lie: I have no intention of playing buddy-buddy with anyone here," Kisame explained. "All I want is to get these sessions over with. So how about we exchange a few pleasantries to keep the mediator happy, and then we both go back to pretending none of this ever happened?"

Itachi stared at him in silence, then glanced toward Iruka.

"Then let's get started," he said curtly.

His large eyes swung back to Kisame.

"The reason you’re in such a rush to finish—is it because you want to get back to your wife?"

Kisame froze, caught off guard, before letting out a short, humorless laugh. He hadn’t expected the kid to cut straight to the heart of it. Beneath that innocent look, Itachi was way sharper than Kisame had given him credit for. Maybe a little too sharp, judging by how bluntly he’d asked the question.

"Maybe," Kisame admitted.

"Even after she slept with someone else?"

The amused smile slipped right off Kisame’s face. And that, right there, was exactly why he didn’t want to get into his personal life during these sessions. Most of the others had way more tragic stories than his, but the only thing anyone seemed to remember was that he'd been cheated on.

"That’s none of your business," Kisame replied coldly.

They stared each other down in a silent standoff until Itachi finally looked away, just like he had earlier during the session. That abrupt way of backing off from a tough conversation struck Kisame as odd—he was far more used to people digging in and escalating conflicts, not retreating from them.

He didn’t mind it, though. In fact, he saw it as an advantage: at least with Itachi, he wouldn’t have to raise his voice just to end a conversation.

"Enough about me," Kisame said.

"What do you want to know?" Itachi asked, raising an eyebrow in casual challenge.

"Why were you late to the first session?"

He caught the brief flash of surprise on Itachi’s delicate face. Kisame knew exactly why: the kid had probably expected him to ask about the stabbing. Clearly, he didn’t know Kisame at all. If Kisame wasn’t about to lay bare his own private life, he sure as hell wasn’t about to cross that line with someone else. He wasn’t interested in sensationalism. All he wanted was to have enough of a conversation to satisfy Iruka, and then get out of here.

"I fell asleep," Itachi answered simply.

"In the middle of the day?"

"It happens."

Kisame took in the dark circles under the boy’s eyes and his pale face. Yeah, he didn’t look like he was in great shape—but then again, wasn’t that pretty normal for someone who had stabbed his father and strangled his mother? The sarcastic thought made Kisame smirk inwardly.

"You don’t sleep well at night?"

"My sleep’s pretty... broken up," Itachi admitted.

"You should try working out."

"I do."

That answer surprised Kisame. It must have shown on his face, because Itachi added:

"Well... I try."

Kisame let out a low chuckle.

"What kind of training do you do?"

"Weight training."

"How long have you been at it?"

Itachi frowned.

"You’ve asked enough questions. My turn."

"Go ahead."

"Have you always been like this?"

"Meaning?" Kisame asked warily, half expecting a stupid racist comment like, "Why is your skin blue?"

"Your build."

Itachi’s long lashes lowered gracefully as he glanced over Kisame’s body.

"Yes and no."

"That's not an answer."

Kisame stifled a grin.

"I was always bigger and stronger than most people. But I also worked my ass off. This body isn't just genetics."

He had always loved sports, but it was really his time in the military that had forced him to keep in peak physical shape. If he wanted to keep up with the others, regular training wasn’t optional. Now that he was out of a job, he trained for a completely different reason: to burn off the anger and bitterness eating away at him.

"Is that what your wife liked about you?"

Kisame narrowed his eyes.

"Why are you so interested in my relationship with my wife?"

Itachi shrugged.

"Just curious."

"If you start asking personal questions, don’t be surprised if I start asking some back."

Itachi looked at him through lowered lashes, and Kisame thought he resembled a cat sizing up whether the prey in front of him was worth the effort or not. There was something elegant about the way he held himself and spoke, but there was also a glint in his eyes that said he could just as easily lash out with cold cruelty if he felt like it.

"Deal," Itachi said. "But you answer mine first."

Kisame might have said he was disappointed—but the truth was, he wasn’t. He liked Itachi’s pragmatic, no-nonsense attitude.

"Yeah," he said. "She liked that part of me."

"Was she athletic too?"

"She still is."

"What sport does she do?"

"Stop. You've asked enough. My turn."

Itachi had a hard time hiding his frustration. Kisame cleared his throat.

"Besides working out, do you do anything else outside?"

Again, it wasn’t a very interesting question, but Kisame didn’t know what else to ask. Well, that wasn’t entirely true—he did know, but he refused to bring up anything as personal as, "Why did you stab your father and strangle your mother?" He didn’t feel entitled to dig into wounds like that, and so far, Itachi’s questions hadn’t been intrusive enough to justify crossing that line.

"Not at the moment," the young man replied.

"Why not?"

Itachi seemed to hesitate.

"I can’t go out whenever I want," he said, lifting his wrist to show Kisame a thick plastic bracelet with a small black screen embedded in the center. Stamped around the metal clasp were the words "Sainte-Anne Psychiatric Clinic" in block letters.

"You have supervised outings?" Kisame asked.

Itachi nodded and let his wrist fall back onto his knee.

"How many times a week?"

"Aside from the group therapy meetings? Twice," Itachi answered. "Now it’s my turn."

The tone of his voice had shifted. It was obvious he didn’t like talking about himself but had no problem digging into someone else's story. Kisame understood that well enough: neither of them wanted to expose themselves to judgment. It was easier to let the other person spill their guts and deal with the memories and pain that surfaced.

"How old were you when you married your wife?"

"Twenty-eight."

Kisame caught the slight raise of Itachi’s eyebrows. He wasn’t surprised. Every time someone asked him that question, it was the same reaction: wide eyes, quick-fire follow-ups, like it was somehow shocking that a two-meter-tall, blue-skinned, rough-faced guy like him had managed to find happiness—and keep it—for that long.

"How did you two meet?"

Kisame couldn’t help but shoot a cold look at Itachi. That question was way more personal than the others—and the kid knew it. He felt the muscles in his neck tense involuntarily.

"We were in the same senior year class," he answered.

"And you became a couple then?"

"No. That happened later."

"When?"

"When we were twenty-three."

"So, twelve years together and seven years married."

Kisame blinked. A quick bit of math could get you there, but he was surprised Itachi had bothered to work it out. His marriage seemed to interest the kid way more than he’d expected. Was it, like him, just an excuse to keep the conversation light, or did he genuinely want to know about Kisame’s private life? He couldn’t tell. Kisame wished he could crawl inside the boy’s head and figure out what he was really thinking.

"Are you always this—" Kisame started, but was cut off by Iruka’s voice.

"Alright, everyone, back over here!"

The mediator was waving them back with broad gestures. Kisame stood up and offered a hand to Itachi. The boy looked at him, surprised, then accepted it.

"Thanks," he murmured so quietly it was almost like he was talking to himself.

Kisame answered with a nod and walked back toward Iruka with the rest of the group.

"I hope your discussions went well. To wrap up today's session, I’d like each of you to share some good news," Iruka announced.

"Meaning?" Kidomaru asked.

"Something that made you happy this week. For example, I booked my tickets for my next vacation," Iruka said, smiling warmly.

He turned toward Hidan.

"What made you happy this week, Hidan?"

"I started a tattooing course," Hidan replied.

"Well, congratulations!"

A few scattered claps filled the room.

"I found ten euros on the ground," Kidomaru announced next.

"I had a gig with my band," Sakon added.

All eyes turned to Kisame. He looked around, searching for something remotely cheerful to share—but nothing came to mind. His days were painfully monotonous, and there was only one thing he thought about, morning, noon, and night: his wife. He wondered how she was, if she thought about him, what she was doing with her days. The only times he managed to stop obsessing over her were when he was exhausting himself at the gym.

"I found a job at a gym," he said at last.

"Huh?" Kidomaru said, surprised. "I thought you were a marine biology researcher."

Shit.

He had forgotten he had lied about his profession.

"Had to change careers," he explained. "I couldn’t keep working where I was."

And that was the truth. Special forces couldn’t afford to have operatives with a criminal record. He’d been kicked out without a second thought. One of his old colleagues, knowing he was struggling, had hooked him up with another job. With rent looming over his head, he hadn’t had much of a choice.

"Congratulations, Kisame," Iruka said, giving him a warm smile.

Then he turned to Itachi.

"And you, Itachi?"

The young man with obsidian eyes clenched his jaw. It was subtle, but Kisame caught the way his molars pressed together under the skin. If he had had any doubts, they were gone now: Itachi hated talking about himself.

"I’m going to see my parents. We have a meeting scheduled at the end of the week," he said quietly.

Iruka’s face lit up.

"That’s wonderful news, Itachi! Are you—"

"Hold up, wait a second," Hidan interrupted. "Didn’t you kill your parents?"

"If he’d killed them, he wouldn’t be in group therapy, he’d be rotting in jail, you idiot," Sakon snapped. "Of course they're still alive."

"Sakon, no need to get aggressive," Iruka reprimanded gently.

He gave Itachi a soft, reassuring smile.

"I’m really happy for you. We all are. Are you nervous about seeing them again?"

Itachi’s face remained blank, but Kisame noticed the way he struggled to swallow, as if a lump had formed in his throat. It was strange, the way he locked down any expression of emotion, like a porcelain doll staring into nothingness.

"I..." he started, his voice betraying a rare flicker of emotion.

Iruka must have realized how uncomfortable it made him, because he quickly cut him some slack:

"You can tell us if you want to—no pressure."

Then he flashed a broad smile at the group.

"See you all at the next meeting. Don’t be late."

Notes:

This chapter took me a while to write because I really wanted to find the balance between Itachi being curious and Kisame becoming more and more interested in the person in front of him. I also wanted to emphasise that Kisame sees Itachi as a kid (when he's not: he's 28 !) You'll see in later chapters that he often calls him ‘the boy’ or ‘the kid’ :D In fact, he finds it hard to believe that he's not a teenager, because Itachi looks just like a teenager. I think their relationship is all the more out of sync that way (and it's quite funny).

Hop you enjoyed this chapter!

Chapter 4: Achievement Academia

Summary:

Tea, ambition, and uncomfortable charity work: Ino thought joining Aurea Mentis would be glamorous. Reality has other plans.

Ino nervously sipped her tea as she stared out through the bay window overlooking the bustling avenue.

It was exactly four o'clock.

For their first meeting, she had asked Mei Terumi to join her at the "Edward VI" tea room. A place she loved for its calm, its elegance, and its extraordinary pastries, known among the elite for its discreet quality.

"Ino Yamanaka?" a voice called behind her.

She turned and found herself facing a tall, slender woman with long chestnut hair. She wore a fitted black dress, matching heels, and, of course, a black Birkin bag. Ino immediately thought she was even more stunning in person than in her photos.

"Nice to meet you," she said, standing up from her chair.

She extended her hand. The woman shook it with a smile and sat across from her. A waiter quickly appeared to offer them menus. Mei ordered a coffee with a croissant.

"Thank you so much for agreeing to sponsor me for the Aurea Mentis entry selection. I'm truly grateful," Ino said.

Mei Terumi smiled lightly.

"No need to be that grateful. A simple thank you is enough," she said with amusement, glancing around the place. "I really like this spot. Very elegant."

"Thank you. My father and I come here often. Their pastries are incredible."

"I don't doubt it. The Yamanakas have always had exquisite taste."

Ino smiled in return. Hearing strangers speak well of her family never failed to fill her with pride. Every time it happened, she was reminded how much admiration and prestige her name carried.

"Did you bring what I asked you for?" Mei asked.

"Yes," Ino said, pulling a document holder from her bag.

She handed it over, and Mei took it with a perfectly manicured hand. She flipped through the papers while Ino admired the way her emerald eyes scanned the lines of her academic record.

"Your grades are excellent. Even your professors’ remarks are glowing. It's pretty rare for university lecturers to take the time to praise a student's work."

"Thank you."

"What are you planning to do later?"

"Auctioneer," Ino replied.

Mei nodded thoughtfully as she continued flipping through the file.

"Interesting..." she murmured. "You play tennis at the university?"

"Yes, for the past two years."

"That's very good. Aurea Mentis loves candidates who are active in university sports."

She turned a few more pages, then frowned. Ino immediately felt her stomach tighten. What was she seeing? A bad comment? A weak subject? A low grade?

Impossible. She had aced every exam. Her record was flawless. Not even Hermione Granger could have done better.

"Is there a problem?" she asked anxiously.

"Maybe," Mei replied.

The answer hit like a whip. Mei flipped through the pages again, then closed the file sharply and handed it back to her. Ino took it with a hand more trembling than she would have liked. One single mistake in her file, and her dream of joining the club would be over. Aurea Mentis was extremely strict about membership requirements.

"What is it?"

"I'll be honest with you. Your grades are excellent, your extracurriculars are great too. But you're missing something."

"Missing what?"

"Well, all your activities are focused on yourself. To be certain of joining the club, you need something that involves others."

"Others?" Ino repeated, frowning slightly.

"Exactly. Volunteering for a charity would be ideal."

"Oh. I see."

Mei smiled slightly, amused by her disappointed expression.

Ino had never been the type to work for the public good. She had always fought for herself. Changing her plans wasn't something she had anticipated.

"Don't worry. I have an association in mind that would be perfect for you," Mei reassured her.

She pulled out her phone and showed Ino the homepage of a website called "Achievement Academia."

"It's an organization that helps young people who dropped out of school get their middle or high school diplomas."

Ino grimaced slightly.

"Maybe I could focus on a climate association instead? Or something for animals?"

Mei shook her head firmly.

"No. It absolutely has to be a charity that focuses on humans. Aurea Mentis doesn't want to be seen as a superficial club that only does the bare minimum when it comes to good causes. They want to show that their members are aware of inequalities and are actively working to remedy them."

"Alright," Ino replied simply.

At the same time, Mei’s phone rang. She answered briefly, exchanged a few words with her caller, then slipped the device back into her handbag.

"I’m sorry, I have to leave earlier than expected," she announced, taking a sip of her coffee. "Get in touch with the association and sign up as quickly as possible."

"Do I really have to do this?"

"I told you, it’s important. If you submit your application as it stands, the club won’t even consider you. Trust me."

A server helped Mei with her coat.

"Call me once it’s done. We’ll figure out the rest later."

The waiter handed her handbag over, and she thanked him warmly.

"I hope to hear from you soon, Ino Yamanaka. It was a pleasure meeting you."

"Pleasure's mine," Ino replied.

Mei waved goodbye with a friendly smile, then exited the tea room. Ino looked down at the table. Mei’s croissant sat untouched beside her coffee cup, the rim stained with a faint mark of crimson lipstick.

Ino sighed. She had no desire to play Mother Teresa. Social work had never been her thing. She hated the idea of faking compassion for people who were already in desperate situations and certainly didn’t need her pity.

Still, her desire to join the club was stronger than her reservations, and she trusted Mei’s expertise. If she said it was necessary, it must be for a good reason.

She downed her tea in one gulp, paid the bill, and hailed a taxi.

The association was on the other side of the city, in the working-class districts—or the "capital’s cutthroat zone," as her grandfather, who had probably only set foot there twice in his life, liked to call it.

The taxi dropped her off in front of a white and red building. She thanked the driver, got out, and entered the association’s offices. The interior was neat and welcoming, with chairs and a coffee table in the waiting area. At the back, two glass doors led to separate offices where Ino could see people working inside.

"This way, Miss," called one of them.

She approached the first glass door and entered. The office was far less organized than the lobby: a chaotic mess of papers and folders stacked everywhere, as if a tornado had swept through right before her arrival.

Clearing her throat awkwardly, Ino stood there until the woman behind the desk tore her eyes away from her computer and greeted her, then shoved a pile of folders off a chair to make room for her.

"What brings you here?" the woman asked. "Trying to earn your middle school diploma? High school diploma, maybe?"

Ino raised her eyebrows, stunned that anyone could think she was unschooled. Her outfit—a pleated skirt, high socks, a buttoned shirt, and a dark blazer—didn't exactly scream dropout.

"Absolutely not," she said, feeling insulted.

The woman gave a small, amused smile.

"You know, you can’t judge those things just by looking at someone."

She typed a few things on her computer, then turned her attention back to Ino.

"So what are you here for?"

"I’m here to offer my services," Ino replied. "I’d like to help someone prepare for their exams."

"I see. In that case, you’ll need to come back with your diplomas or your academic file..."

"I have it," Ino interrupted quickly.

She pulled her document folder from her bag and handed it over. The woman raised her eyebrows, visibly surprised, then slipped on her glasses and, just like Mei had earlier, began leafing through the file. She licked her finger to turn the pages.

"Your record is excellent," the woman noted, peering over her glasses at Ino.

"I know. Thank you," she replied with a confident smile.

"You do realize you won’t be paid, right? This is a volunteer position. Everyone here works for free."

Ino let out a small laugh.

"Oh, I don’t need money, don’t worry. I have plenty already," she said, waving her hand airily.

The woman paused, lifting her eyes from the file to stare at her. Ino’s laughter died into an awkward smile. An uncomfortable silence settled between them before the woman sighed and closed the folder.

"When would you like to start?" she asked flatly.

"As soon as possible."

"Good. We happen to have a young man who still hasn’t found a tutor."

She typed a few keywords into her computer, then printed out his profile. Handing over the still-warm papers, Ino froze for a second. Bold letters near the top of the page spelled out "Juugo Tanaka."

"I know that name," Ino thought immediately. She glanced at the corner of the page and saw the photo of a young man with red hair and a square face. Her eyes widened, and she dropped the file.

"You know him?" the woman asked, squinting suspiciously.

"Are you kidding? Of course I know him!" Ino snapped.

Juugo Tanaka was the son of Arata Tanaka, a serial killer who had made headlines for the past decade. His victims were discovered bit by bit, depending on whether or not he felt like revealing their locations.

The son, Juugo, hadn’t—so far as anyone knew—killed anyone. Still, suspicions swirled. He used to live with his father, after all, and Arata Tanaka was known for locking his victims in the basement of their family home.

Despite the scandal, Juugo had done little to keep a low profile: in the last five years alone, he had been convicted multiple times for theft and assault, keeping his name in the news just like his father before him.

"Absolutely not," Ino said sharply. "Give me another student."

The advisor frowned.

"I’m not going to 'give' you another student. These are human beings, not pets. And this young man needs a tutor if he ever hopes to reintegrate into society."

"Look, charity is nice and all, but I don’t care. I’m not taking on a serial killer’s kid as a student. Got it?"

"He’s not a serial killer!" the advisor snapped. "Yes, he’s been convicted of theft and assault, but he served his time. And he had nothing to do with his father’s murders."

Ino opened her mouth, scandalized.

"No! I don't want him! The world’s already dangerous enough for women. I’m not adding a serial killer's kid to the list!"

"I told you, he’s not a serial killer."

"Fine! Then let’s call it something else: 'son of a serial killer, convicted multiple times for theft and assault.' Does that sound better?"

"If you like," the advisor sighed. "What matters is your decision: do you accept him or not?"

"No."

"Very well. Thank you for coming, but I have other appointments to manage."

The advisor stood up and opened the door to usher her out. Ino frowned.

"Wait, surely you have another student for me?"

"No, Miss. This is an association, not a restaurant—you don't get to pick students off a menu. If you don't want to tutor him, you're free to leave and find another charity to boost your ego. I'm confident someone else will eventually agree to help him."

She gave Ino’s chair a slight tug to make her stand up.

"Hold on!" Ino protested, standing in front of the advisor.

"This isn’t fair. My record is excellent—it would be a shame for your students to miss out on my teaching. I'm a great tutor."

Truth be told, she had never taught anyone before. But considering how desperate the education system was for teachers these days, she comforted herself thinking she couldn't possibly do worse than some already hired.

"Miss, please. Leave," the advisor said, handing back her file.

Ino clenched her fists. She gave the woman a long, disdainful look, then stormed out of the building, furious. "So the Achievement Academia doesn’t want me, huh?" she thought. "No big deal. I'll find another association that’ll impress Mei—and that won’t stick me with a criminal."

She pulled out her phone and dialed her sponsor’s number.

"Hello?"

"Mei, it’s Ino."

"Oh... I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon."

"Yeah…" Ino grimaced. "I’m calling because… I just left the association you recommended for my club application."

"Ah! Great! How did the registration go?"

"Well… Let’s just say there’s been a slight problem."

A pause.

"A problem?" Mei repeated.

"Yes," Ino sighed. "I tried to sign up to tutor a student, just like you suggested, but... it turns out they want to assign me a particularly complicated case."

"That’s part of the deal. People in these programs usually aren't from privileged backgrounds."

Ino closed her eyes, annoyed at the implication she was being superficial.

"I understand that perfectly," she defended herself. "But the student they want me to tutor is Juugo Tanaka—the son of Arata Tanaka, the serial killer."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Alright," Mei said calmly.

"Meaning?"

Mei sighed softly.

"I don’t see the issue. People aren't doomed to repeat their parents' mistakes."

Ino felt shame creeping up her spine. Her research on Mei had revealed that she had come from a modest—if not precarious—background. She had built her empire from scratch, without any help. Ino should have been more tactful.

"Of course!" she tried to recover. "But the thing is... he’s suspected of helping his psycho father cut up people in their basement. And, on top of that, he’s been convicted of theft and assault, so I..."

She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to calm down.

"So I don't want to tutor him. For... obvious reasons."

Mei seemed to think it over.

"He’s been convicted for theft and assault. But has he served his sentence?"

Ino grimaced, sensing the trap.

"Yes... I mean, that’s what the advisor said. But still, he’s suspected of helping his father!"

"If there were real suspicion, he would’ve been indicted long ago. And I don't believe that ever happened."

Ino bit her lip.

"Mei," she whispered. "Are you siding with them?"

"Mmh... I am, yes. It’s important to believe in second chances."

"But I..."

"If you won’t do it for him, do it for yourself," Mei cut her off, her tone suddenly firmer, surprising Ino.

"Listen," continued the lady, more serious. "I tried to be encouraging earlier, but your file isn't enough. There are plenty of rich, pretty girls with perfect grades at your university. You need something more to stand out. Volunteering at a dog shelter or recycling center won’t cut it. If you want to join the top club, you need the top association. Achievement Academia fits their values: equal opportunity. Understand?"

Ino swallowed hard, feeling the blow. She had always known competition would be fierce, but hearing her file wasn’t enough still stung deeply. It felt like all her years of hard work were suddenly meaningless.

"Ino?" Mei prompted.

She pulled herself together.

"Yes. I understand."

"Good."

"But... I’m still not comfortable working with—"

"Juugo Tanaka is your golden ticket into the club. If the admissions board sees you helped someone with a criminal record and the bloodline of public enemy number one pass a national exam... the club will be yours."

Ino didn’t respond.

"You’re free to refuse," Mei said. "No one's forcing you. But if you don't, I can’t guarantee your acceptance anymore."

A silence stretched between them.

Mei sighed.

"Life is full of challenges. You don't always get to choose. Make your decision and call me back. We'll figure out the strategy from there."

Ino nodded weakly.

"Alright."

"Have a good evening, Ino."

"You too."

Mei hung up, leaving Ino alone with her decision—or her fate.

She sat down on the agency steps, weighing the pros and cons. She browsed other associations on her phone but, after a while, accepted reality: if tutoring a criminal was her ticket into the club, then so be it. She wasn’t raised to fear a challenge.

"What are you still doing here?"

Ino turned around to see the advisor glaring at her from the top of the steps. She stood up and dusted off her skirt.

"I’m sorry about earlier. I panicked and acted poorly. I’m willing to tutor the student you offered."

Notes:

Don't be too hard on Ino; she was raised in a very privileged world and hates to leave it (but we'll fix that, don't worry).

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! <3

Chapter 5: Divorce

Summary:

Kisame continues his game of questions and answers with Itachi without suspecting for a moment what Nagato has to tell him.

"I think we made good progress today," Iruka announced. "For the ten minutes we have left, I suggest you find your partner and have a chat."

"Are we keeping the same teams as last time?" asked a man whose name Kisame couldn't remember.

"Yes, until further notice. If you're having trouble getting along with your partner, let me know and I'll see what I can do."

A murmur rose throughout the gym. Kisame scanned the participants, looking for Itachi's slender silhouette. He spotted him across the room, heading toward the back of the gym.

He stretched lazily, then made his way over to the boy.

"Hey," he said, catching his attention.

He flipped his chair around, just like last time, and rested his forearms on the backrest.

"Hey," Itachi replied.

The young man leaned against the wall and slid down to sit on the floor. His raven-black hair caught against the plaster, leaving what looked like black ink streaks sliding down the white paint. Kisame watched him stretch out to find a comfortable position, then frowned. Itachi had a bandage around his hand and a bruise on his arm.

"What happened to you?" he asked without thinking.

He instantly regretted it. Why should he care if Itachi had a bandage or a bruise? He wasn’t supposed to waste time getting close to anyone in the support group—especially not to the boy who had stabbed his father and strangled his mother.

"I got hurt," Itachi answered, tugging down the sleeve of his long-sleeved T-shirt. "Are we asking each other questions like last time?"

"If you want, yeah."

"Then I'll start."

Kisame smirked. Of course. You're way too curious, he thought. He watched Itachi, whose dark pupils stared back at him through his long, shadowy lashes.

"Why are you still wearing your wedding ring?"

Kisame glanced down at his ring finger. A sharp pang shot through his chest. He had expected Itachi to ask increasingly personal questions—the "game" they had started was clearly heading that way—but he hadn’t thought the boy would get so comfortable so fast.

"Because my marriage isn't over," he said.

Itachi's eyes widened slightly.

"You forgave her?"

"I haven't had the chance to tell her yet."

"When will you?"

"When I can see her."

Itachi's delicate brows furrowed, and his gaze darkened with something Kisame couldn’t quite place.

"But..." he began.

"My turn," Kisame cut in, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. "How did your meeting with your family go?"

A week had passed since their last session, when Itachi had mentioned he would be seeing his parents. Kisame was curious how it had gone. Itachi liked asking questions that forced him to open up; it was about time he returned the favor.

"It was... complicated."

He dropped his gaze, and Kisame noticed the way his jaw tightened.

"What do you mean?"

Itachi shot him an annoyed look, and Kisame understood that this question stung just as much as the one Itachi had thrown at him moments earlier.

"It's hard to talk when there's a doctor sitting right next to you."

Kisame could only imagine. It was obvious the hospital wouldn’t have left them alone for their first meeting.

The former soldier rested his chin in the palm of his hand, wondering how it had all gone down. Had Itachi explained himself? Had he apologized? Had he cried?

No, he thought immediately. That didn’t seem like him. Itachi seemed more the type to reveal nothing and bury everything deep inside, all hidden behind a marble mask.

Kisame glanced at the bandage around the boy's hand.

"Is your injury related to that meeting?"

Itachi raised his eyebrows and looked at his bandaged hand.

"Oh... no. It's just..."

He trailed off.

"Just what?"

He hesitated, which made Kisame raise a brow.

"If you don't answer, I get a free pass," Kisame warned.

Itachi’s eyes immediately lit up, and Kisame couldn't help but smile at his own small victory: the boy was far too curious to let him dodge a single question.

"I hurt myself at the clinic's gym," Itachi said.

"How?"

"With the weights. I mishandled them and..."

Kisame burst out laughing, drawing glances from the other members of the group. He quickly composed himself, slowly turning his head from side to side. It wasn’t the fact that Itachi had gotten hurt at the gym that amused him—it was the humiliated look on his face right now. He looked like a cat folding its ears back after getting scolded.

"I didn’t know how to use them," Itachi muttered defensively, his voice dropping unnaturally low.

"Sports aren't really your thing, huh?"

"Yes, they are."

"No, they're not."

Itachi shot him an even colder look before glancing away.

Another one of his ways of cutting off the conversation, Kisame mused with amusement.

He smiled faintly. Sometimes, the boy reminded him of his old friend Obito. They weren’t alike—Obito had been way more expressive—but certain reactions, like Itachi’s slight frown or his detached way of looking at people, echoed memories of his friend.

"I could help you, if you want."

"Help me?" Itachi repeated, clearly skeptical.

Kisame nodded.

"I work at a gym. I can show you how to train properly, especially with the weights. Then you can manage on your own."

Itachi stayed silent long enough that Kisame wondered if this was his way of refusing politely.

"Alright, forget it," Kisame said, closing his eyes. "I didn’t mean to—"

"No," Itachi interrupted. "I'd like that."

This time, Kisame was the one left speechless. For a second—brief, as always—he caught a glint in Itachi’s eyes he hadn’t seen before.

"Will that work with your permissions?" he asked eventually.

"I’m allowed two outings, four hours each."

Kisame nodded.

"Alright." He pulled out his phone and showed Itachi the gym’s address. "This is where I work. I'm there Monday to Friday, six a.m. to two p.m. You can drop by anytime during those hours. I’ll be there."

"Thanks," Itachi said after glancing at the screen.

"You’re not writing it down?"

"I’ve memorized it. It’s fine."

"Huh."

Kisame put his phone away, hiding his surprise. He, for one, had to write everything down or he’d forget.

He was about to bring it up, but Iruka called the end of the meeting. In a shuffle of chairs and chatter, everyone helped clean up the gym and then trickled out.

Kisame caught a glimpse of Itachi leaving, wearing a jacket as dark as the rest of his outfit: black.

The former special forces agent wondered if the boy simply hated colors or if it was just his style.

He pondered the thought as he made his way toward "Icharaku Ramen," a little beachside restaurant where Nagato had asked to meet him.

Walking along the seaside promenade, he breathed in the salty air and watched the sun dip below the horizon. The waves, gentle this late in September, lapped softly at the beach where gulls scurried about, trying to catch the razorfish wriggling up through the sand.

A year ago, he had walked here hand in hand with his wife, uncertain about the future but filled with hope. Twelve months later, that magic was gone. He was alone, angry, and had a criminal record. Hard to get any lower than that.

"Kisame!" someone called out.

He turned and spotted Nagato sitting on the restaurant's terrace. Early, as usual, Kisame thought with a faint smile. He waved back and joined him, pulling out a metal chair that scraped noisily against the concrete, making Nagato wince.

"Still sensitive to noise?" Kisame asked, grinning.

"Only some noises. Like that one," Nagato replied, rubbing his ears.

"Lightweight," Kisame teased.

"Not everyone chooses to join special forces."

"Not everyone chooses to be that delicate, either."

"Don’t be mean."

Nagato leaned over and gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. Kisame feigned a grimace, then studied his friend, noticing he looked healthier than the last time they met.

Nagato had always been frail, but things seemed to have improved ever since Shizune, his wife, decided to cut down his client meetings. As a lawyer, Nagato had a habit of overworking himself—a habit Shizune thankfully refused to indulge. "I don't want to be a widow before he makes his first million," she often joked to Kisame, but he knew how to read between the lines. Beneath the humor, Shizune was really saying: "His health is fragile. He scares me. I don’t want stress to be the death of him."

"So, how are those support groups going?" Nagato asked, cutting into Kisame’s thoughts.

"Well... I think I would’ve preferred prison," Kisame replied.

"Kisame..." Nagato groaned immediately.

"I’m kidding."

He shrugged and let out a sigh.

"It’s long, and it’s boring. But it passes the time."

"What are the others like?"

"Weird."

"All of them?"

"No, not all. I mean... not really. I try not to talk to them much."

Itachi’s face flashed through Kisame’s mind. He fought off a shiver.

"What?" Nagato asked immediately.

Nagato had always had a knack for picking up on Kisame's discomforts. It had been that way since they were kids: Kisame, the quiet strength; Yahiko, the passionate leader; Konan, the reserved protector; and Nagato, the selfless observer. Thirty years later, far from the children's homes they grew up in, some things hadn't changed.

"Earlier I... I don’t know what got into me..." He ran a hand over his tired face. "I offered to help a guy from the support group train at the gym."

Nagato smiled.

"That’s not a bad thing, is it?"

"Yeah, it is," Kisame said firmly. "I don't want to get close to anyone in that group. They all did some fucked up shit. All I want is to complete the required number of sessions, get the hell out of that cursed gym, and forget this whole part of my life ever happened."

He shook his head and closed his eyes.

"I don't know what the hell I was thinking, offering something like that to some guy. He’s younger than me and... I don’t know... I felt sorry for him? And then suddenly I got all heroic, and now here I am stuck helping a criminal lift weights. Brilliant idea, huh? God, I’m such an idiot sometimes..."

Nagato crossed his legs and rested his arms on the chair’s armrests.

"You want me to tell you something, Kisame? You offered to help that boy not because you’re stupid, but because you’re a good person. That’s just who you are. You were born that way, and you’ll probably die that way. Not many people can say they have that kind of heart."

"Yeah, well, I could’ve done without it," Kisame grumbled.

"Hey there," a voice interrupted suddenly.

It was Ayame, Teuchi’s daughter and one of the servers. She weaved her way through the tables with a bright smile.

"What can I get you guys today?"

"Same as usual," Kisame replied. "A draft beer."

"A Bellini for me," Nagato added.

"A Bellini?" Kisame repeated. "You're turning into a walking lawyer stereotype."

"What?" Nagato said, clearly offended. "Lawyers aren’t allowed to drink Bellinis?" He turned to Ayame. "What do you think?"

"I think I’m just going to tell the bartender to make it," she said, shaking her head in amusement before heading to the bar with an easy, graceful stride that showed off her long legs beneath her summer miniskirt.

Kisame shifted his gaze back to Nagato. He was smiling. Clearly, he had caught Kisame's wandering eyes.

The forme soldier decided to shut down the silent teasing and get straight to the point.

"Alright," he sighed. "I’m guessing you didn’t invite me to dinner for nothing. You’ve got something to tell me about my marriage, don’t you? Well, I’m all ears, Counselor."

Nagato's smile faded, and Kisame knew he’d guessed right.

The lawyer leaned to the side and pulled a stack of documents from his briefcase. Kisame’s heart immediately started pounding in his chest.

"What’s all that?"

"Two very specific legal filings," Nagato explained calmly.

"Which are?"

"Miru is filing for divorce, Kisame."

It felt like time itself stopped. Around him, the seagulls went silent, the waves ceased their rolling, and the breeze froze in the air. His breath caught in his throat, and a high-pitched ringing filled his ears, as if he’d been punched hard in the face. Nagato reached out and placed a comforting hand on his forearm, speaking softly, but Kisame couldn’t hear him.

"Did you see her?" was all he managed to ask, indifferent to whatever else Nagato was saying.

"No... She went through her lawyer," Nagato said.

Kisame let out a bitter laugh.

"She didn’t even have the guts to hand me the divorce papers herself," he spat. "After all the years she’s known you, she could’ve at least—"

"It’s standard procedure," Nagato informed him. "It’s got nothing to do with courage."

Kisame didn’t answer. Anger burned inside him, a fire ready to consume everything in its path. But he knew it was a smokescreen. Once the flames died down, a far more brutal and agonizing emotion would take over: grief. The thought alone made his muscles tense and his gaze harden.

"I’m not signing those fucking papers."

Nagato seemed prepared for that answer. He inhaled deeply and pressed his lips together.

"If you refuse to sign, it’ll just drag things out," he said calmly. "It’ll cost you time and money, and the end result will be the same. Refusing to sign won’t stop the divorce. It’ll only delay it."

"I don’t give a shit," Kisame cut him off.

Nagato closed his eyes briefly.

"Alright," he said, still calm. "We’ll deal with that later. There’s something else I need to talk to you about."

This time, Nagato’s voice grew firmer, snapping Kisame’s attention away from the ocean. To his surprise, his friend wasn’t wearing his usual sympathetic expression. His eyes were cold, serious. Kisame frowned—he wasn't used to being on the receiving end of that look. That was usually reserved for Obito when he crossed the line.

"What?" Kisame asked.

"Did you try to contact Miru?"

Kisame felt his stomach drop. He looked away.

"I didn’t try to contact her... It was more like..."

"Kisame!" Nagato snapped. "Do I really need to remind you there’s a restraining order? You can’t approach her, you can’t contact her, you can’t show up at her workplace! You have to leave her alone!"

"I did leave her alone! I just... I heard she was still having trouble with our old landlord, so I got worried and—"

"You didn’t..." Nagato buried his face in his hands. "You seriously went over there?"

"I wasn’t trying to see her! I just talked to the landlord to get him off her back! I was worried, and—"

"Kisame, no!" Nagato exploded. "You can't intervene in her life anymore—not in any way! That's the only reason you’re not sitting in a cell right now! I fought tooth and nail to get the judge to agree to this deal, and this is how you thank me? By playing knight in shining armor every time she stubs her goddamn toe?"

Kisame gritted his teeth. He knew Nagato was right. He shouldn't have gotten involved, no matter how shitty their old apartment was or how much he wanted to help her. He knew all that. But... he missed her.

When he went to talk to the landlord, it wasn’t because he wanted to run into her—it was because he needed to reassure himself that everything was still standing, that nothing had changed. In the end, he hadn’t even felt relief. He had only felt worse, remembering how he’d lost control.

"Look," Nagato said, tossing another stack of papers onto the table. "See this? This is the cost of your stupidity. Miru’s filed to strengthen the restraining order."

Kisame’s heart skipped a beat. He stared at the documents, wide-eyed.

"What?" he choked out.

"Here’s your drinks!"

Ayame appeared with their orders. Seeing their devastated expressions, she blushed, quickly setting the glasses down before hurrying away.

"She can’t do that!" Kisame burst out, relieved that they were alone on the terrace. "I’m not going to hurt her! Never! What kind of bullshit is this?!"

He grabbed the papers and started reading frantically. His heart was hammering against his ribs.

He didn’t understand. Sure, he had broken the rules. But Miru... why was she doing this? He had never laid a hand on her. Never. The only reason he had been convicted of assault was because of what he had done to her lover. Yes, he had pushed Miru in the chaos, but that had been an accident. She hadn’t been hurt. The only one who ended up in the hospital was "the other asshole," as Kisame liked to call him. In Kisame’s eyes, the restraining order had been humiliating and completely excessive. Weren’t those kinds of measures meant for actual abusers? He wasn’t one of them. Miru knew that. So why was she doing this?

"She can do it because you didn’t follow the rules," Nagato said coldly.

Kisame glared at him.

"I don’t get it. She knows I would never hurt her. She knows that—"

"Kisame, she doesn’t care what you think! You scared her that day! She thought you were going to kill that guy, and then kill her! It took her a month to recover!"

"But I—"

"Come on, man, the neighbors had to drag you off him! The cops had to pull a gun on you! There was blood on the ceiling! The guy was in a coma for two weeks! Two goddamn weeks, Kisame! Do you even realize?"

"That’s not..."

"Look, I know you didn’t mean to hurt her. I know the elbow she took was an accident in all the chaos. I know you would never lay a hand on her. But that’s not the point. She’s afraid of you now, Kisame. She doesn’t want you anywhere near her, not now, not ever."

Afraid of you.

Nagato’s words echoed endlessly in Kisame’s mind, as if he had shouted them from the top of a mountain and the vibrations were cruelly bouncing off every wall in the valley.

The lawyer placed a compassionate hand on his shoulder.

"Kisame..." he said gently. "In all your misfortune, you're actually lucky."

He started organizing the scattered documents on the table.

"I called Miru as soon as I received the file. It wasn’t easy, but I convinced her not to request a modification to the restraining order."

Kisame’s eyes widened.

"That’s—"

"Don’t take it as a victory," Nagato cut in immediately. "She only agreed because I personally promised her that something like this would never happen again. Do I have your solemn word?"

Kisame clenched his jaw. A few seconds ticked by before he finally nodded.

Nagato seemed relieved.

"Miru made it very clear: if anything like this happens again, she’ll have her lawyer file the request formally in court." He stopped sorting the documents and locked eyes with Kisame. "And if that happens, the judge won’t see you as a poor guy who lost it once. She’ll see a narcissistic abuser trying to control his wife’s life. Understand?"

"Understood."

Nagato nodded, apparently satisfied, and started packing the documents into his briefcase. Kisame took the opportunity to light a cigarette. His friend noticed—he knew Kisame had quit smoking a long time ago—but wisely said nothing, understanding that another comment wouldn’t help right now.

"Shizune and I are hosting a dinner Saturday night," he said after a moment of silence. "We’d really like you to come."

Kisame blew the smoke off to the side of their table.

"Who’s going to be there?"

"The usual crew," Nagato replied. "Except Miru, of course."

"No."

Nagato’s face fell.

"Why not? It’d be good for you to get out. Shizune hasn’t seen you in four months. Neither have Pakura, Yahiko, or Konan. Same for Kakashi and Rin."

Kisame shook his head again.

"If Kakashi and Rin are there, that means Obito won’t be," he said, tapping the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray on the next table.

Obito hadn’t been able to stand the sight of Kakashi ever since Rin—his ex-girlfriend—had left him for his best friend. The betrayal had practically destroyed him. And while he struggled to pick up the pieces, Rin and Kakashi went on living their happy, picture-perfect life: moving in together, buying a house, getting a pet... All they were missing was an engagement ring to complete the perfect couple cliché.

"They can’t get married," Yahiko had said once during Pakura’s birthday party. "If they get married, and Obito finds out... I think we’ll lose him. For good." No one had dared argue with him. Because it was true. Since Kakashi and Rin had gone public, Obito had turned into a brooding, sharp-tongued shadow of his former self—a presence best avoided on bad days.

What if I end up like him? Kisame thought. A bitter man, aimless, drowning in resentment?

"What’s the problem then?" Nagato asked. "You wanted to see Obito?"

"Not really. I just don’t want to be stuck in the middle of your perfect couples."

"You won't be the only single one. Pakura will be there. Gai too."

Kisame frowned.

"It’s not about being single. I just don’t want to see couples. Especially Kakashi and Rin."

It wasn’t that he had anything against their relationship—he figured it wasn’t his place to approve or disapprove—but he knew that if he saw Rin smiling at Kakashi, he’d immediately think of Miru and her lover... and it would disgust him.

Now I get it, Obito, he thought.

They had both tasted the bitterness of betrayal. Still, Kisame preferred his situation to Obito’s: even if Miru had cheated, at least she hadn’t done it with someone Kisame knew. The Uchiha hadn’t been that lucky. Rin had turned to his best friend. Kisame couldn’t even imagine the kind of pain he must have gone through—and was probably still going through. Obito hadn’t just lost his partner; he had also lost a friendship that had spanned decades.

"I understand," Nagato said. "But you’ll have to get used to it. You can’t cut yourself off from your friends just because they’re couples now."

"I know."

"If it makes you uncomfortable coming alone, bring someone with you."

Kisame let out a short laugh as he took another drag from his cigarette.

"Who?"

"Anyone. As long as you come. No one’s going to say anything, I promise."

"I don’t have anyone. Just you guys."

Nagato shook his head.

"There’s that boy you met... from the support group."

"No."

"Why not? It could be a good way to meet new people. Yahiko’s always saying we should expand our circle."

"Not him. He’s not like us. And he’s dangerous."

Nagato chuckled lightly.

"If you offered to help him at the gym, it’s because you saw something good in him. You’re rarely wrong about people."

"Maybe. But I don’t want to show him my private life."

Nagato sighed.

"Look, just let me know by the day after tomorrow. Shizune’s driving me crazy trying to figure out how many seats we need. And also..."

He trailed off.

"What?" Kisame asked instantly.

Nagato hesitated.

"Spit it out," Kisame pressed.

It’s about Miru, he thought. I’m sure of it.

"Well... if you decide not to come, Shizune and I are planning to invite Miru."

Bingo.

"Invite her. I’m not coming."

He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and stood up.

"Kisame..." Nagato sighed.

"I don’t need anyone’s charity."

"You know that’s not what this is."

Kisame shrugged and pulled out a bill, dropping it on the table.

"See you around," he said.

Nagato shook his head in disapproval.

"If you change your mind, let me know. Everyone would be happy to see you."

"Yeah, sure."

He tucked the chair back under the table and left the restaurant.

Notes:

Hello everyone! Here I am again with this new chapter 🔥 As you may have noticed, Kisame's wife is called Miru. For those of you who don't know her, in the manga she was a ninja who asked Kisame to come and have a dinner with her (in order to form a bond - perhaps an amorous one, but nothing is less certain). Kisame killed her and her companions without the slightest hesitation (what a gentleman 😬). In the anime, before Kisame finishes her off, she says that she feels sorry for him and sincerely pities him. This scene has always shocked me, because you can see that Kisame knows she's right. I like to think that he joined the Akatsuki because of her (that it was one of the things that made him disgusted with his village). In short, I wanted to pay tribute to her by making her his wife. I hope you liked it! 🥰

Next chapter tomorrow!

Chapter 6: Adoption

Summary:

Sakura finally finds the family she always dreamed of—but when Obito reappears in her life as a patient, the fragile peace she built begins to crack.

"You seem worried lately."

"You think so?"

Kakashi nodded, his eyes still glued to his book. They had been wandering through the park for at least an hour. It was their usual ritual on sunny days, when Sakura wasn’t buried under her medical internships and he could escape the chaos of the juvenile center where he worked. Today was no different.

"I'm fine," she said. "Just busy, that's all."

"Are you sure?"

He turned a page, but his voice had shifted—sharper, more attentive.

Sakura pressed her lips together. Of course he had seen right through her. He knew her far too well to miss even the smallest sign of distress. It had been like that ever since she was little. Back when child services had sent her to the group home, she'd been a wild, distrustful little thing, ready to snap at anyone who got too close.

Kakashi and Naruto had learned that the hard way.

At first, at least.

With a patience that no one had ever shown him, Kakashi had managed to become a rock in his life. A mentor, sure. But also a role model. A father figure. The kind of man neither she nor Naruto had ever known before.

Together, they'd built something that looked a lot like a real family. One that didn’t need blood ties to be strong.

"Actually..." Sakura murmured. "I’m having a problem with Sasuke."

Kakashi immediately closed his book and turned his head to look at her.

His gaze, usually so unreadable, had turned serious.

Sakura felt her cheeks warm slightly. He knew. He knew everything there was to know about Sasuke.

"What did he do this time?" he asked.

Kakashi had never been particularly fond of the Uchiha family. Obito had been the rare exception—one that belonged to another time. The love he and Rin had shared had long since drawn an unbridgeable line between him and Obito. That chapter had closed for good.

"Oh, nothing!" Sakura tried to reassure him. "Well... not exactly. He's just... really distant. We barely see each other. I feel like he's hiding something."

"Have you talked to him about it?"

Sakura bit the inside of her cheek, avoiding his gaze.

"No."

"Then you know what you need to do. No jumping to conclusions—talk to him."

"Easier said than done when he keeps dodging me."

She sighed and stretched.

The sun was high overhead, and the trees lining the path cast cool, comforting shadows. It was far too beautiful a day to waste it talking about Sasuke and all the headaches he caused.

"Let's change the subject," she ordered. "I don't want to stress about this right now."

Kakashi looked at her silently but said nothing. Despite his skeptical expression, he humored her and reached into the back pocket of his jeans.

"I have some good news," he said, handing her a piece of folded paper.

"Oh yeah?" Sakura asked, surprised. "What's this?"

"Read it."

She unfolded the paper and began reading the first few lines.

'Mr. Kakashi Hatake,

We are pleased to inform you that the adoption procedure for Sakura Haruno has been successfully completed. In accordance with the court's decision, your request for full adoption has been granted.

Under Article 357 of the Civil Code, full adoption grants the adopted child the legal status of a legitimate child within your family. Consequently, Ms. Sakura Haruno is now legally recognized as your daughter and will bear the name Hatake.'

She didn’t read any further. Her heart skipped a beat. She folded the letter and looked up at Kakashi. He hadn’t moved, but she could see it—the quiet relief, the boundless joy shining in his eyes.

She swallowed hard, then, without a word, threw herself into his arms. She hugged him with everything she had. He returned her embrace silently, as he always did.

They stayed like that, frozen in a timeless moment. When she finally pulled away, she wiped at the tears that had betrayed her feelings. The adoption had been a long, grueling battle—a battle she, Kakashi, and Naruto had fought side by side.

At the thought, she froze.

"What about Naruto?" she asked. "Was his request approved too?"

Kakashi nodded.

"Yes. It’s in another letter."

"Oh my god..."

She clamped a trembling hand over her mouth to stifle a cry.

Finally, she thought, her heart pounding wildly.

Naruto and she were siblings. Kakashi was their father. They were a real family now—at least in the eyes of the law.

The relief was overwhelming; it had been almost three years since they’d started the process. Their chances of success had been so slim. It felt like everything had conspired against them, like fate itself had decided they weren’t meant to be happy together.

And yet, here they were... together.

She had a brother and a father.

She was no longer that lonely little girl in the group home.

Tears of joy blurred her vision as she remembered all those nights she had spent hoping for this moment. Every obstacle, every disappointment had only strengthened her resolve. Now, finally, she could feel that comforting warmth of belonging to a family.

"Naruto... Did you... Did you tell him?"

Her voice trembled with emotion.

"Not yet. Your brother has a real talent for being unreachable these days."

Sakura stared at him in surprise. 'Your brother.' It was the first time he'd ever referred to Naruto that way.

She smiled through her tears and hugged him again, tighter this time.

"How about we get some ice cream?" Kakashi suggested once she pulled away. "We need to celebrate."

"Sounds perfect," she managed to say through a shaky laugh.

She was still in shock. Kakashi slung a comforting arm around her shoulders, and they made their way to the nearest ice cream shop.

The rest of the afternoon passed without a hitch. She spent a total of three hours with her father—she could legally call him that now—before heading off to the hospital.

On the way, she couldn't stop herself from singing under her breath. She was so happy she even kissed one of the receptionists—someone she didn’t know at all—on the cheek, then volunteered to cover four of Tsunade’s afternoon appointments.

Between her second and third patient, she stopped by the coffee machine in the waiting room, watching with delight as the dark liquid poured into her cup, a radiant smile lighting up her face.

"That must be some damn good coffee."

She jumped and turned her head. Her smile faded instantly. Sitting alone on a chair in the hallway was Obito Uchiha. A cap and surgical mask half-covered his face, but the scars that marred his skin and his blind, milky-white eye made him unmistakable.

Sakura frowned. "Obito?" she asked.

He tugged his mask down, revealing his nose, hollow cheeks, and torn lips.

"In the flesh."

He gave her a nasty grin.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, surprised.

"I have an appointment with Dr. Tsunade Senju."

She blinked, needing a second for the information to sink in.

Pulling herself together, she raised her eyebrows and put on her polite—well, professionally detached—smile, the one she usually reserved for patients she didn’t particularly like but had to deal with anyway.

"Tsunade isn’t available right now. I’m filling in for her."

"Ah," Obito said. "That’s a shame. She’s the best in the department."

Sakura pressed her lips together.

"She trusts me to handle her patients when emergencies come up. I’ve been working under her for over a year, and—"

"I don’t want an intern."

His voice was sharp, cutting.

She blinked, thrown off for a moment.

Obito’s cruel smile deepened, like he was savoring her discomfort.

Sakura lifted her chin and took a deep breath.

You’re not going to get under my skin, she thought.

She knew this man. She knew the resentment he harbored toward Kakashi—and by extension, toward her—even though she had never had anything to do with the love story between her adoptive father and Rin. Obito simply couldn’t separate things. For him, the world was divided into two camps: Kakashi’s side, and everyone else.

"Well, that’s too bad. There aren’t exactly a million specialists in this field. If you’re not happy, you’re welcome to complain to reception. Maybe they’ll find you a spot with someone else. But I’ll warn you—the waitlist is long."

Obito seemed to weigh his options. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, staring at the coffee machine, then finally nodded.

"Fine. I’ll make do with the apprentice."

Sakura twitched slightly at the word "apprentice," but she didn’t react. She wasn’t about to lose her cool with one of Tsunade’s patients. Her mentor would skin her alive, and she had no desire to get on her bad side.

Act mature and professional, just like with any other patient, she reminded herself firmly.

"Perfect. In that case, let's get started."

She abandoned her coffee cup and opened the door to her office for him. Obito smirked and walked in, giving her a light shoulder check as he passed. She stiffened but said nothing. Instead, she clenched her teeth and closed the door.

She sat down behind her desk and opened her laptop. As expected, his file was overflowing. She skimmed through Tsunade’s latest report, then lifted her eyes from the screen. He was watching her with an unusually amused expression.

"Any pain since last time?" she asked.

"Same as before."

"In your face or elsewhere?"

"Both."

She rolled over to him on a wheeled stool.

"I'm going to use a dermatoscope."

He nodded without question, and she placed the device against the right side of his face, where the scars were deeply etched and new patches had started to appear. She performed the examination carefully, avoiding eye contact, especially with his milky-white eye that made her uncomfortable.

This is bad, she thought as she inspected him.

Obito’s skin was a battlefield.

Once a handsome young man, he had lost half his face in a single day during a high-risk mission with the special forces.

Sakura had never really dug into the details of the accident, but from his medical file, she knew he had been caught in a mine explosion. He had survived, but those first months of recovery had been pure hell.

She vividly remembered the night Sasuke had come home from visiting him at the hospital, pale as a sheet. It hadn’t been Obito’s disfigured face that had shaken him, but the endless groans of pain, waiting for the next dose of morphine from the machine.

She had tried to comfort Sasuke, telling him he'd probably just visited at a bad time—which was likely true—but deep down, she knew her words had been useless. Obito wasn't just disfigured; he was condemned to live in constant pain. The burns would never truly heal, and the agony would follow him for the rest of his life.

"Alright, you can take off your clothes," she said.

"Which ones?"

"Shirt and pants."

"Well, you're not wasting any time, are you?"

She slowly lifted her eyes to him. He was flashing a wicked smile, looking ready to burst out laughing. Normally, she would have immediately put him in his place—reminding him that inappropriate comments toward hospital staff wouldn't be tolerated and that any further incident would get him kicked out. But not this time. She knew that showing even a sliver of weakness would only encourage Obito to push her harder.

Besides, she thought, his case is fascinating.

His ruined skin, the medications he was on, the tests, the results—all of it was incredibly interesting. If she could conduct a full exam and document his condition properly, it would make for an exceptional thesis. It could seriously launch her career.

"So?" she asked, seeing that he still hadn't moved. "I have other patients after you."

His smile widened, slow and cold.

He stood up deliberately and pulled off his shirt, then his pants.

Sakura kept her face neutral, but a faint shiver ran down her spine.

The right side of his body was a wreckage. His skin—if it could still be called that—shifted between deep brown and dark red. Around his hip, a twisted fold of flesh covered an old laceration. Thick, raised scars and crude stitch marks slashed across his abdomen like hastily patched wounds.

"Do some burns hurt more than others?" she asked, keeping her voice clinical.

He gave a dry, humorless laugh.

"All of them. Or none of them. Same difference."

She continued her examination methodically, ignoring the provocation.

"Any itching?"

"When I’m out in the sun," he replied with disdain.

"Only then?"

A heavy silence fell between them. Then he said, voice low and deliberate:

"And when I fuck."

He spat the word like an insult, not to shock her, but to taint the conversation, to drag it into the gutter.

Sakura, well used to provocations from certain patients, didn’t flinch. She lifted his arm, inspecting more scars, studying each mark with cold, methodical precision. Then she rolled back behind her desk and asked him to get dressed.

"Still having appetite issues?" she asked without looking up.

"Depends on the day," he replied, drawing out the words.

"And the flashes?"

"The flashes?"

"Yeah. Dr. Senju noted that you mentioned having 'flashes' since you started the experimental medication she prescribed."

A mocking smile tugged at his lips.

"Oh, that... Yeah. Still happening."

"Under what circumstances?"

He leaned in slightly, making the distance between them feel oppressive.

"When I fuck."

Again. Another calculated strike.

Sakura briefly lifted her head. He stared directly at her, shameless and unflinching.

Not to flirt. Not to play. But to taint. To stake his claim through latent violence.

"How often do you have sexual intercourse?" she asked, her voice perfectly neutral.

"Depends."

"On average?"

"Six or seven times a week."

She kept her expression neutral, jotting down a few notes. Then her gaze snagged on a detail in the file: "Number of sexual encounters in the previous month: none."

"Dr. Senju noted that you reported no sexual activity last month."

Obito’s smile twisted bitterly, never reaching his eyes.

"Miracles of modern medicine," he said. "The treatment's responsible for the change."

"I see. We might need to reassess the dosage, or—"

"No."

The word cracked out, sharp.

She raised an eyebrow.

His face had hardened. His dark, cold eyes bore into her with tangible disdain.

"Why not?" she asked quietly.

"Because I like it. Even if it only lasts a few minutes. Even if it’s filthy. Even if it breaks something else inside."

Sakura took a steadying breath.

"Obito, the medication is intended to manage physical pain, not to trigger a spiral of self-destructive hypersexuality."

"So what? It works for me. That’s all that matters."

She had been ready for that answer.

With a sigh, she calmly listed the risks, ticking them off on her fingers:

"Addiction. Hypersexuality. Cardiovascular issues. Inflam—"

"Yeah, yeah," he sneered. "I'm a big boy. I'll sign a waiver if you want."

"It doesn't work like that."

He stared at her, unblinking, his gaze devoid of any empathy. Then he exhaled noisily, a sound full of contempt and boredom.

"The drug works," he said hoarsely. "It’s the first thing that actually eases the pain."

Sakura pressed her lips together. She took a few seconds to weigh her options, then typed a few words into her computer.

"I'll maintain the treatment for now, but I’m adjusting the dosage. Dr. Senju will have the final say."

Obito gave a nonchalant nod.

She finished filling out the last of his medical notes and logged off.

"That's all I need. You'll get your next appointment confirmation by email."

Obito rose slowly.

"Hope it'll be you again."

He straightened to his full height.

His good eye was black, sticky with hatred. His dead eye, pale and clouded, held no warmth at all.

Sakura shivered despite herself.

"I thought you didn’t want to deal with an intern," she said, her voice steady.

"I changed my mind."

"Glad to hear it."

He gave a short, unpleasant laugh.

The physical closeness, his towering presence, the sheer oppressive weight he exuded—all of it reeked of silent hostility.

Obito didn’t like her. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to resurrect an old hatred he couldn’t let die.

She knew dealing with him wouldn't be without risk, but she had no intention of backing down.

She would take what she needed for her thesis.

And once her work was done, she would leave him behind.

Just the medical care.

Nothing else.

"In that case," Obito said, his voice darkening, "I look forward to seeing you again, Dr. Haruno. Or should I say... Dr. Hatake."

She froze.

How did he know about her name change? She had only just learned about it herself from Kakashi. Had he told him?

Impossible.

Those two hadn’t spoken in nearly two years. Same with Rin. There was no way he had heard it from either of them. His hatred for them still ran too deep.

"How did you...?" she began.

He turned and walked out into the hallway.

"News travels fast," he said over his shoulder.

And he slammed the door shut behind him.

Notes:

Hello everyone! A new day means a new chapter 🥰 I hope you like it. You'll see that Sakura and Obito's relationship is more than complex. By the way, if there are any doctors reading this, don't pay any attention to the inconsistencies in Sakura's studies and auscultations 😅 If, despite that, you liked it, don't hesitate to leave a comment (it's so motivating when you get feedback on your work 🥺).

Chapter 7: Come with me

Summary:

Kisame struggles with the emotional weight of his divorce, but Itachi is there.

"Don't get discouraged, Kisame!" Gai exclaimed. "Love isn't some peaceful, easy river! Sometimes it turns into a raging torrent!"

He furrowed his brow and launched into a taekwondo move to drive his point home.

"You have to find the strength to fight the dark thoughts dragging you down! Be like the Bengal tiger—strong and brave at the same time!"

Kisame closed his eyes slowly. Gai Maito was a friend, but there were moments when he seriously regretted having him around. This was one of them.

The thought made him smile. He remembered their first meeting, back in the special forces. Gai’s habit of forgetting his name and yelling motivational speeches about mental strength had seriously irritated him—at first. It wasn’t until much later that he learned to respect him.

On a mission where everything had gone to hell, Gai had somehow found the right words to pull the team back together and get them out of trouble. Kisame had never forgotten that. Nor had he forgotten the day Gai carried a wounded comrade through waist-high mud under enemy fire.

He’d been exemplary. That kind of strength—more than any speech—is what made Kisame lower his guard. He’d never regretted it, not even when Gai left the military to open a gym downtown.

"Thanks for the advice," Kisame said.

Gai nodded enthusiastically, clearly pleased.

"I’m off. Private lesson. Can I leave you in charge?"

"Sure."

Gai waved and left the gym, whistling.

Kisame turned to the afternoon schedule. He confirmed a few appointments, canceled others, tidied up some gear, and helped a customer.

When he returned to the front desk, he noticed a young man with long dark hair hesitating by the entrance.

He watched him open the door halfway, then retreat and continue down the sidewalk. Kisame frowned, left the counter, and stepped outside.

"Itachi?" he called.

The young man froze. He turned slowly. He carried a worn-out gym bag, and his long hair framed a pale, tired face.

"Kisame," he replied calmly.

"Leaving already?"

Itachi hesitated, like he was trying to come up with a reasonable excuse.

"I’m not feeling great."

"That’s exactly why you come here, isn’t it?"

Kisame held the door open.

"Come on, get in."

Itachi stared at him warily for a moment, then walked in and headed to the locker room.

When he came back, Kisame grinned. Another shirt way too big.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

"Fix your hair first."

Itachi frowned but complied, gathering the strands that had fallen into his face and tying them back messily. It was a start, Kisame figured.

He showed him a few machines, explained the motions, the proper form. Itachi followed silently, focused.

After twenty minutes, a flush crept over his pale face. Sweat dripped down, plastering his hair to his forehead. He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt, exposing a slim torso with faint outlines of ribs and abs.

For a moment, Kisame saw a reflection of his own fifteen-year-old self: growing but lacking muscle, no real power. Endurance, yes. But no strength. Itachi seemed built the same way.

"Here."

He handed him a water bottle. Itachi drank almost all of it in one go. He’d already had water during the session, but clearly it wasn’t enough.

He did the stretches Kisame had taught him, then sat down against the wall—just like during the support group meetings.

"You alright?" Kisame asked.

Itachi nodded.

"Yeah."

"You did good."

He handed him another bottle.

"Drink more. It matters."

Itachi drank again without a word.

The gym was nearly empty. Two women jogged on treadmills across the room. Kisame leaned back against the wall, watching them absently. He wondered if his wife still worked out. Before the separation, she’d dreamed of running a marathon. Had she done it? Given up?

"You seem pissed," Itachi said.

He was watching him out of the corner of his eye, water bottle still close to his lips.

Kisame smirked.

"That obvious?"

"Yeah."

Itachi took another sip, then capped the bottle.

"Is it because of your wife?"

Kisame snorted. This kid had a knack for hitting the mark.

"Yeah," he sighed.

"What happened?"

Kisame felt his muscles tense. He stared at the women running in sync, feet pounding the belts. He didn’t feel like talking about it. Not with Itachi.

But who else?

He hadn’t seen Nagato since their last meeting. And didn’t want to. The lawyer was a friend, sure, but every time Kisame thought about their talk, a vague unease crept in. He wasn’t even sure if he blamed him. And if he did, he couldn’t say why. Nagato hadn’t done anything wrong. He was just trying to help. Like everyone else.

But none of them really got what he was going through.

Except Obito, he thought.

But opening up to him was out of the question. The Uchiha hadn’t even processed his own breakup. Kisame knew he’d only make things worse—not out of malice, but by mirroring. He’d agree, support him, even if it meant spiraling further himself. And Kisame didn’t want that.

He needed someone outside it all. Someone who could tell him the truth without wrapping it in sympathy or sugarcoating it. Someone who didn’t know him or his wife.

He glanced at Itachi. The young man watched him in silence, dark eyes framed by long lashes. Still. Patient.

"She’s asking for a divorce."

Itachi blinked slowly.

"I’m sorry," he said simply. "I know that was the last thing you wanted."

"Thanks..."

Kisame felt a small jolt in his chest.

"You’re the first person to say that. In this context, anyway."

"Your friends don’t?"

"They avoid it. Instead, they try to show support... differently."

"How?"

A joyless laugh slipped out.

"They invite me to dinner. That’s their way of being there. And I actually got an invite for this Saturday. Normally I’d enjoy those nights… but right now, I have zero desire to go."

"Why? Sounds nice enough."

Kisame raised an eyebrow.

"I don’t feel like being around happy couples. And more than anything..."

He clenched his jaw. A slow anger simmered in his chest.

"I don’t want to share their friendship with her."

Itachi’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

"She’ll be there?"

"No. We can’t see each other. But if I don’t go, they’ll invite her. And that..."

He paused.

"I won’t tolerate it."

Silence settled again. Kisame wasn’t used to opening up—especially not to a near stranger.

"I get it."

Itachi’s calm voice came from just beside him. He wasn’t looking at him. He watched the runners, like the gym had suddenly turned into an ocean view. Kisame was grateful for that. He wouldn’t have handled being stared at.

"You should still go," Itachi said after a moment.

"No."

"Why not? You need a break. And if you don’t go, she will. That’s not fair."

The young man pulled his knees up to his chest.

"She might be hurting. But so are you. You don’t have to punish yourself. And you definitely don’t have to make it easier for her by stepping aside."

He slowly turned his head.

"If I were you, I wouldn’t help her heal wounds she caused herself. I’d start with my own."

Kisame looked at him, silent.

It was the first time Itachi had spoken so much. And the first time he gave such a clear opinion.

Kisame had expected a polite nod, a quiet, neutral silence. Not this.

And yet, it hit home. Exactly right.

"So you think I should go…" the man sighed. "What a mess."

He rubbed a hand down his face.

"I’ll have to pretend to be cheerful for at least two hours."

"Go with someone. Makes it easier. Trust me."

"Why? You’ve been in this situation before?"

Itachi tensed. A barely noticeable shiver crossed his face, and Kisame wondered what kind of images might be flashing through that always-too-calm head of his.

"Let’s just say I’m used to long... heavy dinners."

His tone dropped instantly—cold, flat. His eyes were fixed on some abstract point in the room while his finger picked nervously at the label on the bottle.

"Come with me," Kisame said.

Itachi turned to him, brows slightly furrowed. He parted his lips, stayed silent for a moment, then looked away again, visibly overwhelmed.

Kisame understood. He felt like he was losing his own mind, too.

"I don’t know if I..." Itachi began.

"It’s that, or I’m not going at all," Kisame cut in. "The only friends I have are gonna be there. I don’t know anyone else I could ask."

Itachi swallowed. All the confidence he’d shown until now seemed to drain away. Now he was just a young man with stiff, uncertain movements and an anxious, darting gaze.

Kisame felt a wave of discomfort.

I should’ve never asked him. He’s going to say no, he thought.

He clenched his teeth.

Why the hell do I even care? He’s dangerous. He stabbed his dad and strangled his mom. Why the fuck do I care if he says no...?

He swallowed the frustration.

This is Nagato’s bullshit. He’s the one who put the idea in my head. Fuck. I should’ve thought before opening my mouth.

"Alright," Itachi said.

Too late to take it back.

And yet, a strange sense of relief washed over Kisame at the thought that the kid had accepted. A contradiction he couldn’t quite explain.

"I’ll only be allowed out for four hours," Itachi added.

"That’ll be more than enough," Kisame replied.

"And... is the place accessible by public transport? I don’t have a car."

Kisame blinked. He hadn’t even thought about that. Of course.

You invited him, now deal with it, he told himself.

"I’ll come get you."

"No, it’s not—"

"You really that keen on taking the bus?"

Silence.

"Not really."

"Then it’s settled. Problem solved."

He gave him a small smile. Itachi looked away.

"I need to go back," he said. "Thanks for the invite."

He stood smoothly and walked toward the locker room.

"Wait."

Itachi stopped and turned his head slightly, just enough for a glance. Kisame cleared his throat, feeling awkward.

"My number. Here."

He scribbled it on a scrap of paper and handed it to him.

Itachi glanced at it and nodded.

"Got it."

Kisame stared, confused. Just like last time, the kid had barely looked at what he showed him before claiming to remember it all.

Itachi raised an eyebrow at his expression. He took the paper and added something to it.

"I’ve got a photographic memory," he explained. "But I know not everyone does."

He handed the paper back. Kisame looked down and read the number softly to himself.

Itachi’s handwriting was fine, precise, elegant. His own looked clunky and rushed next to it.

Fitting, he thought.

He was rough, heavy-handed.

Itachi, sharp as a blade, all angles and precision.

"I’ll call you the day of," he said.

Itachi nodded. He gave a faint smile, then disappeared into the locker room.

 

 

Notes:

I really enjoy writing the moments when they learn to discover, evaluate and understand each other. Itachi gives Kisame a hard time, but Kisame isn't the most sociable person there is either 😅 Again, Itachi is often described with words like ‘the boy’, ‘the kid’, but that's only in Kisame's eyes. Itachi is 28 years old. He's a confirmed adult. I hope you enjoyed it! Don't hesitate to leave a comment, it's so motivating 🥰

Chapter 8: Juugo

Summary:

Ino Yamanaka's carefully curated morning routine unravels just before her first meeting with Juugo Tanaka—the son of a notorious serial killer.

When she woke up, Ino followed a very precise routine. Her maid would rouse her around six in the morning. She started with ten minutes of meditation, jumped in the shower, then moved on to her beauty routine.

She chose her clothes carefully and applied her makeup meticulously. Around seven, she went downstairs for breakfast, prepared by the chef—because she hated cooking. She drank a large glass of water with a spoonful of vinegar —supposedly to stabilize her blood sugar—, then enjoyed a savory breakfast with no carbs whatsoever. Once full, she checked her schedule before heading to university or her various appointments.

Today was supposed to be no different.

And yet, nothing had gone according to plan.

During meditation, she’d hurt herself and couldn’t focus. Then, she discovered her key beauty product had mysteriously vanished. And the cherry on top? Her mother had, for once, given the chef the day off, forcing her to cook an omelet—which she completely butchered.

Which was how she found herself sitting in one of the rooms at Édouard VI, her favorite tea salon, tapping her foot nervously.

Maybe all of that was a bad omen? she thought.

Today was her first meeting with her student: Juugo. Saying she was nervous would be a massive understatement.

The night before, she’d watched the Netflix documentary about the horrific murders committed by Juugo’s father, and nightmares had plagued her sleep ever since.

What a brilliant idea…, she muttered irritably.

She should’ve just watched Pride and Prejudice for the seventeenth time instead of self-sabotaging like that.

“Miss Yamanaka?”

She jumped. A butler stood in front of her.

“Yes?” she asked.

He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable.

“There’s a young man here... Juugo Tanaka, he claims to have an appointment with you. I have my doubts. If you’d prefer, we can have security—”

“He’s telling the truth,” Ino interrupted. “I do have a meeting with him.”

The butler couldn’t hide his surprise. He apologized profusely, nodded, and left. When he returned, a massive figure followed behind him.

He led the young man to Ino’s table, then left them alone.

She looked up at the person standing across from her.

Juugo was what people commonly called a tower. Huge, muscular, intimidating. And above all, he looked uncannily like his father—the murderer.

The first time she’d looked at his file, she assumed the photographer had just caught a bad angle. She’d been wrong.

Same orange hair, same square jaw, same red eyes.

Now that he was standing in front of her, real and solid, a cold chill ran down her spine. Still, she forced herself to keep her composure.

“Ino Yamanaka?” he asked.

His voice was deep.

“That’s me,” she replied.

She stood up and extended her hand. He shook it. His grip surprised her. His hands were large, veined, calloused—she felt like she was shaking hands with an MMA fighter, not that she’d ever met one.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

“Pleasure’s mine.”

He took off his cap, revealing a mop of messy orange hair, then dropped his backpack at the base of the table and sat down. He glanced briefly around the room, shoulders hunched, back curved. Sitting down made him seem slightly less imposing, but the table still looked too small for his frame.

His knees brushed against Ino’s. They both flinched, but said nothing.

An awkward silence settled between them.

Ino quietly inhaled and pulled herself together. I’m the teacher. I set the tone. I lead the way. Think Aurea Mentis. Think of your goal.

She cleared her throat, opened her folder, and pulled out a stack of papers.

“I’ve prepared the curriculum you need to learn for your exams,” she said, placing the documents on the table. “I won’t lie—it’s a lot. But if you’re motivated and serious, you’ll get through it.”

She pulled out a second stack.

“These are the exam requirements. Everything’s in there.”

She handed him the folder. He took it and immediately began to read.

Ino watched him in silence. But after a few seconds, she tilted her head, intrigued.

Juugo was hunched over the page, brow furrowed, lips moving as he deciphered the lines.

He looks like a first grader trying to read his first poem, she thought.

“You…” she began.

He looked up. Their eyes met.

His irises were red. Like a demon's.

Or like his father's, she corrected herself mentally. That infamous father who butchered dozens of innocents in his basement.

She swallowed hard.

“Did you forget your glasses?”

“No. Why?”

“Because it looks like you can't see what you're reading.”

Juugo lowered his gaze, jaw clenched.

“No... That's just how I read.”

“Oh,” Ino replied simply.

He pressed his lips together and went back to reading. Ino pretended to review the curriculum—though she already knew it by heart—but her eyes quickly returned to the young man.

He's taking way too long to read a single line.

“Juugo?”

He looked up.

“Can you read out loud?”

He stared at her for a moment, probably weighing the pros and cons, then nodded.

After clearing his throat, he began reading. Ino had to fight the urge to widen her eyes. He read slowly, painfully, like a child sounding out a nursery rhyme.

Oh God... What did I get myself into?

Reading wasn’t just a weak point—it was a disaster. Juugo was nowhere near the level required for the exam—nowhere near what you’d expect from an adult, period.

“Um... Sir?”

A waiter stood beside their table. Neither of them had noticed him.

“Yes?” Juugo replied, visibly surprised.

“Would you like to order something?”

He handed Juugo a menu. Juugo took it hesitantly, as if unsure the offer was truly meant for him.

He looked down and tried to decipher the menu. Slowly. Far too slowly.

Then, after a long silence, he handed the menu back to the waiter.

“Thanks, but I don't need anything.”

The waiter blinked at him, slightly taken aback.

Ino felt the tension rise. She knew how this place worked: regulars, well-born or well-dressed clients, could linger without ordering. The others... not so much. No tolerance for those who didn’t know the unspoken rules. That was the tea room’s silent code.

“I’m sorry, sir. To remain here, you’ll have to order something.”

“Oh…”

Juugo took the menu again, clearly lost. All the teas and coffees listed were rare, almost pretentious. The prices, for their part, bordered on outrageous.

“I’ll take that one,” he said at last.

“The Gyokuro? Excellent choice, sir.”

It was one of the cheapest. Ino knew that.

“Twenty euros for a cup?” Sakura had once exclaimed after seeing the menu. “That’s insane.” She’d stormed out and dragged Ino with her.

They'd ended up in a small, ordinary café, much more affordable, and Ino had had a great time.

She closed her eyes briefly. She’d forgotten that places like this weren’t accessible to everyone. To her, they were just part of the everyday backdrop—so familiar she overlooked their symbolic violence.

“Put it on my tab,” Ino instructed.

The waiter nodded and walked away. Juugo’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth, instinctively reaching out to stop him, but the waiter was already gone.

“No. You shouldn’t have. I could’ve—”

“No need to talk about it,” Ino cut him off. “Let’s focus on the goal: passing your exam.”

She pulled out a neatly color-coded schedule, decorated with Post-its, and handed it to him.

“I spoke with your contact at the association. She gave me your availability, so I built this plan around it.”

Juugo examined the document, curious.

“I suggest we meet every weekday starting at five, for sessions lasting one to two hours depending on the exercises. The beginning of the week will be for sciences; the end for literature, history, and geography.”

She pointed at the weekly calendar. Juugo nodded silently.

“Before that, I need to give you some tests.”

“Tests?”

“Yes. General assessments that cover all the subjects on the exam. They’ll help me figure out where you stand and what we need to prioritize.”

“Okay…”

“Perfect. Here’s the first one.”

He looked up, stunned.

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“But... I haven’t prepared.”

“That’s the point.”

He swallowed.

“Okay…”

Ino pulled out a test, a pencil case, and some scratch paper. She cleared space on the table, opened the stopwatch app on her phone, and started the timer.

“You have one hour.”

Juugo’s eyes flicked from the test to the pencil case, then to Ino’s face. He looks completely lost, she thought. How long has it been since he left school?

She took a deep breath.

“This is just a practice test. If you don’t know an answer, skip it. The goal isn’t to grade you, it’s to see where you’re at.”

Juugo stared at the papers like they were a cliff edge. Then he picked up a pen and started writing.

If I watch him too closely, he won’t be able to focus, Ino thought, pulling a book from her bag.

She dove into her reading.

Time passed slowly. Now and then, she glanced his way. He frowned, held his head in his hands, then scribbled an awkward answer. His knee kept bouncing under the table, making the fine china rattle on the Edouard VI porcelain.

Is he scared? she wondered. I did tell him it was just a mock exam...

She was about to say something reassuring when a delivery truck passed slowly in front of the bay window. Juugo looked up. Ino followed his gaze.

An ad panel covered the sides of the truck: the Outro Museum was announcing a new collection of paintings. A painted reproduction was proudly displayed.

Juugo didn’t take his eyes off the image.

“Botticelli,” Ino said.

“Huh?”

She nodded toward the truck.

“The Birth of Venus. It’s a Botticelli.”

“Oh. When’s that from?”

She blinked.

“Fourteenth century.”

“That old, huh…”

“When did you think it was from?”

He scratched the back of his head, visibly nervous.

“World War Two…?”

She stared at him silently for a moment, then set her book down on the table.

“You’ve never heard of Botticelli?”

He shook his head gently.

“Not even from visiting a museum?”

He swallowed hard.

“I’ve never been to a museum…”

Ino remained still, then slowly nodded. Juugo squirmed in his chair, clearly uncomfortable, and went back to his test.

Ten minutes passed in tense silence.

Then Ino’s phone rang.

“Time’s up,” she announced.

Juugo straightened up and let out a breath. He glanced one last time at his answers, then handed her the pages. Ino tucked them away in her folder along with her pencil case and other supplies.

“I’ll grade everything and let you know what comes next.”

“All right.”

He put his cap back on, slipped into his jacket and backpack.

“By the way… thanks for… the tea.”

Ino simply nodded.

“See you,” he said.

“Mmh.”

He nodded in return and left the salon. Ino didn’t let herself relax until she was sure he was gone. She finished the last sips of her cup, stood, greeted the staff she passed, and stepped outside.

As always, her driver was waiting in front of the entrance. He opened the car door and politely gestured toward the passenger seat. She was about to climb in when a familiar silhouette walked past on the sidewalk.

“Hinata?” she called.

The young woman flinched and turned around. Upon seeing Ino, her face tightened briefly, wavering between surprise and unease, before settling into a wobbly smile.

Ino frowned. She knew that kind of smile: fake, forced.

“It’s been a while! Where’ve you been? No one’s seen you all summer.”

Hinata’s cheeks turned pink. She leaned in to kiss her friend, then took a step back, clutching her small purse tightly.

“Oh… I… I was down south, with my family.”

“Was it nice?”

“Yes, yes… It was perfect! Father planned everything down to the last detail… It was… really nice.”

She was blushing more and more. And it wasn’t a flush of heat or happiness. Ino saw it instantly, and her smile faded.

She’d known Hinata since they were kids. The young woman blushed often… but not like this. Not around friends, unless something was wrong.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Of course! Everything’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely!” Hinata blurted out, a little too fast. “Why all the questions?”

Ino shrugged.

“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to reach you for days, but you never answer. Neither does Sakura. Is something going on?”

Hinata’s pale eyes darted around, scanning the crowd like she was looking for an escape. She clutched her purse tighter, her knuckles white.

“No, nothing. I’m just… really busy right now.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Y-Yeah. My father… he’s very demanding. You know how he is.”

Oh, do I ever, Ino thought.

Hiashi Hyūga was not a man you forgot. Cold, strict, unyielding. Even after all these years, Ino still shivered in his presence. He had that way of judging you without a word, making his authority felt through sheer silence. Even Ino’s father—highly respected in elite circles—never quite knew how to deal with him.

If severity had a human form, it would be him.

“I’m sorry, Ino… I have to go.”

“Oh… Okay.”

Hinata gave a quick bow and turned to leave. Ino watched her walk away.

“Hinata?”

She turned one last time.

“If you ever need to talk, you know my number.”

Hinata held her gaze for a second, hesitant, then gave a weak smile. She bowed again and disappeared into the crowd.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I'm delighted you've met Juugo 🥰 He doesn't have a surname in Naruto, so I made one up for him. Same goes for his father: he's an OC.

I don't know how this idea of a relationship between Ino and Juugo came into my head. I was looking for someone who was the complete opposite of the young woman, and I didn't want Sai to play her. Juugo was a good candidate. It's actually quite a rare and interesting pairing.

I really can't wait for you to see what happens next 🥰

Feel free to leave a comment if you liked it more (it gives a lot of motivation 🥺)

Chapter 9: Hatake family

Summary:

Sakura and Naruto reunite at the Hatake household after some time apart.

Sakura grabbed Kakashi and Rin's dog by the collar and opened the door. Unsurprisingly, the animal barked, then yapped excitedly the moment she saw Naruto. It took all of Sakura’s strength to keep the dog from jumping on him, while the young man was already crouching down to pet her.

"Hey there, hey there!" he said in his usual cheerful tone. "You're making a real racket today!"

The young Malinois — Luna — redoubled her efforts to break free, and Sakura eventually let go of the collar. Naruto was instantly overwhelmed by a flurry of licks and affectionate headbutts.

"Easy, Luna," Sakura sighed. "Easy..."

She grabbed the dog by the collar again and led her inside the house, Naruto right behind.

"Rin, you really need to take her back to the trainer," Sakura complained. "This dog is a total tornado."

"I keep telling your father, but he refuses," Rin replied from the kitchen.

Sakura smiled at the word father. She turned to Naruto. He had noticed it too. He seemed just as moved by it as she was.

That came as a relief. Ever since their adoptive father had shared the news, they hadn’t had a chance to see each other.

"I don’t see the point in taking her to a trainer," Kakashi chimed in as he entered the kitchen with a bottle of wine. "I’ve got everything under control."

Naruto greeted both adults, and they pulled him into a hug.

The sight moved Sakura. She joined them and hugged all three of them as tightly as she could.

Rin let out a cry of discomfort, Naruto squirmed to get free, and Luna started yapping again at the sight of all the roughhousing.

"She needs proper training from a real professional," Sakura insisted. "She’s a Malinois, not a Yorkshire."

"I think she’s perfect the way she is!" Naruto replied.

He grabbed a toy and threw it into the yard. The dog barreled past Sakura at full speed in pursuit of her prize.

"Here," said Rin, handing each of them a bottle of beer. "Go have an aperitif on the terrace. We’ll call you when dinner’s ready."

One of the bottles was red berry flavored. Sakura barely had time to reach for it before Naruto snatched it and bolted for the terrace — just like Luna a moment earlier.

"You’re such a child, you know that?" Sakura grumbled.

A loud laugh answered her.

Rin shook her head in amusement and handed the other bottle to the young woman. She took it and joined her brother, sitting on the low wall that bordered the terrace and the garden.

"Where have you been?" she asked. "As soon as Kakashi told me he’d shared the news with you, I tried to get in touch. But you never answered."

Luna came back with the toy. Naruto picked it up and tossed it again.

"Oh... I was busy... Just busy. Ha-ha."

He laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his head.

Sakura frowned.

"I was worried. I almost called Hinata."

He flinched.

"Hinata? Why?"

"What do you mean 'why'?" Sakura said, half amused, half incredulous. "Maybe because she’s your girlfriend? What kind of question is that?"

Luna came back again with the toy. Naruto hesitated, then threw it.

"I'm not with Hinata anymore."

Sakura nearly choked. She turned to him abruptly, eyes wide.

Naruto was staring off after the dog. His expression had gone blank. The smile had vanished.

"What do you mean...?" she asked, stunned. "You... She... You two looked madly in love, didn’t you? What happened?"

He didn’t respond right away. His gaze remained fixed on the far end of the garden. Then he cleared his throat.

"Our relationship... Well... It was complicated..."

Sakura’s eyes widened. She didn’t know what to make of it. Naruto and Hinata had always seemed solid, perfectly in sync. She couldn’t grasp what could have made things complicated.

Then again..., she thought. It would be hypocritical to act surprised. The feelings between them were simple — pure, even — but their surroundings had never been.

Hinata belonged to the Hyuuga clan, an old, noble family with ironclad traditions — even stricter than the Uchiha, who were already rigid. Sakura knew Naruto had never been accepted.

To them, it was outrageous: an orphan? For the clan heiress? No name, no rank, no manners? Unthinkable.

And yet, Hinata had stood her ground. Just like Sasuke with her. Just like Obito with Rin.

It couldn’t have been easy. It took courage to stand up to your own family. But how long could someone keep that up? And at what cost?

Sakura had eventually found her place with the Uchiha — thanks to Sasuke’s persistence. Naruto had never managed to do the same with the Hyuuga. He was never invited. His name was never mentioned. And Hinata lived under a strict ban from seeing him — one she had defied again and again.

Had he finally given up? That didn’t sound like him.

The blond was the type to push forward, to get back up, to smile no matter what.

"Did her family get in the way?" she asked, her throat tight.

If even Naruto couldn’t hold on, what chance did she have with the Uchiha?

Naruto blinked, caught off guard by her tone.

"Oh no..." he sighed. "Well, yeah. The Hyuuga never could stand me."

He laughed again, awkwardly.

"But that’s not why."

"Then what is?"

His expression closed off.

"I didn’t love her anymore."

Sakura froze.

That was the last thing she expected to hear.

"Since when...?" she murmured.

Luna returned and rested her head on Naruto’s leg, which he absentmindedly stroked.

"I don’t know. It happened gradually, I guess."

The dog lay at his feet, panting.

Naruto brought his beer to his lips and looked up at the sky. His eyes, usually so bright, now seemed clouded.

"You okay?" Sakura asked.

She reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, but he pulled away, folding his arms behind his head and flashing a wide smile.

"Yeah, I'm fine!" he said, teeth gleaming. "Just takes a little time to process, that’s all!"

Sakura stared at him. He was lying. It was painfully obvious. But he wasn’t ready to talk.

"And you?" he said casually. "What’s new? It’s been forever since we last saw each other. Way too long for a brother and sister."

He winked and nudged her with his elbow. She smiled.

"Nothing special..." she said softly. "Well, actually..."

She hesitated, glancing toward the kitchen. Rin and Kakashi were still busy.

"What?" Naruto asked, intrigued.

"You have to keep this to yourself, okay?"

Naruto narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

"Okay..." he murmured, giving her a skeptical look.

Sakura took a deep breath.

"Obito has become... one of my patients."

Naruto choked on his beer.

"WHAT?" he shouted, eyes wide, coughing until his face turned red.

Sakura slapped a hand over his mouth to shut him up. They both froze, then glanced toward the sliding glass door. Nothing had moved.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Naruto whispered.

At their feet, Luna had sat down, tilting her head as if she too were trying to make sense of it.

"You know Obito’s medical history," Sakura explained. "With all his burns and trauma, it was inevitable he’d end up in Tsunade’s department. And since she’s my supervisor, he landed... on me."

"That’s insane," Naruto said indignantly. "You kicked him out, right? That freak!"

"It doesn’t work like that, dumbass. I’m not established enough to remove one of her patients from my list just because I don’t like him."

"But you could tell Tsunade that he makes you uncomfortable! That you can’t treat him properly! She’d get it, wouldn’t she? Especially if it affects your work!"

"She’d take him off my list, yeah... but she’d handle him herself."

"So what? That’d be perfect, right? You wouldn’t have to see that psycho’s face again!"

Sakura grimaced.

"What?" Naruto asked. "You can’t tell Tsunade?"

She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes.

"I can, of course I can. It’s just that..."

"Just what? Come on, spit it out!"

She pressed her lips together. Swallowed.

"His case is really interesting. If I put together a full study of his progress over the year, I’ll get top marks for my thesis. Patients like him... you only get one in a lifetime as a resident. I won’t get another chance."

Naruto stared at her, stunned.

"You’re serious?"

"Obviously."

"If Kakashi and Rin find out..."

"They won’t. It has to stay secret. Promise?"

Naruto looked hesitant. And she couldn’t blame him. Obito had always been dangerous. His hatred for Kakashi ran deep — way deeper than words. He had tried to hurt him more than once, directly or indirectly. Rin constantly reminded them of that, locking every door behind her each night.

"He went to war and never came back," she’d once confided during a quiet winter evening by the fireplace, wine glass in hand. "The government takes our men and sends them back broken. And we, the women, are left to deal with it." She had drained her glass in one go. "It’s not fair. There’s no manual for fixing a broken man."

They had never spoken of it again. It had been a lapse in judgment. Rin and Kakashi always did their best to shield Sakura and Naruto from the storms that had rocked their relationship. That day had been an exception. Sakura was sure Rin regretted it still.

"Alright," Naruto said, pulling her from her thoughts. "But at the first sign of trouble—"

"I’ll talk to Tsunade. I know."

He shook his head with a sigh.

"I can’t believe you’re doing this... Did you tell..."

He cut himself off. His face darkened.

"Tell who? Sasuke?" she guessed.

He nodded.

"Not yet. I don’t think he’d approve. And anyway..."

She looked at him. 

"What?" he asked.

"We haven’t really talked much lately."

Naruto stared at her, silent.

She pressed her lips together.

"He’s been distant. I don’t know why. I think it’s because of his brother. Did he say anything to you?"

She suddenly felt pathetic. Asking Naruto for updates about her own boyfriend... What a disaster. That’s where their relationship was.

She should have broken up a long time ago. But she couldn’t. From the very start, she’d known what she was getting into: a rare, precious relationship built on scraps. She lived off the few moments when Sasuke showed he cared.

He’d been clear from the beginning: “I’m not a loving person,” he had told her not long after their first kiss.

At the time, she’d nodded, convinced she could get used to it. But over time, the hope of adapting to that constant coldness had slowly faded, until it vanished completely.

She had developed a kind of obsessive hunger for the slightest tender gesture from him, no matter how rare or fleeting. The result: even when he was being his most insufferable self, he still managed to leave her in awe.

Sakura knew it wasn’t healthy — Kakashi had told her so, over and over — but she didn’t care. Sasuke had suffered. And she knew he was still suffering.

She knew things he had never told anyone. And for that alone, she felt she had to accept everything. Even the loneliness. Even the waiting. Even when it was all one-sided.

"No," Naruto said. "He hasn’t said anything."

Sakura nodded, relieved. At least, she hoped so. Naruto and Sasuke had a bond that was as intense as it was mysterious. She had come to accept that they sometimes confided in each other things they'd never tell her. And the reverse was true, too.

"Dinner’s ready!" Rin called out, a wide smile on her face as she held up champagne flutes. "Time to celebrate the Hatake family!"

At that very moment, Kakashi popped the bottle. Champagne burst out, splashing across the tiled floor.

Naruto and Sakura exchanged a knowing glance, sharing a faint smile. They stood and headed back inside to join the adults, Luna happily trotting behind them.

Notes:

Hello everyone! This chapter was necessary to establish the relationships of the Hatake family (obligatory passage). I hope you enjoyed it! Tomorrow one of my favourite chapters will be published 😍 I hope you like it 🥰 In the meantime, don't hesitate to leave a little comment to motivate me! It's so much fun. By the way, thanks for the kudos ❤️

Chapter 10: Wildcat

Summary:

Kisame brings Itachi to a long-overdue gathering with old friends, hoping for a simple evening.

Saturday came faster than Kisame had expected. He jumped on his motorcycle and sped toward the clinic. On the way, he thought back to the phone call he’d had with Nagato. When he told him he was coming, the lawyer had let out a joyful shout. Kisame had been surprised. He hadn’t imagined his presence would mean that much to him. That brief exchange alone had warmed his heart. All the resentment he’d held against his friend vanished in an instant.

“Will you be coming alone?” Nagato had asked.

Kisame told him he’d be bringing the guy he’d met at the support group.

“Don’t tell the others where he’s from. I don’t want any awkward questions,” Nagato had warned.

He’d given his word, and they’d hung up.

Hope this goes well, Kisame thought as he parked his bike in front of the clinic.

He took off his gloves and studied the building. A Haussmann-style townhouse, with a wrought-iron gate separating it from the street. The front lawn was empty, but several cameras monitored the grounds, as if they feared some notorious criminal might drop by. Off to the side, a smaller gate in the fence bore a sign that read “Visitors.” An intercom stood on the right. He walked up to it, helmet still on, but paused when he saw a figure sitting at the bus stop a little further down the street.

“Itachi,” he called out.

The young man looked up, stopping his gaze from drilling into his shoes. His face lit up when he saw Kisame. He stood, visibly pleased, then froze when he noticed the motorcycle.

“Never ridden one before?”

A wary glance was his only answer. Kisame grinned. The boy looked like a cat being forced to cross a puddle.

“Don’t make that face. You’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure,” Itachi replied in a flat tone.

“Your face says otherwise.”

“You’re misreading it.”

Kisame chuckled. He pulled a helmet out of one of the saddlebags and handed it to him. Itachi put it on.

“Seems to fit.”

“Perfect.”

Kisame fetched a pair of gloves and a thicker jacket. The younger man put them on without a word. Kisame grinned at how oversized the gear looked on him. He resembled a kid playing dress-up in adult clothes.

“What?” Itachi asked, catching his amused look.

“Nothing.”

Kisame straddled the bike and started the engine.

“Get on from the left.”

Itachi obeyed, gripping the side handles.

“Alright. During the ride, try not to make any sudden moves. If something’s wrong or you want to stop, tap me on the shoulder. I will.”

Itachi nodded, but Kisame had already caught the trace of tension on his face.

“Relax,” he advised. “I’ve been riding for over ten years. You’re perfectly safe.”

The boy said nothing, and Kisame could tell he would’ve much preferred the back seat of a car to the perch of a bike. Definitely not the guy I can speed around with, he thought, amused.

He patted Itachi’s knee and started off gently, avoiding any sharp acceleration that might spook him. Thankfully, traffic was light, and he barely had to weave between cars. When he did, he felt Itachi’s legs tighten around his, and his body stiffen in the turns.

“You okay?” he asked at a red light.

“I’m fine,” Itachi replied.

But his voice was lower than usual. Kisame turned his head slightly to glance at him. The boy’s face wasn’t pale, but he’d put on that unreadable, almost detached expression he wore like a second skin.

Kisame couldn’t help but chuckle.

“What is it?” Itachi asked.

“You crack me up.”

“Explain.”

“You’d rather clench your jaw for ten miles than admit you’re scared.”

“It’s not fear,” Itachi said.

“Oh no? Then what is it?”

“Caution.”

Kisame gave an amused snort. The light turned green and he pulled away… a little faster this time. The reaction was immediate: Itachi’s knees clamped down, and he instinctively grabbed onto Kisame. The former soldier felt his arms wrap around his waist—slim, but steady.

“You did that on purpose,” Itachi shouted, his voice lost in the wind.

“Who, me? Never.”

Itachi smacked him lightly in the stomach, which only made Kisame grin wider. He picked up the speed a bit more. The boy tensed, then gradually relaxed, realizing there was no use resisting.

“So?” Kisame asked once they were parked in front of Nagato’s place.

Itachi took off his helmet. His face was flushed, long dark hair tousled by the wind.

“It was… manageable,” he said, trying to fix his hair.

“See? Told you you’d be fine.”

Itachi glanced up at him through his lashes, thoughtful. Then he smiled. Briefly. Kisame raised an eyebrow. It was the first time he’d seen anything other than a blank mask or a tired frown on that face.

He was about to mention it when the front door burst open.

“About time!” Yahiko called out. “We’ve been waiting for ages! I’m starving!”

A hand shot out from inside and yanked him back. A new figure appeared in his place.

“Move it and go help Nagato with the grill,” a woman said.

“Hey Shizune,” Kisame greeted. “Sorry we’re late. I underestimated the ride.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she joked. “No one’s starving. Except Yahiko, obviously—he thinks the world revolves around him and his bottomless stomach.”

She stepped forward to give him a quick hug, then her gaze shifted to the person next to him.

“This is Itachi,” Kisame said. “A friend.”

“Nice to meet you,” Shizune replied. “It’s always a pleasure to meet new people. The friends of my friends are my friends.”

She opened the door wider and stepped aside.

“Come in, don’t just stand out there. Yahiko might actually faint from hunger.”

Kisame chuckled, thanked her, and stepped inside.

Shizune and Nagato’s house radiated a kind of cerebral elegance. The living room, flooded with light from large windows, had white walls adorned with modern art. A black leather couch and gray velvet armchairs framed a coffee table buried under stacks of scientific books. The walls were lined with massive wooden bookshelves sagging under the weight of messy volumes. Only the white marble fireplace was free of clutter, decorated instead with melted candles and family photos.

“Oh, Kisame?” Shizune called. “Can you help Pakura move the patio chairs?”

She pointed toward the terrace, where Pakura was already at work.

“Yeah, no problem,” he replied.

“Perfect.”

She turned to Itachi.

“Come with me, Itachi. I’ll show you where to put your jacket.”

Kisame just caught the look Itachi gave him—a mix of uncertainty and caution, as if he were waiting for a green light. Kisame simply nodded. The boy averted his eyes and followed Shizune down the hallway.

The former soldier took the opportunity to head outside and join Pakura.

“Look who’s back,” she greeted, pulling him briefly into a hug. “I’m glad you’re here. Weeks without a word… I was starting to think you’d vanished. Good thing Nagato kept assuring us you were still alive.”

She was smiling, but Kisame wasn’t fooled. He’d known Pakura too long. She was masking her frustration—frustration from hitting a wall every time she tried to reach him.

Guilt flickered through him. He should’ve sent a message. Anything. Just to let her know he was okay.

But he hadn’t.

Not because he’d forgotten her. But because he hadn’t been okay. Even knowing Pakura wasn’t the type to ask intrusive questions, he’d avoided her. He’d wanted silence. Emptiness.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I should have—”

“Don’t apologize,” Pakura cut in. “We all go through tough times. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

That’s exactly why he felt so guilty. She never judged. She always knew when to speak and when to stay silent, when to push and when to back off. And he’d shut her out. Like a stranger.

She’d never done that to him.

“I—” he began, but before he could say more, voices echoed from the back of the garden.

Yahiko and Nagato were busy at the grill, while Konan and Gai chatted under the shade of a parasol.

Kisame frowned. 

“Rin and Kakashi aren’t here?” he asked.

Pakura shook her head.

“No. Rin went back to her parents’ place to deal with some paperwork. And Kakashi’s out with the teens from the center until Sunday.”

“Then Obito could’ve come. Why isn’t he here?”

With Rin and Kakashi gone, it would’ve been the perfect time. The guy who usually avoided confrontation could’ve shown up without trouble. Unless he’s in the same state I am, Kisame thought.

Even though his breakup with Rin had been much earlier, the Uchiha still hadn’t gotten over it. And everyone understood why.

“You know Obito,” Pakura sighed. “When he decides to wallow… nothing gets through. We tried, but—”

“Dinner time!” Yahiko shouted.

He returned with a platter full of meat, followed by Konan, Gai, and Nagato.

Itachi reappeared then. Kisame greeted his friends and introduced the boy. They all welcomed him warmly.

“Dig in,” Nagato announced.

They sat around the table, and conversation flowed easily.

Against all odds, Itachi proved sociable. Not outgoing, but present. Engaged. The mute boy Kisame had first met seemed to have faded, just a bit. He still held himself with that distant posture, that stiff sort of grace, but the way he chose his words, the glances he shared, hinted at an unexpected warmth.

What did they do to deserve that? Kisame wondered.

With him, Itachi was all cold silence and clipped phrases.

Maybe he distrusts me as much as I distrust him.

The thought didn’t sit well. Not sharply. Not in anger. More like a slow, subtle poison.

But it was there.

“I need a smoke,” he said, pushing his chair back.

He stood and wandered into the garden, hands in his pockets searching for his lighter. He walked past the flowerbeds and disappeared behind a line of pine trees that bordered a narrow river. The current slid quietly between the nearby properties. A small stone balcony overlooked the water, with an old staircase leading down, worn smooth with time.

Kisame lit his cigarette and leaned against the low wall.

A year ago, his wife had tried to fish here.

“I’m telling you, I’m gonna catch one,” she’d said, all cocky bravado despite having no clue what she was doing.

She’d winked at him, then made a face at Shizune, who had bet on a total failure.

Kisame took a drag from his cigarette.

Was she already seeing that guy back then?

He’d probably never know. Not while the restraining order was still in effect.

“You’ve started smoking again,” a voice said behind him.

He turned. Itachi had silently slipped between the trees.

Kisame tapped his cigarette over a chipped old ashtray perched on the corner of the wall.

“What makes you think I ever quit?”

“When we met, you didn’t smell like smoke. Now you do.”

Kisame blew the smoke away from him.

“Is there anything you don’t notice?”

“More than you think.”

Kisame raised an eyebrow at the response but didn’t push it. He was starting to get it: Itachi wasn’t the type to open up easily. Push him too hard, and he closed off right away. Better to let him choose the moment.

“Do you like the food?” he asked.

Itachi nodded.

“You’re lucky to have friends like them.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. I don’t have that kind of luxury.”

“You don’t have any friends?”

“Not really. My family...”

He stopped, swallowed.

“That’s all I’ve got.”

Then why did you hurt them? Kisame thought.

He tapped his cigarette over the ashtray, then leaned back against the wall, his shoulder brushing Itachi’s. He felt the young man tense slightly at the contact.

“For me, it’s the opposite,” Kisame said. “I don’t have family. My friends are all I’ve got left.”

Itachi turned his head. His eyes widened slightly.

It was the first time they’d ever been this close.

Kisame remembered what he’d first thought when he saw him: like a blot of ink on white paper.

That still felt accurate. But now, seeing the delicate lines of his face, the curve of his throat, the texture of his hair... another thought layered on top: He looks like a girl.

“You don’t have any family?” Itachi asked, pulling him back to the moment.

“No.”

He saw the surprise flash in his eyes. He’d expected it. Every time he mentioned it, people reacted the same way—confused, awkward, compassionate. Itachi was no different, even if he didn’t say anything. His eyes said it for him.

“I come from a country at war,” Kisame explained. “My parents died in a bombing. I was eight. My aunt paid a smuggler to get us to the mainland. She’s the one who saved my life.”

Itachi froze. His lips parted slightly. He stopped blinking.

“And your aunt?” he whispered.

Kisame took another drag.

“She didn’t survive the crossing. The border patrol’s boat wasn’t big enough for everyone. They only took the children.”

He didn’t turn his head. He didn’t need to. He could feel Itachi’s shock. He didn’t blame him: that kind of truth was hard to hear. Usually, he replaced it with a cleaner story—a car crash, an illness, a fire...

But not tonight.

Itachi  wasn’t the kind to feed off tragic details. He didn’t ask stupid questions.

“I didn’t know,” he said quietly.

Kisame gave a bitter smile, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“You couldn’t have.”

He turned toward the boy.

Itachi’s wide eyes were fixed on the river, one hand clamped over his mouth. He’d gone pale, his jaw tight like he was biting his tongue. He looked frozen, caught in a surge of memories Kisame had never meant to stir.

The ex-soldier’s smile faded.

“Itachi…”

No reply.

The boy clutched the wall, struggling to breathe. His fist in front of his mouth made the veins on the back of his hand stand out, bluish and strained.

Kisame stubbed out his cigarette and laid a hand on his back.

“Hey… What’s going on?” he asked gently.

“I... I’m... sor—”

“Don’t talk. Just breathe. That’s all.”

Itachi obeyed. He shut his eyes, furrowed his brow, tried to regain control. Slowly, Kisame moved his hand between his shoulder blades. Under his fingers, the boy’s back was narrow, almost skeletal. He was trembling—like a sparrow in the rain. Kisame felt like he could wrap both hands around him and hold his entire being.

“Easy now,” he murmured.

He slid his hand up to his neck, slipping under the long hair. Itachi tilted his head slightly forward, as if to give him more room. Kisame let his thumb draw small, slow circles in the warm hollow of his skin.

Finally, Itachi’s body relaxed. They stayed like that, motionless, until his breathing returned to normal.

“Feeling better?” Kisame asked.

Itachi nodded. He was still staring at the wall, his face blank, his body stiff.

Kisame wasn't a therapist, but he could tell that Itachi wasn't just embarrassed: he was devastated.

Of course, nothing in his expression said it, but that silence spoke volumes.

“I always knew my charm would be the death of someone,” Kisame said with a smirk.

Itachi’s eyes slowly turned toward him. A pause. Then, almost imperceptibly, a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Victory, Kisame thought. Second time he’d seen it. He couldn’t help but be pleased.

A little too pleased, apparently, because Itachi shut down just as quickly.

“Oh, come on… That was funny,” Kisame protested.

“It was. A little.”

Kisame raised an eyebrow. Itachi’s brutal honesty was always a bit disarming. He leaned on the wall and gave him a light bump with his shoulder.

“Are you admitting defeat?”

“No.”

Kisame smiled.

A curtain of dark hair fell over the boy’s face. He reached up and gently tucked the strand behind his shoulder.

Itachi blinked, surprised.

“You’re as jumpy as a wildcat,” Kisame teased.

Itachi’s cheeks stayed their usual pale, but the tips of his ears turned a vivid red. It was subtle—but unmistakable.

“No. That’s not true,” he replied coolly.

“I know. I’m teasing you.”

Itachi’s face hesitated between several emotions. His obsidian eyes flicked from Kisame, to the river, then back again. Quick, restless movements.

“I know you’re teasing…” he murmured. “It’s just that...”

He didn’t get the chance to finish.

A soft beep broke the silence. His bracelet lit up.

Itachi raised his wrist.

“I have to go. My curfew’s coming up.”

“Okay. I’ll take you back to the clinic.”

“No. I’ll grab a cab.”

“No need. I can drive y—”

“I’d rather go alone.”

The words dropped between them like a blade of ice.

Kisame froze for a second. He hadn’t expected it to end that abruptly.

Shit. I pushed too far.

Maybe the teasing had worn him out. Maybe he wasn’t in the mood. Or maybe Kisame had just gotten on his nerves.

“Okay,” he said at last. “I’ll call you a cab.”

He turned and walked toward the pine trees.

“No. Wait.”

Kisame stopped in his tracks.

He turned around. Itachi was standing by the edge of the balcony, jaw clenched.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “I just thought… you should stay with your friends. You haven’t seen them in a while, and I didn’t want to ruin that for you—”

“Itachi,” Kisame cut in. “I’m thirty-five. I can decide for myself whether I stay or go.”

“But your friends—”

“—are my family. And they won’t mind if I leave to take home someone I brought with me. Got it?”

Itachi didn’t move.

“Got it?” Kisame asked again, a little more firmly.

The boy’s gaze dropped slightly before he nodded.

“Got it,” he said at last.

“Good. Come on, then. I’ll take you back. We don’t want the clinic thinking you’ve gone AWOL.”

He gave him a smile and motioned him forward. Itachi followed without a word, like he’d just used up the last of his energy.

They passed back through the terrace to say goodbye. Everyone at the table chimed in that their visit had been too short. Kisame promised to stay longer next time.

They said their goodbyes and left the house.

“Ready?” Kisame asked once Itachi was back on the bike.

“Ready.”

This time, he grabbed onto him right away. No hesitation. Kisame started the engine, and they rode back through the city in silence.

At a red light, Kisame glanced over his shoulder. Itachi was watching him through the visor. The former soldier gave him a faint smile. The boy returned it—just as faint, but unmistakably genuine.

Kisame turned back to the road. He didn’t say a word. There was nothing to say.

Twenty minutes later, they were back in front of the clinic gates. Everything was quiet.

Itachi climbed off the bike and took off his helmet.

“Thanks,” he said, once he’d shed the gear. “I had a good time.”

“Thanks to you. You were right to push me. It was nice seeing them again.”

“Told you so.”

Kisame was about to reply, but Itachi’s bracelet beeped. Curfew.

“Have a good night,” Kisame said.

“You too.”

The boy pressed the intercom and announced his return. The gate unlocked with a soft click. He turned back for a moment.

“You’re still here?”

“Just making sure you get in.”

“You think I’d run away?”

“Could happen,” Kisame joked.

Itachi let out a short laugh, followed by a smile that felt… different. Less polite. Less distant. A smile with intent.

“Then you don’t know me that well,” he replied.

He stepped into the courtyard. The gate closed slowly behind him.

Kisame stood there.

That smile—he’d never seen it before. It wasn’t reserved or vague.

It was… provocative.

Yes. That was it.

A crooked, almost mocking smile that clashed with his marble-statue face.

He stood for a few seconds, caught off guard, then shook his head with a soft laugh.

He started his bike.

That kid’s so unreadable, every tiny smile feels like a revolution, he thought.

Didn’t know he had that in him.

And then he remembered the look Itachi gave him just before the gate closed—playful. Direct. Not a hint of shame.

When it comes to him, I kind of like being wrong, he thought, as he rode back into the night.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I really enjoyed writing this chapter, it came quite naturally. I hope you liked it!

Thanks for the kudos and comments! ❤️

Chapter 11: Glen

Summary:

⚠️Warning: this chapter contains scenes of sexual violence⚠️

Itachi returns to the clinic after his first evening out, torn between emotional confusion and the aftermath of a panic attack.

Itachi heard the clinic’s automatic door slide shut behind him. He froze for a moment, still as a statue, before starting to walk again when the sound of the motorcycle engine faded into the distance.

At this hour, the park was deserted. The air was cool and damp, carrying a light breeze that barely stirred the meticulously trimmed bushes in the gardens.

He crossed the path and climbed the steps to the building. The guard greeted him with a smile and asked how his first outing had gone. Itachi gave a brief answer—neutral, but positive—before heading to his room.

In truth, he had both enjoyed and hated the experience. Enjoyed it, because it had been a long time since he’d met anyone new. Hated it, because a panic attack had gripped him in the middle of Kisame’s sentence, leaving him breathless and humiliated. The mere memory of it still made his stomach churn with shame. The humiliation had struck him hard—clean and brutal.

He frowned. I should’ve anticipated it and cut him off, he thought. I was careless.

It was sheer luck that Kisame had stayed calm. He’d been… exemplary? Perfect? Maybe both. What stood out most to Itachi was how Kisame had defused the situation before it could even fully form. As if it had never happened at all.

Usually, only medication could do that.

At the thought, Itachi clenched his jaw. Kisame must think he was completely unstable now. A criminal who couldn’t even handle a story that wasn’t even his. It was Kisame who had lived through all that, not him. He had only experienced it secondhand.

And that thought was eating him alive.

He hated himself for it.

Maybe he’ll ask to switch partners? Maybe he won’t want to see me again at all? he wondered.

It was possible. But somewhere deep down, something made him doubt it.

When Kisame had dropped him off at the clinic, he’d smiled at him. Not cold, not distant. No more than he had been at the start of the evening.

And his hands…

Itachi closed his eyes. He could still feel the touch. They were large. Warm. A perfect match for his broad frame. He’d felt like he could take shelter in them.

He shivered at the memory of Kisame’s thumb tracing slow circles on the back of his neck.

“Itachi.”

He stopped in his tracks and opened his eyes.

A man was standing by the door to his room. Tall, lean, dark-haired.

“Glen,” he said.

The other man gave him a smile.

“How about we talk for a bit?”

Itachi nodded. Glen slid his nurse’s card through the lock and opened the door. The younger man walked in first.

As always, the room was impeccably neat. Almost clinical. A few carefully folded clothes, two books on the nightstand—nothing more. Nothing, except for a photo.

It showed two boys, arms around each other, in front of a lit-up Christmas tree. Two brothers.

Itachi looked away. It was the only visible trace of a past he couldn’t seem to reach anymore.

“So,” Glen said, “did your outing go well?”

Itachi stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. He didn’t feel like talking.

He knew why Glen was here. With him, there was never any room for pointless conversation.

In silence, he pulled off his T-shirt and laid it on the desk.

A smile curved Glen’s lips.

“I like that directness of yours,” he said.

Glen stepped closer and shoved him against the desk with force. Itachi’s heart raced. He spread his legs slightly and felt the nurse’s thigh press against his groin. At the contact, he closed his eyes. Glen let out a short laugh.

“You’re the easiest person to turn on I’ve ever met.”

But Itachi wasn’t sure it was arousal, not exactly. What he did know was that he had absolutely no desire to go through with what was about to happen. His body was reacting, yes. But his mind had already checked out. In moments like this, he went on autopilot. He disconnected. He let instinct take over.

And Glen didn’t care one bit.

The man leaned down and kissed his neck with fervor.

Itachi gritted his teeth and clung to the desk. He forced his thoughts elsewhere—images that comforted him. Then shut his eyes.

Glen lifted him effortlessly and sat him on the desk. With a sharp motion, he pulled down Itachi’s boxers and spread his legs apart.

Itachi leaned back against the wall behind him, his breath coming fast in the silent room.

The nurse’s eyes locked on his erection in the dark.

“Your body really has no shame, huh?” he sneered.

A pulse ran through Itachi’s cock, unbidden.

He had no idea why his body reacted like this.

He swallowed hard, his nails digging into the wood.

He knew what was coming. And there was nothing he could do.

Glen’s smile stretched wider.

“You really are something else,” he said.

He pulled down his own boxers, revealing his cock, and slicked it with lube.

Itachi spread his legs a little wider. He already knew how this would go.

Glen, thrilled by the silent submission, chuckled. Then, without warning, he thrust in violently.

Itachi’s breath hitched. His head fell back, eyes squeezed shut.

For a moment, Glen didn’t move. As if savoring the intrusion. Then he pulled back slightly… and began thrusting—hard, fast, and with no restraint.

Itachi bit his tongue. His legs instinctively tried to close, but Glen dug his fingers into his thighs, forcing them open.

He wanted to expose him. To control him. To possess him.

A sound escaped Itachi’s throat—half-moan, half-reflex.

Nothing close to pleasure.

Just an automatic response.

He opened his eyes.

Below, his cock glistened with precum, jolted by the rhythm of the thrusts.

He needed to think of something else. Fast. A picture. A landscape.

Something that didn’t belong to him.

Something soft.

Kisame’s face formed in his mind.What would he think, if he saw him like this? Naked. Being used by a clinic nurse. Would he push him away? Would he be ashamed of him? Would he want to erase him from his life?

He’d despise you, Itachi thought, throat dry.

He clenched his teeth. Hard.

He had to hold on. Stay elsewhere. Find refuge.

He focused all his strength on picturing the man’s silhouette. His smile. His hands. His scent. The feeling of his thumb stroking his neck...

“...Ah” he breathed, barely audible.

The orgasm hit him out of nowhere. His body convulsed all at once, muscles trembling under the shockwave.

Glen grunted. He pulled out abruptly and smeared his release between them without care.

For a moment, they stayed like that—panting, their breaths out of sync. Then silence fell. Heavy. Thick.

Glen straightened, grabbed a pack of tissues, and held it out. Itachi took it and wiped off his stomach without a word.

“Fuck,” the nurse muttered. “That was something.”

He was smiling—wide, smug, insolent—as he zipped up his pants.

Itachi sat up slowly, dressing himself with sluggish, numb movements. The weight of the orgasm still lingered in his limbs like a silent cramp.

“You got what I asked for?” he said, voice flat.

Glen slipped an arm around his shoulders and kissed his neck with fake tenderness.

“Look at this pretty little robot,” he sneered. “And to think just five minutes ago you were spreading your legs like a desperate angel.”

Itachi pushed his arm away—not violently, but not gently either.

Glen burst out laughing, then pulled a blister pack of pills from his back pocket and tossed it carelessly onto the desk.

“No more than three a day. Don’t be stupid.”

“And the urine tests?”

“Two next week. Tuesday and Saturday, I think. But don’t worry—I’ll handle it. Like always. You’ll test clean.”

“Good.”

Glen stretched, then walked to the door.

“Oh, and by the way,” he added as he opened it, “looks like these little outings are doing you good. Keep it up, and maybe I’ll score you a few more.”

He ended the sentence with a wink and disappeared into the hallway.

Notes:

This chapter was not easy to write. What Itachi is going through is nothing more than a rape, and it was complicated to show that none of this was normal under the narration of a confused Itachi, who doesn't really know how to put words to what he is going through. This difficult experience is an integral part of the story and the development of his character. I sincerely hope that people will understand that at no point does Itachi appreciate what he went through (as a reminder, it was non-consensual sex). If that's not the case, then I've missed something in the development of this chapter, and I need to change it.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this part and that you'll be interested in what happens next.

I think this chapter is a good illustration of the story in general: even if there are some light passages, some of them are difficult (hence the trigger warnings).

Chapter 12: Kat

Summary:

Sakura meets her mother, before running into Obito.

"Well? What’s he like?" asked Sakura.

"The spitting image of his lunatic father," Ino replied with a hint of disdain.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Same hair, same eyes, same jaw… You’d think the poor guy doesn’t even have a mother."

Sakura heard her sigh on the other end of the line.

"I swear, you should’ve been there. That first meeting was so awkward… He didn’t even know Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus."

"Oh," Sakura said absently. "Poor guy."

She checked the name of the next subway stop to make sure she hadn’t gone the wrong way.

"Poor guy?" Ino shot back. "What do you mean, poor guy? I’m the one you should be pitying, Sakura. I’m stuck tutoring a criminal."

"He’s not like his father. Otherwise, he’d be in prison," Sakura tried to reassure her.

"Well, I hope you’ll have the guts to say that at my funeral."

"Ino..." she sighed. "If you’re not comfortable with him, ask to switch students."

"I can’t. And besides... He’s not that—"

She cut herself off.

"He’s not what?"

"He’s not as scary as I thought. At least, not when I saw him at Édouard VI."

Sakura frowned.

"You gave him the lesson at Édouard VI?"

"It’s quiet, nice... and full of security guards." She cleared her throat, clearly embarrassed. "I paid for his drink, okay?"

"Oh, great," the doctor said with mock enthusiasm. "You should get a medal."

"Fuck off."

Sakura smirked.

"I’m almost at my stop. I’ll have to let you go."

"Where are you headed?"

"To see my crazy-ass mother."

"I thought you didn’t want to see her anymore."

"I still don’t... But I need to talk to her about the adoption."

"I see."

Sakura sighed. "Any last words, Princess Ino Yamanaka, before I hang up?"

"Hmm..." Ino mused. "I ran into Hinata."

"How’s she doing?"

"Not sure. I feel like she’s hiding something. She was acting weird."

"Probably because of the breakup with Naruto."

Silence fell on the other end.

"What?" Ino burst out. "Since when?"

"I’m not exactly sure. Naruto mentioned it over the weekend."

"Shit... That’s huge news. Do you think—"

"Sorry, Ino. I have to go. This is my stop."

"Wait, you have to at least tell me how—"

Sakura didn’t even need to hang up: the call dropped, probably cut off by the depths of the subway tunnel. She stood from her seat and stepped out at the station. As expected, the place was dirty and crowded.

She climbed the escalator steps — still broken, as usual — and emerged into the open air, where the buildings were packed tightly together. The sun bathed the southern districts in a soft golden light.

Despite the roughness of the neighborhood, her heart swelled with a strange sense of nostalgia. How long had it been since she last came here? She couldn’t even remember. On the rare occasions she saw her mother, she always made sure to meet in a public place downtown, like a café or a fast-food joint.

Normally, she avoided this area. Perhaps it was a mistake. The streets were packed, sure, but people seemed relaxed and in good spirits. On top of that, a ton of new stores had popped up: exotic groceries, fast food spots, clothing shops, Italian restaurants… Carefully decorated storefronts stretched as far as the eye could see.

"This isn’t how I remembered it," she thought. In her memory, the place had been downright sketchy. She remembered junkies by the roadside, prostitutes near the bus shelter, pickpockets at the subway entrances.

It’s changed, she thought. Good.

She turned in place to get her bearings, then headed toward a quieter, more deserted part of the district. She entered a building and climbed to the seventh floor. In front of door 706, she glanced at her phone’s front camera to make sure she looked okay, then knocked. The door opened to reveal a woman with long hair. She was tall and slender, her stunning turquoise eyes half-hidden behind heavy lids and endless lashes. She wore a short, provocative black dress with a deep neckline — her usual style. Hoop earrings dangled from her ears, emphasizing the elegant length of her neck.

The woman raised an eyebrow when she saw Sakura.

"Now that’s a surprise," she said with a teasing smile.

Her Eastern European accent hit Sakura like a wave. She’d almost forgotten how strong it was.

"Hi, Kat."

"Call me Mom," she said with that exquisite accent. "Last I checked, I am still your mother."

She opened the door wider. Sakura stepped in. The apartment was small but neat. A bouquet sat in a vase on the table, the scent of clean laundry lingered in the air, and the TV murmured softly in the background.

Too bad she wasn’t this tidy when I still lived here, Sakura thought.

"So, what brings my one and — thankfully — only daughter to my door today?"

Kat closed the door behind her. Sakura had the odd sensation of being locked in a cage. Still, she decided to smile and took off her jacket, placing it over the back of a chair.

"I need to talk to you about something."

"You're pregnant?"

Sakura frowned.

"No..."

"Thank God," Kat breathed out, rolling her R’s. "Kids are an endless pain in the ass."

She rolled her eyes and pulled a cigarette from her bag.

"Want one?"

"No."

"As you like."

She lit it and blew the smoke out the open window.

Watching her, Sakura saw a movie star from the fifties. Was it the heavy eyelids? The graceful gestures? The manicured hands? She shook her head. Why do I still admire her, even after all this time?

"So?" Kat asked. "Why’d you come see me?"

"I need you to sign some papers."

Sakura pulled a few folded sheets from her purse and handed them over. Kat held the cigarette between her lips and glanced over them lazily.

"Save me the time. Just tell me what it is. You know I hate pointless paperwork."

Her accent always thickened with irritation or curiosity—or alcohol, but Sakura hadn’t seen her drunk in a while.

"They’re the papers to finalize my adoption."

Kat raised an eyebrow and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

"And who’s the lucky bastard who agreed to take you in?"

"Remember the social worker from the home? Kakashi Hatake. It’s him."

A smile spread across Kat’s face.

"Of course I remember him," she purred. "Such a handsome man. How could I forget?"

"Kakashi’s always been like a father to me. He applied on his own, it was approved. All that’s left is your signature."

"And if I don’t sign?"

"Not much. It’s just a declaration."

She nodded and signed without reading. No surprise there. Kat only cared about paperwork when there was something in it for her. Whether her daughter was adopted by the Pope or a rock star didn’t matter to her. If it didn’t involve her, it didn’t exist.

The upside was she didn’t get in the way. The downside was she treated you like garbage tossed into a storm drain.

"I see," Kat murmured, visibly pleased. "Interesting. It’s almost like he and I slept together to have you. I kind of like that. My story tied to that gorgeous man’s..."

"No," Sakura said, shaking her head. "Legally, there’s no connection between you two. You’re not his wife, not his lover. You’re just... the woman who gave birth to me. That’s it."

She chuckled.

"Still makes me happy. On paper, your dad’s a guy I totally would’ve fucked."

Sakura closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Her mother turned to a cupboard, pulled out a kettle and a box of tea.

"Want a cup?"

Say no, she thought. Tell her to fuck off, that you’ll never set foot in this place again, that her stupid tea can rot along with her.

"Okay."

Kat poured her a cup. Sakura pulled out a chair and sat down.

"So, are you still with that handsome boy? What was his name again..."

"Sasuke," she cut in. "His name is Sasuke. And yes, I’m still with him."

"Still rolling in money, I hope?"

Sakura stared at her in silence.

Her mother gave a little laugh.

"I’ll take that as a yes," she said, amused. "Otherwise you wouldn’t still be with him."

Sakura narrowed her eyes.

"What do you take me for? You really think—"

"Oh, please, darling," Kat interrupted, annoyed. "Don’t try to tell me you’re staying with that little prick just because he’s cute."

She took a long drag.

"If you’re still letting him screw you and begging for more, it’s because you want his lifestyle."

Sakura stared at her, heart pounding, face heating.

This is why I shouldn’t have accepted the damn tea, she thought. Because she wants me to be like her. Hollow. Greedy. With no self-respect. Willing to do anything to fill the emptiness childhood left behind.

"What the hell do you know?" Sakura hissed. "You don’t know anything about me. You don’t even know him. You have no idea what our relationship is. You—"

"I don’t need a degree to see he doesn’t respect you. A happy woman doesn’t look like that, sweetheart."

She took one last drag of her cigarette, then flicked it out the window.

"Have you looked in a mirror? You’ve got purple bags under your eyes and you’re still red from crying too much."

Kat poured herself a cup of tea. Her gaze slid slowly from her daughter’s head to her feet. Sakura felt her body freeze. Cold sweat dripped between her shoulder blades. She swallowed and cleared her throat.

"You really think the whole world works like you?" she growled. "Using men like tissues? Draining their accounts and then crawling back to square one in tears? That’s your idea of a woman?"

"Smart women, yes."

Sakura let out a sharp, broken laugh.

"Yeah, you’re a real success story," she spat. "Look at you. Miserable in your tiny three-room apartment, always hunting for the next idiot to cover your rent and your tacky outfits."

"I don’t deny it," Kat said with a shrug.

She brought the cup to her lips.

"I am what I am. A bottomless pit. Can’t invest in anything. Not even in men. It’s just how I’m wired. I’ve come to terms with it." She closed her eyes, at peace. "But at least I don’t answer to anyone."

Sakura scowled, exasperated.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Every man I sleep with respects me," she said, locking eyes with her over her teacup. "Every single one. I depend on no one. If I have to sleep on the street tomorrow because some guy disrespected me, I’ll do it. Better homeless than owned."

She placed the cup down gently on the counter. Sakura stared at her, speechless.

"I didn’t raise you, it’s true. I’m no good as a mother. That's also true. But there’s still one thing I thought I’d passed on to you."

Sakura gave a dry laugh.

"Oh really? You think you taught me something?"

"Yes."

"And what the fuck would that be?!" she shouted.

Kat crossed her arms and tilted her head.

"No man will ever make you as happy as you can make yourself."

Sakura stared at her, eyes wide. A silence fell, then a bitter laugh escaped her. She ran a trembling hand through her hair, grabbed her jacket, and slammed the door behind her.

She flew down the stairs two at a time, her footsteps echoing off the damp walls of the building.

Why do I still care? she fumed. I should be like her. Selfish. Greedy. Invisible to the world except for myself.

Her jaw clenched.

In her job, she could face grieving mothers, rebellious teens, children in crisis. But when it came to her own mother, she fell apart. Every damn time.

She cursed under her breath, loud enough for people to turn and stare.

Then came the thunder—low and threatening. A downpour followed almost instantly, soaking her to the bone in seconds. She didn’t stop to think. She just ran. Toward the only place that still felt like solid ground: the hospital. By the time she stepped through the sliding doors, water streamed from her clothes, her hair plastered to her face.

"Sakura?" a nurse said, surprised. "I thought you weren’t on shift today."

"I’m not. Just forgot my planner in my locker."

She gave her a quick smile and headed straight to the locker room.

Her planner was there, tucked between two medical books. She grabbed it and turned to leave.

As she passed the infusion room, she stopped in her tracks.

"Obito?"

The man looked up. A face half-devoured by burns stared back at her. He sat alone in a chair, his arm hooked up to an IV. His cap and surgical mask were off.

"Doctor Hatake," he said simply.

She stepped inside.

"I didn’t know you needed infusions."

"One of the joys of surviving," he growled. "Ever since a goddamn landmine blew up in my face."

He looked at her.

"You just finishing your shift?"

She blinked.

"No. I’m not on today. Why?"

"Because you look like shit."

Her mouth fell open, shocked, then closed again. Did they all get together and plan this or something?

"Okay…" she sighed. "I was just trying to be nice. To check on you. But maybe I’ll just take the elevator and flee this hellhole."

She threw him a smile — fake and polite — and turned on her heel.

"Wait," Obito called.

"I’m going home."

"The IV’s not in right. It hurts."

"Tragic. Don’t hesitate to call a doctor."

"Sakura..." he said, irritated.

"I’m off the clock. Sorry."

She gave him an apologetic smile.

He stared at her, unblinking, with his mismatched eyes — one lifeless, the other sharp — through his lashes, like a cornered animal. She shivered. All the Uchiha really do have the same stare…

Lifting her chin, she took a few steps toward the exit, determined to leave.

"Sorry," his voice grated behind her.

She stopped. Did Obito Uchiha just apologize? That deserved a calendar entry. Slowly, she turned back and crossed her arms.

He kept staring at her, hard. As if she were the one in the wrong.

She frowned.

"You can’t just keep spouting shit and think a ‘sorry’ will fix it."

Obito clenched his jaw.

"Please," he said again, softer.

She sighed, turned back, disinfected her hands, then returned to adjust the IV. When she replaced the cannula, he shut his eyes, clearly relieved.

"Why didn’t you call someone earlier?" she asked.

He opened his eyes slowly, like waking from a heavy dream.

"It didn’t hurt at first. The pain came later." His eyes dropped to his arm, face tight, then he slumped into the chair again, his usual half-mocking smirk creeping back. "You still haven’t told me why you look like hell."

Sakura shot him a glare. Annoyed, she pulled out her phone and turned on the front camera.

Pale complexion. Deep bags. Smudged makeup. Messy ponytail.

Maybe they’re not wrong… both of them.

She sighed and shoved her phone into her back jeans pocket.

"I’ve had some particularly difficult patients."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. The kind who say dumb shit and expect to be taken care of anyway."

He raised his eyebrows, mock-offended.

"Bastards."

"I think so, yeah."

"Give me their names next time. I’ll punch their faces in."

She blinked, surprised, then smiled. He mirrored it — his always tinged with that stinging irony.

"Seriously though," he said. "What happened?"

She looked at him, caught off guard. It was probably the first time he’d ever asked her something personal. Maybe even the first time he showed actual interest in her.

IV drips really change a man…

"A family member made some... inappropriate comments."

He let out a brief laugh. He stretched out in the chair, one arm behind his head.

"Biological or adoptive family?"

"Biological."

"Mmh."

"Why? Does it matter?"

"Beats me. You tell me."

She shrugged.

"A shitty comment’s still a shitty comment. Family or not."

"Fair enough."

He stared up at the ceiling, eyes distant.

"And you?" she asked, hesitant. "Do you get along with your parents?"

He tilted his head toward her slightly, suspicious.

Even if Sakura had eventually been accepted at Uchiha family dinners, she was still the outsider. Never truly one of them. Any attempt to connect was usually met with a smug smile, a condescending glance, or a laugh stifled behind a champagne glass. She’d learned to endure it. To keep a straight face.

"I don’t talk to them much," he said. "They live abroad."

"Where?"

"Somewhere in Asia. They move around a lot. My parents hate routine."

"That’s—"

Her phone rang. A group call. Temari, Tenten, Ino — all already on the line.

"I have to take this," she said. "Sorry. I’ll see you at your next appointment."

He gave her a nod, and she left the room.

Notes:

Hello everyone!

Thank you so much for all your comments, it's a real pleasure 🥺❤️

Today I'm here with Sakura, her mother and Obito. We're talking about family and the toxic side of it.

Sakura's mother is from Eastern Europe (but to this day I haven't defined which country exactly). She's bilingual (hence her accent). Sakura understands her mother's native language perfectly. She can speak it, but unfortunately not as well.

Obito's parents, on the other hand, aren't the type to settle down. They move from country to country on a regular basis and own a lot of real estate.

You'll have the chance to find out more about these invented characters later in the story 😁

I hope you enjoyed it!

Chapter 13: Stop thinking about her

Summary:

Itachi and Kisame talking by the water.

"Alright! Time to wrap up this session. Before we go, I’d like everyone to share what they did over the weekend," Iruka announced.

"Something we enjoyed?" someone asked.

The mediator shrugged.

"Up to you. It can be something good or not. Who wants to start?"

Silence.

"Hidan?" Iruka suggested.

The man yawned without a hint of shame.

"Went hunting. Helps me relax."

"Great. Anyone else?"

Sakon raised his hand.

"I went to a concert. It sucked."

"Why?"

"I was supposed to go with a girl, but she canceled last minute."

"Plenty more fish in the sea," someone quipped from the back.

"Whoever said that bullshit has clearly never been single."

Laughter rippled through the group. Kisame turned his head and caught Itachi cracking a faint smile. The former soldier folded his arms, leaned back in his chair, and allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. Next to him, Iruka was scanning the group again.

"Itachi?" he called out.

The young man’s smile vanished instantly. He turned that cold, unreadable gaze on Iruka—the one he’d mastered so well—and cleared his throat. He looked composed, but Kisame could sense his discomfort.

"I had dinner at…"

He hesitated.

"Yes?" Iruka prompted.

"I had dinner at some friends’ place."

Kisame struggled to hide his reaction. He knew just how much it had cost Itachi to say even that—what barely passed for a confession.

"How was it?" Iruka asked.

Kisame's interest piqued even more. In front of him, Itachi remained impassive. What a shame. He would’ve paid good money to know what the boy was thinking at that moment. Was he annoyed by the probing question? Embarrassed? Or maybe—just maybe—glad?

Crack that mask, Itachi, Kisame thought. Take a chance.

"Nice," the young man replied.

Kisame gave a bitter smile. "Of course," he thought. The bare minimum, as always. Nothing new—Itachi was a mystery, a maze of complex thoughts and behavior. To decode him required patience and care: never raise your voice, never rush, never…

"I hadn’t felt that good in a long time."

He lifted his head slowly. Itachi wasn’t looking at him, still focused on Iruka. Around them, no one seemed to notice the shift. No one realized how much Itachi had just opened up. No one but Kisame—and maybe Iruka, judging by the warm smile he offered the young man.

"That’s great to hear. Do you plan on seeing those friends again?"

There was a pause before Itachi nodded, slowly.

"I hope so," he said.

Yeah, Kisame thought. I’ll take you back there.

He watched the boy who kept his gaze locked on Iruka, still looking as detached as ever. There was no sign of the effort that confession had required—but Kisame saw it. He saw it in the stiff posture, in the hands gripping the chair tighter than usual, in the cold tone, and in the obvious way he was avoiding eye contact.

"Alright, that’s it for today!" Iruka exclaimed. "Thanks everyone! See you soon. If you need anything, you have my number."

Everyone got up to put their chairs away. When Kisame turned around, Itachi was already on his way out. He grabbed his jacket and rushed out of the gym.

"Itachi."

The boy stopped.

"I have to go," he said.

"Now?" Kisame asked, surprised.

"Yeah. I’m in a hurry."

He looked up at him through his long lashes, all cool detachment on that androgynous face. Kisame frowned. Had he done something wrong? As far as he remembered, Saturday had gone well. Sure, Itachi had a hyperventilation episode, but they’d managed to get it under control. So what was it? Had he misread everything? Had Itachi actually hated the evening?

"You good?" he asked.

"Yeah."

They stared at each other in silence. Then Kisame nodded. Itachi turned and headed off toward the city center. The ex-soldier made his way to his motorcycle—but stopped in his tracks. He frowned and called out again.

"You can tell me if you didn’t enjoy Saturday. I won’t take it personally."

"It’s not about that."

"Then why do I feel like you’re not acting like yourself?"

Itachi looked at him almost disdainfully.

"Because some stranger like you knows how I usually act?"

Kisame raised an eyebrow, then let out a dry chuckle. He wasn’t the type to get offended, but he hadn’t seen that one coming. A cutting jab, delivered with that icy tone the kid had down to an art.

No anger, no sadness. Just a clear note: message received.

"Alright then," he replied, voice neutral.

If Itachi didn’t want to talk, Kisame wasn’t going to force it. He wasn’t the clingy type. He was too old for games, and not one for pointless conflict.

"Wait."

Itachi’s voice stopped him. The young man stared straight at him, jaw clenched, as if holding himself together.

"I’m listening," Kisame said.

He had no intention of making it easier by coaxing him along. If Itachi had something to say, he’d have to say it himself. Kisame couldn’t play guessing games forever.

"I’m sorry," the boy blurted. "I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that."

He lifted his chin while lowering his gaze.

That aristocratic posture, paired with how clearly uncomfortable he was, fascinated Kisame—and amused him, too.

"Apology accepted," the man replied.

"Thanks."

Kisame gave a small smile.

"If you’re in a hurry, I can give you a ride."

Itachi looked up at the motorcycle, a flicker of hesitation crossing his otherwise impassive face.

Kisame walked over to the bike, already opening the saddlebags.

"You think too much. Get over here," he said, handing him the same helmet as last time.

Itachi glanced over his shoulder, as if worried someone might be watching, then stepped forward and took the helmet. Kisame handed him the gear and helped him adjust it. Once seated, Itachi clung to the rear handles, stiff as a board.

"Where do you need to go?" the former soldier asked.

"The clinic. I’ve got an appointment in an hour."

"We’ll be there in twenty."

Kisame started the engine and felt Itachi flinch. The boy hesitated, then cautiously wrapped his arms around his waist. Kisame made sure everything was secure, then pulled out onto the road.

Ten minutes later, he took an exit off the ring road. Itachi tapped his hip gently.

"This isn’t the right way," he said as they left the city behind.

"I know," Kisame replied.

He kept going, leaving the concrete and buildings behind for the open countryside. Behind him, Itachi stayed silent. Kisame glanced in the mirror and saw him watching the scenery. The young man looked calm. The soldier smiled and continued the ride, passing through woods, fields, and quiet villages.

The air was mild, the weather perfect. It had been a long time since he’d taken a ride like this. Ever since his breakup with Miru, he hadn’t had the heart to use his bike for anything but business. Now, he regretted not doing it sooner. The fresh air, the sun, the countryside—it all felt healing. Like he was coming back to life.

He took a deep breath, savoring the moment, then slowed and pulled over. To their right, a hill sloped gently down to a river where leisure boats drifted quietly.

"I didn’t know this place," Itachi said.

His arms were still wrapped around Kisame.

"Some friends of mine got married here," the man said, cutting the engine.

"Who?"

"Nagato and Shizune. They had an outdoor ceremony. It was beautiful."

Kisame remembered that day clearly. The wedding had been thrown together on a whim—totally unlike Nagato. But the weather had been perfect, with a stunning sunset. He and Miru had spent an incredible evening together. Back home, they’d made love for hours—maybe until morning.

"You look sad," Itachi said.

He’d raised his visor and was watching him.

"I’m not."

"You’re lying."

Kisame gave a bitter laugh.

"Some days are harder than others," he admitted.

He took off his helmet and got off the bike. Itachi followed, letting his ink-black hair fall over his shoulders.

"Then don’t think about her."

"That’s easier said than done."

"You’ll get there."

"I don’t think so."

"You will."

Kisame walked to the edge of the hill, where tall grass marked the end of the road. Itachi joined him, standing at his side.

"What makes you say that?" Kisame asked.

"People who love don’t usually end up alone."

"That’s not always true."

Itachi turned slowly toward him. His eyes scanned Kisame’s body before settling on a spot in the middle of his chest. He blinked slowly, then stepped closer.

"Right now, your heart is empty," he said. "You lost someone important, and it left a hole right here…" He placed the tips of his index and middle fingers on Kisame’s chest. "When you start to heal, you’ll see things differently. You’ll realize that the emptiness isn’t just pain—it’s space. Space to let someone else in."

Kisame looked down at his fingers. Their eyes met, but neither of them moved. The wind quieted around them, and the distant hum of boat engines faded. Itachi lowered his hand, letting it fall to his side.

"Why were you angry earlier?" Kisame asked.

A flicker passed through Itachi’s eyes.

"I… wasn’t angry at you."

"Then who were you angry at?"

Itachi frowned. He clearly didn’t want to talk about it. But Kisame needed to know. He’d let the boy open up to him, time and time again, without doing the same in return. It wasn’t fair to let him carry the weight alone. It was time to even the scale.

"They’re letting me leave the clinic on weekends now. But I found out I’ll only be allowed to stay at my parents’ house."

"Sounds like decent news to me."

"I’d rather be alone. In my apartment."

"Might be a chance to patch things up."

"I know. That’s not the issue, it’s…"

He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples like he had a splitting headache.

"My family," he continued, "isn’t like yours. It’s… complicated. Difficult. Sometimes horrible. Depends on the day."

Silence followed. Itachi stared at the boats, his eyes suddenly blank. Kisame placed a firm hand on the young man’s shoulder, turning him gently to face him.

"If shit’s bad with your folks, you should say so."

"It’s not them."

"Itachi, you—"

"They’re not the problem," he cut in. "I am. I tried to kill them. Don’t ever forget that."

His eyes had gone hard.

Perhaps it was a defensive mechanism to try to frighten him. Kisame wasn't. He held his gaze.

"Abuse isn’t just about physical violence."

Silence fell again. Itachi looked away.

Kisame let his hand drift up to the back of Itachi’s neck, his fingers brushing lightly where the tension had settled. Itachi’s expression softened. He stayed still for a moment, then gently took Kisame’s hand and moved it aside, without any harshness.

"We should go," he said. "I’ll be late."

He turned on his heel and put his helmet back on. Kisame watched him in silence, gave the landscape one last glance, then headed back to the bike. Itachi climbed on behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist.

"Now that you’re getting the hang of it," Kisame said with a crooked smile, "how about we go a little faster?"

He wanted to lighten the mood.

"How fast?" Itachi asked.

"Fast."

Itachi hesitated, then nodded.

"Hold on, then."

Kisame started the engine. As soon as they hit the first straightaway, he picked up speed. He felt Itachi move closer, pressing against his back.

"You good?" he asked.

"I’m good."

A smile tugged at the corner of Kisame’s lips. He nodded and sped up again.

Itachi, surprisingly calm, let himself be carried along. Just days ago, he’d been frozen in fear, but now he seemed almost at ease. He was still a bit stiff on the curves, but overall, he was doing fine.

Encouraged, Kisame allowed himself a few sharper turns, weaving onto winding roads before heading back to the clinic.

When they finally stopped in front of the wrought-iron gate, he felt a slight pang of disappointment.

Itachi got off the bike and handed him the helmet.

"Thanks," he said.

"No problem."

The boy gave him a faint smile, then cleared his throat.

"I’ll be at my parents’ place this weekend," he said. "I was wondering if... if you could come have dinner with us Saturday night. It’s a dinner I’d really rather not go to. Kind of like you last time. It would be easier if… I wasn’t alone."

Kisame raised his eyebrows, surprised. The invitation, spoken so plainly, was a stark contrast to Itachi’s usual guarded demeanor. It was almost disconcerting to see him actually seeking his company.

"Sure," he replied simply.

A small smile lit up Itachi’s face.

"Thanks."

They stood facing each other for a moment, in silence. Then Itachi turned and stepped inside the clinic.

Kisame waited until the door closed behind him before getting back on the bike.

Notes:

Hello everyone! Thanks for the kudos and the comments (I always try to reply to everyone). I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Kisame and Itachi are getting to know each other. And we can already see the difference between their first meeting and now. Kisame is even becoming very strong when it comes to reading Itachi 🥺 The rest will come sooner, I promise!

Chapter 14: Suprise

Summary:

Sakura learns something unpleasant.

"You think something happened?"

Temari was leaning against the central island in Ino’s kitchen—if you could still call it a kitchen. Flour, eggs, and sugar were scattered across every square inch of available surface, burying utensils and dishes in cheerful chaos.

Ino cautiously opened the oven, releasing a wave of scorching air before pulling out a tray of burnt cookies. She placed it on the white marble counter, right next to the stovetop, then began coughing, waving her perfectly manicured hand to clear the smoke. Sakura barely managed to stifle a laugh at Ino’s desperate attempts to keep up appearances.

"I think so," Tenten replied, wrinkling her nose delicately at the lingering smell of burnt dough. "I think it's because of her breakup with Naruto."

"Obviously," Ino agreed, casting a disheartened glance at her botched cookies. "She’s been isolating herself for weeks now. That’s why I organized this little girls’ night. Maybe being surrounded by friends will finally make her smile again."

Sakura smirked slightly. She knew full well that was the only reason Ino and Temari were in the same room.

Those two had never gotten along. Their feud dated back to high school, and nothing had really changed since. Polar opposites, they’d never bothered to hide their mutual hostility.

Temari, with her cool, razor-sharp temper, never minced words. She had a talent for putting people in their place with blunt precision, never sugarcoating, never pretending. She hated injustice and despised secrets. Ino, on the other hand, thrived on social games, rumors, and carefully crafted schemes. Fire and ice. Blade and scepter. The rebellious teen versus the flawlessly integrated golden girl.

Years had passed, but the resentment was still alive and kicking. Temari still saw Ino as a spoiled brat who got everything she wanted with a flutter of her lashes. Ino, meanwhile, never missed a chance to describe Temari as an arrogant brute who only knew how to fight just to prove she existed.

Caught in the middle of this silent battlefield, Sakura and Tenten had long since learned to play the cautious observers. They knew stepping in meant risking becoming collateral damage—and neither of them felt like getting skewered by a well-aimed jab.

"These are inedible," Ino snapped.

She tossed the cookie tray into the trash and wiped her hands with a look of disgust.

"I don’t know why you keep trying," Sakura chimed in. "You’re good at a lot of things, but cooking... it’s just not one of them."

"Total waste of time. My mom decided we should rely a little less on our chef. End result? My snacks, dinners, and breakfasts are complete disasters. Honestly, I have no idea what’s gotten into her."

"Your mom had the right idea," Temari cut in. "You should know how to do things yourself."

"I don’t see how getting dirt under my nails is a good idea."

Temari rolled her eyes. She opened her mouth to respond, but Tenten immediately jumped in:

"I’m ordering pizza," she announced, her smile just a little too polished to be genuine.

She shared a conspiratorial glance with Sakura. No way were they letting a fight break out before the evening had even started.

Tenten slipped out of the room toward the living area. Sakura followed her with her eyes, then turned to help Ino in the kitchen.

About thirty minutes later, a housekeeper came to inform them of Hinata’s arrival.

Each of them scrambled to hide somewhere in the living room, stifling their excitement as best they could. The moment they heard footsteps in the hallway, they jumped out of their hiding spots and shouted in unison:

"Surprise!"

Hinata startled. Her eyes widened, then a shy smile softened her features. A lovely blush bloomed on her cheeks.

Tenten was the first to hug her, quickly followed by Temari and Ino. Sakura joined them last. When Hinata’s gaze met hers, her smile faltered—barely, but enough.

Sakura’s brow furrowed slightly, unsettled.

"You okay?" she asked, not understanding the sudden shift in Hinata’s expression.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m fine," Hinata replied quickly. "I... I was just surprised. I thought I was only seeing Ino."

"That was the idea," Sakura said with a smile. "We noticed you haven’t been yourself lately. So we figured seeing all of us might cheer you up."

Hinata slowly turned her head, looking at each of the girls in turn. Her eyes dropped, and she bit her lower lip. When she looked back up, her eyes shimmered with emotion.

"Thank you..." she whispered, her voice thick with feeling.

"Oh, look at this big softie!" Temari exclaimed in mock-dramatic tone. "Looks like she’s about to cry! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, at your age?"

Hinata let out a nervous little laugh, discreetly wiping away a tear before it could fall. Instantly, they all wrapped their arms around her, cooing in exaggerated affection. Soon enough, laughter replaced the tears, and without anyone realizing it, the evening slipped into playful chaos.

Bit by bit, the shy, withdrawn Hinata faded away, replaced by the young woman they all adored. The one who, despite her reserved nature, always managed to bring them together—even though they were fundamentally different. Because really, they didn’t have much in common, except for their friendship… and, of course, the fact that they were all women. But that had never mattered. What truly counted was how their differences complemented each other perfectly.

Sakura had plenty of examples: there was that time Temari had put a bunch of rude guys in their place outside a restaurant, with a confidence that had left them all speechless. Or the time Tenten, with her athletic drive and stubborn persistence, won them a weekend at a spa. And how could anyone forget Ino, who had used her killer negotiation skills to score tickets to the hottest concert in town when no one else could. And then there was that unforgettable moment when Hinata had calmed them all down with a single, soothing whisper after they’d been trapped in an elevator.

Moments like those had forged their bond—strong and unshakable—and Sakura liked to think that, no matter how chaotic life got, that connection was a constant. A certainty she could always cling to. Together, they were their own little world, one where their differences were their greatest strength.

"This Serena is seriously a problem," Tenten sighed, sounding deeply exasperated.

"Absolutely agree," Temari nodded.

"Why?" asked Ino.

They all frowned and turned to look at her. They were sprawled across the bed in Hinata’s room, watching Gossip Girl.

Tenten grabbed the remote and hit pause with exaggerated gravity.

"Wait, are you being serious right now?" she asked, amused.

"Yeah."

A heavy silence followed—then erupted into collective laughter.

"What is wrong with you?" Tenten teased. "Serena kisses Blair’s boyfriend... That’s total betrayal, completely unforgivable."

"It’s not betrayal if Blair doesn’t know about it," Ino replied nonchalantly.

The couch exploded with outraged screams.

"Okay, okay, I hear you," Ino said, raising her hands in mock surrender. She turned fully toward them, sitting on her knees. "We all agree that kissing your best friend’s boyfriend is a heinous act of betrayal, but—"

"But what?" Tenten laughed. "What could possibly justify something like that?"

"If it ever happened to me..."

"God forbid," muttered Temari, rolling her eyes.

"...I’d do everything in my power to make sure no one ever found out," Ino finished with a sly smile.

"Secrets always come out," Sakura teased. "Someone always talks. People can’t keep their mouths shut."

"Well, I’m not people."

A brief silence fell as the others stared at her, skeptical.

"Why not?" Tenten asked eventually.

"Because I’d kill the guy first."

Sakura burst out laughing and tossed a piece of popcorn at her, which Ino dodged with graceful ease.

"And here I thought you were about to show a little common sense for once," Temari mocked.

"What do you mean?"

"Own up to your mistakes. Tell the truth."

"Why would I do that?" Ino raised an eyebrow. "If no one knows, why ruin a beautiful friendship?"

"There was no friendship left the moment your tongue slipped into your best friend’s boyfriend’s mouth."

A mischievous grin curved Ino’s lips.

"So if that ever happened to you..." she began.

"It wouldn’t," Temari cut in with icy confidence. "I would never find myself in that situation. Never."

"Alright. But just hypothetically," Ino pressed, "you’d go straight to your friend and confess? Just like that? The same day? While you still had her boyfriend’s spit on your lips?"

Temari raised an eyebrow.

"I think I would," Temari said calmly. "I fucked up, I should face the consequences. My punishment would be losing her friendship. But at least I wouldn’t live every day knowing I’m lying to her."

Ino looked at her for a long moment before letting out an amused sigh.

"That’s very brave," she admitted. "And you're probably right—that’s what people should do. But let’s be real: no one actually has the guts to go through with it."

"You’d be surprised what guilt can do," Tenten chimed in. "People have a conscience. They know when they’ve messed up."

"Not all of them..." Sakura murmured, reaching for a bowl on the coffee table.

All eyes turned toward her.

Caught off guard by the sudden attention, she paused, then grabbed a piece of candy.

"I know people who feel zero guilt about cheating," she said evenly. "They go on with their lives like nothing happened."

Her mother’s face flashed through her mind. That woman had always known most of the men she saw were married, fathers, or in committed relationships. But it had never stopped her. She lived selfishly, feeding off those affairs without ever thinking about the wives, girlfriends, or mothers on the other side.

Sometimes, Sakura envied her. Life seemed so much simpler when you only thought about yourself. No guilt, no remorse. Just the certainty that everything revolved around your own needs.

For a long time, she’d thought her mother was twisted. But as she got older, she understood: Kat wasn’t a sadist. She didn’t act to cause pain—just to satisfy herself. Other people simply didn’t factor in. They didn’t exist.

"Hinata?" Tenten asked softly.

They all turned toward the young woman sitting off to the side. She’d been so quiet throughout the conversation, it was like she’d vanished. Sakura felt a pang of guilt for not noticing sooner. The Hinata in front of her now was pale, her eyes red and watery.

"I’m sorry..." she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"What…? Why?" Tenten asked, concerned.

All three instinctively moved closer to their friend.

"What’s going on?" Temari asked.

"I..." Hinata began.

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She met Sakura’s gaze for a split second, then dropped her eyes, hiding her face behind a trembling hand. Sakura caught just a glimpse of a tear slipping beneath her palm before it disappeared.

"I’m sorry," she repeated, voice cracking.

"Sorry for what, Hinata?" Temari asked more firmly. Her brows were furrowed, her voice sharper now. She was worried too.

"Sorry for lying."

"Lying?" Ino echoed, incredulous. "When?"

Hinata slowly raised her eyes, and locked them on Sakura. Time seemed to freeze.

"I’m talking to you," she said.

For the second time that night, all eyes turned to Sakura. Ino’s brows knitted as she looked at Hinata, face suddenly pale.

"Ino..." Hinata murmured. "Don’t tell me you and Sasuke..."

Hinata stared at her, taken aback, then her eyes widened in visible shock.

"No! Of course not!" she exclaimed, shaking her head vigorously.

Relief washed over them instantly. They all let out a collective sigh, and Sakura pressed a hand to her chest. When she looked up again, she managed a faint smile—only for it to vanish just as quickly: Hinata hadn’t moved. Her face was still stricken, troubled.

The discomfort crept back in, heavier than before.

"Then what is it?" Sakura asked gently.

Hinata swallowed hard, biting her lower lip.

"As you know, I broke up with Naruto," she murmured. "He didn’t leave me. I left him."

She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, still refusing to meet Sakura’s eyes.

"Why?" Sakura breathed, bewildered.

"I broke up with him because... because..."

Hinata clenched her fists.

A wave of panic rose in Sakura’s chest.

"…I left him because I saw him with Sasuke."

Sakura scanned the room, hoping for support. Her friends looked just as lost as she felt. That shared confusion offered a flicker of comfort. The corner of her mouth twitched into a faint smile.

"Okay…" she said uncertainly. "And… did something happen?"

Hinata finally looked up. Her usually gentle grey eyes now burned with an uncharacteristic intensity.

"I saw them kiss."

Silence fell like a lead weight. Or maybe that was just how it felt. For Sakura, time froze: the walls collapsed around her like a crumbling stage set. She stayed frozen, breath caught, heart suspended mid-beat.

Then, slowly, her lips curled into a smile. A twitchy, reflexive thing—almost mocking. She furrowed her brows, amused.

"Very funny," she scoffed.

She grabbed her wine glass from the table and took a sip. Silence lingered. She paused, sat up straighter, and glanced around. Everyone was staring at her, faces stiff and unreadable. Confusion surged in her chest.

"What?" she asked.

Hinata shifted uncomfortably on her corner of the couch. She reached out and took Sakura’s hand. The doctor looked down, watching their fingers intertwine. The sight made her stomach churn. Her free hand tightened around her glass as she looked back up at Hinata.

"Come on..." Sakura said with a shaky laugh. "You can’t be serious."

Another silence.

She yanked her hand back, splashing wine onto the floor.

"What the hell are you saying?" she snapped, her voice suddenly harsh.

"I’m sorry, I—"

"Sorry for what? You’re joking, that’s all."

"No, Sakura... I saw them. I would never joke about something that serious."

Sakura shot to her feet, knocking over her glass. It shattered on the floor in a burst of glass. Ino gasped and stood up, wide-eyed. Tenten and Temari followed.

Sakura looked at each of them, then let out a short, nervous, almost hysterical laugh.

"No-no-no," she chuckled. "There’s no way you’re expecting me to believe this."

"Sakura," Temari began. "I don’t think this is a jok—"

"Then what is it?" Sakura snapped, eyes blazing.

"The truth," Hinata murmured.

Sakura’s emerald eyes snapped to her instantly.

"You’ve completely lost it," she said coldly. "Seriously."

"I didn’t—"

"You’ve lost it!" Sakura shouted, her voice ringing through the room.

All three of her friends flinched, caught off guard.

"That’s impossible!" she cried. "Sasuke isn’t—gay! And neither is Naruto!"

"I saw them..." Hinata repeated.

"Then you saw wrong!"

"Sakura..." Tenten said softly, trying to keep her tone calm. "Why would she—"

"Maybe because she’s been on antidepressants for years?! Maybe because the breakup with Naruto hit her too hard?! Or maybe both?! What the hell do I know?! It wouldn’t be the first time she’s seen or heard things that aren’t there, right?!"

Hinata had always been fragile—physically and emotionally.

"Sakura!" Temari snapped, her voice firm.

She was staring at her, hard. The medic stopped and looked at each of them in turn.

Ino looked like she might faint. Tenten was covering her mouth with both hands. And Hinata... saying she looked like a ghost of herself didn’t even begin to cover it.

Sakura’s lips twisted into a bitter smile.

"All this fuss for a pathetic lie..."

She shoved on her shoes, grabbed her jacket, and slammed the door behind her.

Notes:

Sorry for the delay (I had a busy weekend)! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I really wanted to thank you for all your comments, it's really lovely of you.

A big thank you to kiryu_giovanna who drew me a great picture of Sakura's mum 😍 If you want to see this baddie, she's here.

Thanks again!

Chapter 15: You’re not stupid

Summary:

Juugo and Ino are visiting.

Ino chewed on her thumbnail. She’d expected anything—anything—but this.

How was I supposed to see that coming? she thought, her foot tapping nervously under the table. Who could’ve guessed?

“Four?”

She jumped, heart pounding. Juugo was watching her, his piercing red eyes locked onto her face. She blinked, stunned, then glanced down at the sheet he was holding out. The math problem she’d given him was solved.

“Yes, that’s right,” she said, clearing her throat. “Good.”

Without a word, Juugo turned his gaze to the next problem.

A chill ran down her spine. She’d been so lost in thought, she’d forgotten how unsettling it was to be in his presence. Sure, they were in a public place—she’d deliberately moved their sessions to the Edouard VI—but it wasn’t enough to ease her discomfort. Every time she was with Juugo Tanaka, it felt like he was devouring her with his eyes, like he was sucking the very soul out of her.

He’s fucking terrifying, she thought. The resemblance to his psychopath of a father was impossible to ignore. And his behavior… that constant coldness, the endless silences, those moments when he just stared at her without a word... They always made her imagine the worst. She’d hoped that feeling would fade with time, but it was the opposite. This was their sixth session, and she felt more vulnerable than ever.

Why do I always feel like this when I see him? she wondered. It wasn’t just because he looked like her father—she was sure of it. It was something deeper, something she couldn’t quite name that made her uneasy every time they met.

Well… maybe not today, she thought. Her mind was too busy spinning from what had happened the night before to focus. What Hinata said last night… That was… Ino searched for the word. Insane. She couldn’t bring herself to believe the girl. But at the same time, Hinata had no reason to lie. Unless Sakura’s right…

Everyone knew Hinata was on meds. It was also common knowledge she’d gone through phases—periods of doubt and confusion, when her thoughts turned foggy, borderline incoherent. That could explain the whole thing… Otherwise…

An image of Sasuke and Naruto leaning in to kiss flashed through her mind. She dropped her elbows loudly onto the table and pressed her knuckles to her eyes.

“Oh my God,” she muttered.

She shook her head, opened her eyes—and froze. Juugo had stopped writing. He was staring at her again.

Mortified, Ino felt heat crawl up her neck.

“Keep working,” she snapped, voice tight. “I—I’ll be right back.”

Without waiting for a reply, she jumped to her feet and hurried to the restroom. Once inside, she braced herself against a marble sink, sighing loudly as she caught sight of her pale face. She pinched her cheeks for some color, then closed her eyes, shaking her head. Why is this hitting me so hard? she thought. I never would’ve guessed…

Hinata’s bombshell from the night before had landed like a sledgehammer. She hadn’t slept a wink. Sasuke… The one she’d loved. The one who’d cracked her friendship with Sakura. The one she was desperately trying to forget... Might never have even been into girls.
Unless he’s bi..., she thought.

Once again, the image of Sasuke and Naruto kissing invaded her thoughts. She dug her nails into the edge of the sink.

“Goddammit, stop thinking about it!” she growled.

At that exact moment, a woman walked out of a stall, giving her a strange look. Ino offered her a stiff, embarrassed smile, then rushed out, shame clinging to her like a leech.

Back at the table, she spotted Juugo staring blankly out the window. Outside, an ad truck rolled by, again promoting The Birth of Venus, the new hit exhibit at the Outro Museum—just like last time. Ino paused, her thoughts still a mess, then squared her shoulders and walked back with renewed purpose. She stopped in front of Juugo, who blinked up at her in surprise.

“You know what?” she said firmly. “I don’t feel like doing math either.”

Juugo blinked, then glanced down at his page. He hadn’t made much progress since she’d left, and the corners of his math book were covered in little doodles. Ino grabbed her pencil case and stuffed it into her handbag.

“But I need—”

“We’re still studying, don’t worry,” she cut him off. “We’re just gonna review things a different way.”

She shoved her stuff into her bag and gestured for him to follow. Juugo obeyed, pulling on his cap and surgical mask, as always. They drew curious stares as they passed. Ino ignored them, stopping only to settle the bill for both of them—Juugo still couldn’t afford his tea.

Outside, the doorman called their driver, who promptly pulled the sleek sedan up to the entrance. Ino murmured a quick thanks before slipping into the backseat, the smell of new leather enveloping her. She sank into the plush seat, expecting Juugo to join her, then frowned when the door stayed open. She leaned out to see him frozen on the sidewalk, clearly hesitant.

“What are you waiting for?” she said, impatient. “Get in.”

“Where are we going?”

His voice was cold, laced with suspicion. The nerve, she thought, considering he was the one convicted of assault. She took a breath to steady herself.

“The Outro Museum,” she said curtly. “We’re getting a head start on your humanities curriculum.”

She thought she saw a flicker of interest in his eyes. She leaned back into the seat and patted the empty spot beside her. After a moment’s hesitation, he climbed in.

His large, muscular frame barely fit the space. Despite the car’s luxury, he looked out of place, ill at ease, like he was trying to squeeze into a world that didn’t want him. His plain clothes and stiff posture clashed with the polished leather and lacquered wood around him.

The car pulled away in silence. Juugo, just as quiet, scanned every detail around him, his red eyes sharp. Ino watched him from the corner of her eye, frowning slightly.

“Did you forget something?” she asked at last.

“No…”

“So what?”

“I’m just looking at the car, that’s all.”

“Oh,” she replied, not really following.

“Genesis G90.”

“What?”

“Genesis G90,” he repeated. “That’s the car’s name.”

Ino blinked, then leaned forward toward the driver's seat.

“That right, Andrew?” she asked the chauffeur.

The man turned slightly, catching her gaze in the rearview mirror.

“It is, Miss,” he confirmed.

Ino pursed her lips, a flicker of surprise crossing her face.

“You know cars?” she asked Juugo.

“I like them, yeah.”

The brim of his cap shadowed his eyes, and the surgical mask hid the rest of his face. Ino shivered. The way he hides himself... It only made him more intimidating.

“My mom’s not a fan of this one,” she added, trying to fill the heavy silence.

Juugo’s red eyes turned slowly toward her.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm,” she nodded. “She says it’s not very comfortable. She much prefers the last car my dad bought.”

“What was it?”

Ino crossed her arms and looked up at the ceiling, as if the answer might magically appear.

“I don’t remember…”

She leaned toward her driver.

“You remember, Andrew?”

“A Mercedes-Maybach, Miss.”

“Right, that’s it.”

She sighed.

“I’m not really into cars. Not my thing.”

“So what is your thing?” Juugo asked.

“Well…”

Ino stopped abruptly, surprised at herself for opening up so casually. She had no desire for Juugo to know her, let alone judge her interests. She didn’t want to cross that line. She didn’t like who he was or what he stood for—a broken system that let violent offenders like him roam free.

She cleared her throat and sank into her seat, cutting the conversation short. Juugo, no fool, didn’t push it. The silence settled thick and heavy around them.

By the time they finally arrived at the museum, she was almost relieved to get out of the car. She told the driver to come back in two hours, then briskly headed toward a side entrance. Not hearing Juugo behind her, she stopped and turned around. She spotted him a few feet back, taking pictures with his phone.

He’s really never been here? she thought, frowning. She crossed her arms, waiting, and waved when he looked around for her in the crowd.

“The line’s over there,” he said, pointing toward the long queue of visitors waiting out front.

He stepped beside her. His tall, imposing figure cast a shadow over her like a boulder, a tower, or an ancient tree.

“No need to wait in line,” she said.

“But—”

“Just follow me.”

She pushed open a heavy door labeled “Staff Only,” made of iron and dark wood, and stepped into a wide hallway. It housed a security desk and a coat check. The staff greeted her as she entered and opened all the gates without requiring her to pass through the scanner. One of the guards did, however, step toward Juugo and asked him to remove his cap and mask. The young man froze, visibly hesitant, then complied, though reluctantly. He was asked to walk through the metal detector and was then handed back his belongings. He moved to put his mask and cap back on, but the guard raised a hand.

“For security reasons, sir.”

Juugo nodded and tucked them into his jacket pocket.

“Why is it that—” he began, but Ino cut him off:

“You mean, why don’t I go through security?” she asked. “Because they know me.”

“But—”

“This way.”

They walked through a series of marble halls with ornate molding, then turned through a discreet door. It opened onto one of the three grand galleries of the Outro Museum. Crowds were already roaming the polished 18th-century floors, admiring the massive paintings by the masters.

“So, where should we start?” Ino murmured, tapping her chin with her index finger. She snapped her fingers. “Renaissance. That’s one of the most important movements to review. Or maybe Impressionism? What do you prefer?”

No response.

She turned, ready to scold Juugo for zoning out, then stopped, mouth slightly open. He stood in the middle of the hall, arms hanging at his sides, his eyes slowly moving from one artwork to the next, as if fully absorbed. Maybe he really was.

Ino walked over to him, a small smile playing on her lips.

“You like it?” she asked.

“It’s a lot bigger than I imagined,” he breathed.

He stared at the painting in front of him—a canvas nearly ten meters by six—then turned to look at Ino. His brow was furrowed, and a strange, almost anxious expression had settled on his face, one she hadn’t seen before.

“I… I didn’t pay for a ticket,” he stammered.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn blue wallet.

“I’ll go back and—”

“No need.”

“But I didn’t—”

“I know. That’s normal. You don’t have to pay because you’re with me.”

Juugo stared at her, baffled. Ino crossed her arms and tilted her head.

“My mom’s the CEO of the Outro Museum. That’s why we took the shortcut.”

Juugo stood still, almost frozen. A moment passed, then he looked away, taking in their surroundings with cautious curiosity. His mouth opened slightly before he looked back at Ino.

“All this… belongs to your mom?”

“No,” she said with a laugh. “These are national treasures.”

She swept a long strand of blonde hair behind her shoulder with practiced elegance, then turned to look at the paintings.

“Some of the works belong to the museum, others to the State. And some are on loan from private collectors.”

“How can you tell who owns them?”

“It’s written on the plaques.”

She guided him toward a Renaissance painting that was drawing less attention, then pointed at the label.

“If the work belongs to the museum, it’ll say ‘Museum Collection.’ If it’s on loan, it’ll say something like ‘On loan from Mr. or Mrs. So-and-so.’ Like this one.”

Juugo leaned in to read.

“The Arnolfini Portrait… by… Jan Van Eyck… Fourteen thirty-four… Private Collection of… Madame Lu… Lucile Dagnan,” he read slowly.

He glanced up at the painting, grimacing a little.

“They have weird faces.”

Ino crossed her arms.

“They didn’t have the same sense of proportion back then. Beauty standards were different too.”

Juugo grimaced harder.

“Madame Lucile Dagnan must have… really unique taste in home decor.”

Ino blinked, then burst out laughing.

“Most of the time, it’s just an investment. Unless they’re madly in love with a piece, collectors don’t actually hang these in their living rooms. Taste is subjective.

She craned her neck over the heads of the moving crowd, then began walking down the aisle.

"Enough chit-chat,” she called. “Time to stuff your brain with art history.”

She shot him a sideways smile before leading him through the crowd. Soon, they reached a quieter, less frequented wing. She gestured for him to sit on one of the provided benches and started explaining each artwork in detail.

Despite his usual aloof air, Juugo listened carefully. He took notes and interrupted now and then with questions. Ino, initially surprised, eventually got into the rhythm of it. Even if his questions were sometimes a little naïve, the teacher in her always found a way to answer clearly—without oversimplifying the more complex ideas they touched on.

Slowly, they moved through the galleries, discussing different artistic movements, unaware of how much time had passed. It wasn’t until the museum began to empty out that Ino realized how late it was. She turned to Juugo, who was still scribbling notes.

“We’ve got to go,” she told him.

He nodded, finished his line, and closed his notebook. Behind them, the guards were gently ushering visitors toward the exits. Ino headed calmly toward one of the many side doors—then stopped short. Juugo’s large frame bumped into her from behind.

“I forgot!” she exclaimed.

“What?”

“Come on.”

She opened another side door and picked up her pace through a series of corridors. When she pushed open a new door, they emerged into a different wing, where a few stragglers were making the most of the final minutes before closing. She moved to the center of the room, then came to a stop in front of a softly colored canvas. Juugo followed her gaze and froze.

“Well?” she asked.

“It’s even more…”

He trailed off, searching for the word.

“Big?” Ino offered.

“Beautiful…” he said at last. “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

Juugo let his bag slide off onto a bench and slowly approached The Birth of Venus. His mouth was slightly open, his red eyes tracing every detail of the painting.

“You like it?” Ino asked.

He gave a shy smile.

“It’s my favorite.”

Ino frowned slightly.

“Don’t speak too soon. We haven’t seen everything yet. This is the biggest museum in the country, remember?”

“That’s okay,” Juugo said, still staring. “Earlier you said collectors sometimes buy things on impulse, right?”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“Well, if I had the money, this is the one I’d buy.”

Ino stepped beside him, eyes scanning the canvas.

“Why?”

A silence settled between them.

“Her face,” he said at last. “It reminds me of my mother.”

Ino turned her head toward him. He was still, completely absorbed by the painting, his features unexpectedly softened.

She studied him for a moment, tracing the sharp profile of his face. But then her attention was drawn to a presence a few steps behind them: a woman was staring at them intently.

Ino shifted to face her directly.

“Yes?” she asked.

Juugo snapped out of his thoughts and noticed the woman too. She was short, with a blunt black bob and tiny glasses to match. Her already stern face tightened even more, deepening the lines in her pale skin.

“I recognize you…!” she suddenly exclaimed.

Her voice rang out across the hall, drawing everyone’s attention. She pointed an accusing finger at Juugo, her face contorted in a sudden, explosive rage.

“You’re that bastard’s kid! His filthy spawn!” she shrieked. “What are you doing here?!”

She stormed toward them, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. Ino’s eyes widened, and she instinctively stepped back, like a wild animal was charging straight at them. Juugo, however, didn’t move an inch.

“That’s him!” the woman cried out, turning to the other visitors. “That’s Arata Tanaka’s son—the psycho who tortured and murdered dozens of young women!”

Around them, once-confused expressions turned to revulsion and horror. Emboldened by the crowd’s reaction, the woman swung her backpack—a gray canvas thing—straight at Juugo.

“Hey!” Ino shouted.

But the woman ignored her. Glaring at the young man, she struck again. Juugo calmly raised an arm to block her, his broad frame absorbing most of the blow. But then a strap snapped across his face.

In one swift motion, he grabbed the woman’s bag and flung it aside. It arced through the air and crashed to the ground, spilling a soda bottle, a camera, keys, and various other items across the floor. The woman’s eyes darkened with fury.

“You little shit!” she spat, shoving him with all the strength she could muster. “You think you’ll get away with this?! You really think the police won’t prove you’re guilty?!”

She looked him up and down like he was something foul, then—without warning—spat in his face.

Ino’s expression twisted in outrage.

“Stop this right now,” she snapped.

The woman’s beady black eyes locked onto hers.

“And who the hell are you? One of his fangirls?” she sneered. “Poor idiot… He’ll slit your throat the first chance he gets. Just like his father would’ve. It’s in their blood.”

“You don't have any—”

“I was the neighbor of one of the victims!” the woman screamed. “Arata Tanaka butchered her!”

The words froze everyone in place—including Ino, who felt the blood drain from her face.

The woman, breathless with rage, used the moment to turn her fury back on Juugo, jabbing a finger in his direction again.

“Just because they couldn’t prove the son’s guilt doesn’t mean he’s innocent! He deserves to rot in prison, just like his father!”

“That’s not—”

“Get out of my way!”

She grabbed Ino by the collar and shoved her aside.

The young woman stumbled, crashing to the floor like a rag doll.

Juugo stared at her, startled—then his expression changed in an instant.

With a sharp motion, he grabbed the woman by the neck and shoved her back. She let out a gasp and collapsed onto her back. A collective gasp rose from the crowd. Juugo didn’t react. He leaned over Ino and extended his hand to her. It was large, calloused, and scarred.

Still stunned, Ino hesitated—then took it. He pulled her up with a firm, effortless motion, as if she weighed nothing at all.

“What’s going on here?”

A security guard had stepped forward, helping the woman back to her feet.

“That man is a criminal,” she growled, trying to fix her disheveled hair.

“She attacked us,” Ino snapped back immediately.

The staff member recognized her. Caught off guard, he cleared his throat and awkwardly handed the backpack back to the woman.

“Museum’s closing, ladies and gentlemen. I suggest we all leave calmly.”

The woman snatched the bag from his hands. She muttered curses into her collar as she stooped to gather the items scattered across the floor. When she picked up her soda bottle, she suddenly spun around—and threw it at Juugo.

The sticky drink splattered all over him.

“Like father, like son!” she screamed. “You’re just like that fucking monster—his degenerate blood runs in your veins!”

This time, the guard was quicker. He grabbed her arm and escorted her out, joined by two more security staff. The rest of the team rushed to evacuate the remaining visitors. There was a flurry of footsteps, shocked whispers, and slowly, the hall emptied out.

Ino and Juugo were left alone in the south wing of the museum.

She turned slowly to him and swallowed. He was staring at his notebook on the floor, soaked in soda.

“Shit…” Ino breathed.

She crouched down, picked it up, and gave it a shake. The pages were already smeared beyond saving.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered. “That woman’s insane…”

She looked up at Juugo. His sweater was soaked, stained with brownish syrup. His jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the mess in silence. A chill ran down Ino’s spine. She stood and gently grabbed his limp arm. His red eyes turned toward her.

“Come on, let’s clean this up.”

She led him through the hall to the women’s restroom. There, she positioned him in front of a sink and turned on the cold water, holding out her hand.

“Give it to me,” she said firmly.

Juugo understood. He pulled off his sweater in a mechanical motion and handed it to her. She took it and started rinsing out the worst of the stains under the cold stream. Juugo, now in a T-shirt, stood silently beside her, watching her hands move with focused intensity. His gaze was hollow, deadened—fixed on her fingers with a chilling blankness. His clenched fists and tense jaw betrayed a fury simmering just below the surface. He didn’t move, but the bulging veins in his forearms made it clear he was barely holding it together.

“Juugo,” Ino said.

He looked up, meeting her eyes through the mirror.

“Stupid people use violence,” she said softly.

She wrung out the sweater, then turned to face him fully, locking eyes with him.

“You’re not stupid.”

Juugo stared at her for a long moment without speaking, then reached out to take his damp sweater.

“…Thanks.”

Notes:

Hello everyone! I'm back with a new chapter. I found this one particularly touching (especially the ending). Juugo looks a lot like his murderous father. That's why he often hides behind a mask and a cap. But despite this, he sometimes makes himself recognisable. And because he's also been in the media ( thanks to his father), people are convinced that he's in cahoots with him and that he's slipped through the net of justice. He may be a delinquent, but he's not a murderer. Unfortunately, people confuse the two.

The next chapter will be dedicated to Itachi and Kisame. I can't wait for you to read it 🥰

Chapter 16: The criminal's house

Summary:

Kisame joins Itachi for what should be a simple family dinner—until old ghosts and buried secrets force their way to the surface.

Kisame pulled up to a majestic wrought iron gate. He frowned, double-checking the GPS address. The screen confirmed he was in the right place, just as Itachi had told him.

“Well, shit...” he muttered, slowing his bike to a crawl.

He looked for an intercom or a buzzer, but found neither. Instead, a surveillance camera swiveled toward him. Removing his helmet, he let it catch a full view of his face. A few heavy seconds passed in silence before the gates creaked open.

He started up the engine again and cautiously made his way down the tree-lined drive. As he advanced, the silhouette of a grand eighteenth-century-style mansion came into view between towering beeches and oaks. Kisame parked to the side, taken aback by the sheer magnificence of the place.

This was the first time he'd been invited to such an opulent residence. When Itachi had mentioned dinner "at his place" with "his family," Kisame had never imagined ending up somewhere like this.

"Mr. Kisame?" someone called.

A woman stood on the front steps near the entrance. She greeted him with a polite smile and motioned him inside. Kisame climbed the stairs and stepped into the house. A vast entrance hall welcomed him. The white walls were adorned with intricately sculpted plaster moldings. To the right, a wide staircase of dark wood spiraled upward with elegant grace. Overhead, a massive crystal chandelier bathed the space in soft light, making the room sparkle.

"May I take your things, sir?" the woman asked.

"Uh… yeah, thanks," he replied.

She carefully took his jacket and motorcycle helmet. At that moment, a figure came bounding down the stairs.

"Kisame," came a familiar voice.

The sound sent a chill through him. He turned to see Itachi standing on one of the steps. His hair was down and he wore a well-fitted shirt, a far cry from his usual loose tees. Seeing him like that made Kisame smile.

He stepped up to the base of the staircase, resting his hand on the banister just beside Itachi’s.

“You could’ve told me you lived in a palace,” he teased.

“It’s not a palace. It’s a manor.”

“Ah. My mistake, Your Highness.”

Itachi smiled, and their fingers brushed.

“So this is your friend,” a voice interjected.

Kisame turned and saw a breathtaking woman. Her jet-black hair cascaded in elegant waves, her off-shoulder neckline perfectly framing her shoulders. Her dark eyes, rimmed by endless lashes, held a mesmerizing depth, and her high cheekbones sculpted her face with such striking harmony that Kisame wondered how she wasn’t the face of every skincare ad in the country.

“I’m Mikoto, Itachi’s mother,” she said.

Every detail of her appearance seemed carefully curated for maximum impact. Kisame stepped back down a few steps and shook her hand.

“Kisame,” he said. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

She gave him a quick once-over, then leaned toward her son.

“Itachi, I’m starting to think you only associate with people twice your size.”

“It’s one of my criteria,” he replied smoothly.

He smiled, and Kisame couldn’t help but return it.

“Don’t just stand there, dinner’s ready,” Mikoto said brightly.

She disappeared through a doorway. Kisame glanced at Itachi. The guy looked oddly calm. So did his mother. You’d think nothing had ever happened between them. Their tone, their behavior… not a hint of past drama. Was it because he was here? Or was this whole family just incredibly good at hiding how they felt?

Kisame couldn’t tell. The thought made him uneasy—something he deliberately pushed aside to keep from getting uncomfortable.

“You traded your tees for a button-up?” he asked after a beat.

“Had to look decent for my guest.”

“Well, it worked. I like it.”

Itachi’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. Kisame knew it wasn’t anger—just embarrassment. A teasing smile tugged at his lips. Itachi, likely overwhelmed by the awkwardness, hurried past him toward the dining room. The former soldier watched him go before following.

He stepped into a room even more impressive than the first. The dining room was a refined blend of modern taste and old-world charm, matching the grandeur of the house. At the center, beneath a gleaming golden chandelier, stood a massive solid oak table. The dinnerware—simple yet intimidatingly elegant—glinted under the candlelight, arranged in a perfect circle in the middle of the table. Off to the side, a music room opened by wide windows, offering a stunning view of a sprawling garden. A grand piano sat at the center, flanked by a cello resting on a delicately carved stand. A fainting couch lay gracefully in front of the instruments. In the corner, an antique bookcase stood proudly, each volume seeming to whisper secrets of another time. Art adorned the walls, and a vast fireplace dominated the space, exuding nobility and wealth.

“I’m sorry,” Mikoto said. “Not all the family is here—at least, not yet. My husband and his nephew—Itachi’s cousin—should arrive later this evening. Something came up. And my other son won’t be joining us, unfortunately.”

Indeed, five places were set.

“No problem,” Kisame replied, trying to hide his surprise.

He hadn’t known Itachi had a brother. The guy had never mentioned one, not even during their briefings. He’d only talked about the mother he tried to strangle, and the father he stabbed. And now, here they were, as if nothing had happened.

Kisame was starting to understand why Itachi seemed so tense. He felt like an outsider in this house—as if he were watching the opening act of a Greek tragedy.

“We’ll start without them,” Mikoto declared. “Let’s not disappoint our chef, who worked so hard to impress our guest.”

She turned to a maid hurrying over with a water pitcher.

“Lia, would you bring out the starters, please?”

Her tone had changed. It lacked the warmth she’d used with Kisame—cooler, more commanding. Kisame got the uncomfortable sense that he was no longer at a family dinner, but at a restaurant where hospitality had given way to formality.

He glanced at Itachi, whose face remained impassive, eyes fixed ahead. Was he judging the scene just as Kisame was? Or merely watching it unfold with calculated indifference?

“Please, Kisame, have a seat,” Mikoto said, gesturing to a chair. “Don’t be shy.”

Kisame obeyed and sat down. Itachi took the seat to his right, deliberately placing him between himself and his mother, who sat at the head of the table. The former soldier instantly understood—it was no accident. Itachi was avoiding her like the plague, and honestly, given their history, maybe that was for the best.

“It’s rare for Itachi to introduce us to his friends,” Mikoto remarked as the first course was being served. “How long have you two known each other again?” she asked, hesitantly.

“A little over a year,” Itachi replied.

Kisame raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He’d asked Nagato not to tell anyone how he and Itachi had actually met. He knew how awkward it could be—nobody wanted to hear that the guy sitting next to them had once been convicted of aggravated assault.

“I see…” Mikoto said. “And where was that?”

“Gym,” Kisame answered before Itachi could say a word.

Might as well help steer the story himself.

Just then, a maid set a plate in front of him, and Kisame marveled at the artful presentation.

This is restaurant-level, he thought, impressed by how precisely everything was arranged. He glanced at Itachi, who was watching him with a strange, almost anxious expression—like he expected Kisame to get up and leave. Kisame offered him a reassuring smile, but couldn’t help giving him a questioning look: What world do you live in? And for a second, he thought he saw an unspoken Sorry in Itachi’s eyes.

“Oh, I didn’t know you worked out,” Mikoto said, clearly surprised as she turned to her son.

“Once in a while,” he replied casually.

Mikoto pursed her lips and turned back to Kisame.

“We’re not exactly a sporty family, I’m afraid. Never been our strong suit.”

“And what is your strong suit, then?”

“Hmm…” She tapped her chin. “Probably finding friends twice our size.”

That made Kisame smile. Itachi too. They exchanged a quiet look, then began eating their starters.

Surprisingly, the rest of dinner was genuinely pleasant. Mikoto, beyond her elegance, turned out to be witty and kind. Kisame found himself laughing more than once. And even though Itachi mostly stayed in the background, he chimed in now and then with just the right touch of irony or sarcasm—something that suited him incredibly well. As the evening went on, Kisame felt his earlier tension melt away, and eventually, he forgot all about the drama that had once unfolded between Itachi and his mother.

“Would you like another glass of wine?” Mikoto offered.

“No, thanks,” Kisame replied. “I came by bike. Gotta keep my head clear.”

He regretted saying it. The single glass he’d had so far had been exceptional—probably the best wine he’d ever tasted. He would’ve gladly accepted another, but he knew better than to take the risk.

“You could spend the night here,” Mikoto suggested. “It’s pouring outside. Stay over, head back tomorrow.”

Kisame glanced out the window. Sheets of rain hammered the garden, and lightning occasionally lit up the sky. A low rumble of thunder rolled in—not close, but definitely there.

He scratched the back of his neck.

“I don’t want to impose…”

“You’re not imposing. I’m offering,” Mikoto said, finishing her glass. “There are plenty of rooms here that go unused. Might as well put them to use for once.”

Kisame turned to Itachi, whose face remained unreadable.

“If you don’t mind...” he said hesitantly.

Itachi stared at him for a moment, then glanced out the window himself.

“You know I don’t,” he said.

Then suddenly, his brow furrowed, and his whole expression darkened. Kisame followed his gaze—and saw headlights approaching up the drive. Mikoto, looking pleased, got up from the table and headed for the dining room entrance.

“My husband and my nephew,” she announced. She caught Kisame starting to stand and raised a hand. “Stay seated. I’m going to greet them—and scold them for being late. And trust me, you do not want to witness that.”

She shot them one last smile before slipping out.

Kisame turned to Itachi. Whatever softness had crept into his features over the course of the evening was gone, replaced by a cold, distant look.

Now he understood—it wasn’t dinner itself that had been stressing Itachi out. It was the arrival of them. Compared to those two, Mikoto was barely a shadow.

“You’re nervous,” Kisame said.

“No.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

The sharpness in his tone didn’t fool Kisame. He’d seen this behavior before. When Itachi got like this, it meant he was rattled. Or scared.

The soldier inhaled quietly and rested an arm along the back of Itachi’s chair. The younger man glanced at him from the corner of his eye but didn’t move.

“Don’t be mean,” Kisame murmured.

“I’m not.”

Kisame raised an eyebrow. He reached out, gently taking hold of Itachi’s chin to turn his face toward him. Itachi stared, then quickly jerked his head away.

“Don’t do that here,” he growled.

“Do what, exactly?”

“What you just did.”

Kisame frowned.

“You mean…”

He didn’t get to finish.

The door to the salon opened, and a figure stepped inside. Kisame turned his head—and froze.

A tall man stood there, soaked to the bone and… covered in scars. Kisame’s eyes widened as he registered the white eye, the raven-black hair, and the half-melted face—burned by acid.

“Obito?” Kisame asked, startled.

“Kisame?” the other man replied.

They stared each other down like wary dogs, both clearly confused as to why the other was there. Then, suddenly, another man stepped into the room—and Kisame felt the ground drop out from under him.

“Colonel Uchiha?”

The man stopped and looked directly at him. His dark eyes locked on Kisame in silence, then his chin lifted, and he gave him a stern, superior look—through his lashes, in a way that was eerily familiar...

Kisame turned toward Itachi, whose gaze was darting back and forth between him and the two new arrivals.

The jet-black hair, the aloof, haughty way of sizing people up, that pale skin… How had he not connected the dots before? How had he missed it?

“What are you doing here, Hoshigaki?” barked a commanding voice.

Colonel Fugaku Uchiha had crossed his arms, his hard, unyielding eyes locked onto him.

A chill ran down Kisame’s spine. He stood up straight, offering a military salute. Acidic bile rose in his throat.

“I’m a friend of your son,” he said evenly.

Obito’s eyes widened. His brows shot up in surprise.

“You and Itachi know each other?” he grimaced.

“And you know my husband?” Mikoto added immediately.

Unlike Obito—whose bewilderment was written across his face like confusion had invented itself just for him—Mikoto’s expression lit up with pleasant surprise. She turned to her husband, delighted.

“Well, what a lovely surprise! How do you—?”

“Outside,” the colonel snapped.

His tone, usually firm but courteous, had turned cold—almost threatening. Kisame’s entire body went taut. He saw the look his former superior gave him, a mix of disgust, anger, and disappointment—and it hit him like a punch to the gut. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move. His throat was dry, his jaw clenched tight.

“Fugaku, what are you—” Mikoto began, but he cut her off with a sharp wave of the hand.

“This man used to be in my unit. I discharged him after he beat a civilian nearly to death.”

He threw Kisame a furious glare.

The former soldier fought the urge to look away. He understood exactly why the colonel was so inflexible. Having one of his former subordinates show up at his home—his home—was probably unthinkable. But worse than that, to tarnish the reputation of the special forces with a crime as vile as assaulting an innocent civilian… it was unforgivable.

Special forces were supposed to be spotless—chosen not just for their combat skills, but for their exemplary conduct. A stain like this—a conviction for violent assault, one that nearly became manslaughter—was a disgrace. A shame the entire unit had to bear. And Kisame had been the one to cause it.

“Get out of my sight.”

The colonel’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Obediently, Kisame stepped away from his chair and prepared to leave, when Itachi’s voice rang out behind him.

“You said you were a marine biologist.”

Obito, who until then had been so still he could’ve passed for a statue, blinked in disbelief.

“Marine biologist?” he repeated. “Kisame was in special ops. We fought together under Fugaku’s command. He was never—”

He grimaced.

“—a marine biologist.”

His eyes locked onto Kisame, filled with confusion. Kisame’s jaw tightened. He turned—and met Itachi’s gaze.

Cold. Hard. Distant.

“We’re not allowed to lie during the meetings,” Itachi said softly. “It’s one of the rules.”

Kisame felt like he was dissolving. Itachi was staring at him, lashes half-lowered, with a look of unrelenting disappointment. It was the first time that expression had ever been directed at him. He never thought he’d see that look aimed his way. And he knew exactly what it meant. He hadn’t just lied to Itachi—he’d ruined the dinner. The one where he was supposed to help bridge gaps, ease the tension. And now, it was all falling apart.

“Meetings?” Mikoto asked, puzzled. “What meetings?”

“The mandatory support group your son has to attend,” Fugaku answered curtly. “I imagine that’s where they met. Makes sense, considering the company he keeps.”

“But… Itachi told me—”

“He lied to get what he wanted,” Fugaku cut her off. “Nothing new.”

“You two met at that court-mandated group therapy?” Obito blurted out, clearly rattled.

He looked completely lost. Kisame saw it in his face—he was scrambling to understand how he hadn’t known that his cousin and his friend had been attending the same meetings.

“Get out of here,” Fugaku growled.

Obito’s eyes flicked back and forth between the older man and Kisame.

“Uncle,” he tried. “This is a misunderstanding. There’s no need to kick Kisame out. You know he’s not—”

“OUT!” Fugaku roared.

Mikoto jumped so violently she nearly knocked over a porcelain vase perched on an ebony pedestal. She clapped a trembling hand over her mouth, stifling a gasp, and stared at Kisame with wide eyes. Behind her, the housekeeper who had been approaching with a cheese tray froze, went pale, then turned and fled into another room.

“I DON’T WANT CRIMINALS IN THIS HOUSE!” Fugaku thundered. “I’ve got enough to deal with thanks to my own son!”

He jabbed a finger toward Kisame, threateningly.

“And stay away from him. Understood?!”

No one spoke. No one moved. Not even Obito—usually the first to push back—said a word.

Kisame stood frozen, as if Fugaku’s words had rooted him to the spot. After a moment, he gave a small nod, then walked toward the exit.

At the door, he paused. Slowly, he turned to Mikoto.

“Thanks for dinner,” he said.

He glanced at Itachi.

“…I’m sorry.”

The boy remained expressionless, his eyes hollow—like no apology in the world could undo the disappointment. Kisame lowered his gaze and left the room. Behind him, the door slammed shut, and angry voices immediately burst into a furious argument. He closed his eyes and ran a hand across his forehead.

Fucking hell, he thought.

He’d been an idiot. The king of idiots, really. How had he not connected the dots between Itachi and Obito? How had he missed the striking similarities in their features—their unnatural, almost ethereal pallor—and their ink-black hair?

How had he failed to see that he was—

“An Uchiha,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Fucking hell…”

“Mister Kisame?”

The housekeeper who had greeted him earlier was standing quietly near the staircase, holding out his motorcycle jacket and helmet. Caught off guard, he mumbled an apology and took his things. Without a word, she led him to the front door and opened it.

Outside, the rain was pouring down in sheets, flooding everything in its path. His bike, sheltered under the porch, waited patiently.

He thanked the young woman and descended the front steps. Behind him, the door slammed shut with a loud bang, echoing through the storm. He glanced back at the manor. The warm lights that had once welcomed him now looked dull—almost hostile.

A chill ran down his spine. He turned away and walked toward the porch. 

“Kisame,” called a voice.

He turned immediately.

Itachi stood at the top of the steps, still expressionless. Slowly, he closed the door behind him and descended, each step echoing in the heavy silence that had settled between thunderclaps. Kisame stepped forward too, uncertain, his movements slow and awkward. He didn’t know what to say—didn’t know what he was allowed to say.

When they finally stood face-to-face in the rain, Kisame felt drained, like all the energy had been washed away with the downpour.

“Why did you lie to me?” Itachi asked.

Kisame’s mouth parted in surprise. He didn’t understand how the boy had managed to leave the room with his father still fuming. He glanced back at the manor, now eerily quiet, then looked back at him.

“I didn’t mean to lie. Not to you,” he said. “That was my first time speaking in one of those meetings, and I… didn’t want people to know I used to be in the military.”

“Did you do it on purpose?” Itachi’s voice cut through the air, cold and sharp.

His hair was soaked, strands plastered to his face. His shirt, now drenched, clung to his skin, and his long lashes stuck together under the pounding rain.

Kisame frowned, not following.

Itachi raised his voice.

“Did you do it to get close to my father? To rejoin one of his units?”

Kisame immediately shook his head.

“No,” he said firmly. “I didn’t even know you were Obito’s cousin… I didn’t know anything about you. I just… I fucked up.”

He ran a hand down his face.

“If I’d known your last name, I—”

“You would’ve avoided me?” Itachi cut in.

The young man eyes' darkened, and something bleak flickered within them.

Kisame wanted to deny it—but the words caught in his throat. Lying wasn’t in his nature. He hated it. The lie he’d told at that damn meeting had already filled him with shame. Doing it again now, looking Itachi in the eye… would be even worse.

“I…” he rasped. “I wouldn’t have let myself get close to you like I did.”

Itachi let out a bitter laugh. He shook his head and turned to walk back to the porch.

Kisame caught his shoulder. The boy tore himself away violently, a flash of anger in his raven-black eyes. He glared at him with hate, then started walking again. Kisame remained still—but then reached for him again, this time pulling him close. The boy struggled, but Kisame’s strength held him firm.

“Itachi…” he started.

“Did you lie about everything else too?” Itachi interrupted.

“Everything else?”

“Your family. What you told me—was it true?”

Itachi’s back was pressed against his chest. His wet hair hid his face, masking his expression, but his rapid breathing betrayed his anger. Kisame leaned down, pressing his cold cheek to Itachi’s temple.

“I would never lie about that,” he whispered.

Itachi said nothing. Kisame could only hear his ragged breathing—harsh, almost painful. He didn’t move. He just kept his cheek pressed to the boy’s temple, arms wrapped tight around him, as if trying to shield him from more than just the cold rain.

The downpour continued, relentless, but neither of them moved. Kisame waited, saying nothing, until he finally felt Itachi’s breathing slow. Gently, he loosened his embrace. A wave of cold climbed up his soaked arms.

“I’m sor—” he began, but Itachi cut him off.

“Take me with you,” the boy ordered.

He turned slowly to face him. His drenched hair clung to his face, and his shirt had turned nearly transparent from the rain. He looked paler than ever.

“I—”

“Please,” Itachi said firmly.

Kisame stared at him. It was impossible. Itachi was Colonel Uchiha’s son. He couldn’t just whisk him away like it was nothing.

“I can’t do that,” he said.

Itachi’s expression didn’t change, but the former soldier saw his fists clench, his jaw tighten.

“Itachi…” he sighed. “You’re wearing a monitor. If they track you outside your parents’ house, you’ll lose your release privileges and—”

“That’s my problem.”

“It’s mine too. I’ve got a record. I have to stay clean or things get worse for me. Your father won’t go easy on me if he finds out I took you.”

Fugaku had principles—but he also had status. The Uchiha family was powerful, with influence Kisame had never dreamed of. Already under legal scrutiny, he couldn’t afford to make things worse. And he knew Itachi was smart enough to understand that.

“You know I can’t do this,” he repeated quietly.

Itachi’s jaw tightened even more.

Kisame slid a hand into his ink-black hair. The strands, soft as satin, slipped easily between his fingers.

The Uchiha didn’t resist—strangely calm.

“Listen,” Kisame said. “You’ve got my number. You can call me, text me, do what you want. I’ll answer. Always. I promise.”

Silence.

Kisame leaned closer, closing the space between them. Itachi didn’t move. He just stared at him, still and unreadable.

“Master Itachi,” said a voice suddenly.

Kisame looked up. The housekeeper—the same one who had brought him his things—stood in the doorway.

“Your father is asking for you.”

“I’m coming,” the young man replied, his voice devoid of emotion.

Without a word, he turned and followed her. Kisame watched him ascend the steps, and then the door shut behind him with a final click.

Silence fell again—heavy and suffocating.

The rain kept falling, unbothered, steady and cold.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I loved writing this chapter (especially the ending between Kisame and Itachi). I love these two 🥺 They're so cute. But I also love making them suffer, I admit it. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The masks have fallen 😅 A big thank you for all the comments and the kudos ❤️ I can't say it enough: it motivates me a lot!

Chapter 17: All lies

Summary:

Sasuke and Sakura chat over coffee and university textbooks.

Sasuke's dark hair fell into his eyes, barely hiding the slight frown as he pored over a dense paragraph in one of his university textbooks. His index finger tapped nervously against his temple—a sign he’d hit a snag, either because he didn’t understand something or disagreed with it. The first option being nearly unthinkable, Sakura bet on the second.

Suddenly, his finger stopped mid-tap. He slowly lifted his head, sharp, dark eyes searching for Sakura through the strands of hair falling over his face. She held his gaze, the silence between them tight, heavy with unspoken tension.

"You're not studying?" he asked.

Sakura looked down at her own textbook and shrugged casually.

"No need. I’m leaving any minute now. I’m on call tonight."

He nodded, leaned back, and stretched, eyes closed.

Sometimes, when he struck that kind of relaxed pose, she wondered if he had any idea how good-looking he was. She knew he was fully aware that his family name, his money, and his noble lineage gave him a certain social advantage. But whether he realized just how much his looks worked in his favor—she wasn’t so sure. Probably. But he doesn’t give a damn, Sakura thought.

He stood and started up the coffee machine.

"How was your night out with Ino, Hinata, Temari, and..."

He frowned, searching for the last name.

"Tenten," Sakura supplied.

He nodded, rummaging through the cupboard to grab two mugs.

"So?" he asked as he set them on the counter.

"Good," she replied with a small smile. "It went really well."

She snapped her book shut and shoved it into her bag with a bit more force than necessary.

Since that day, she hadn’t spoken to any of her friends. Not even Ino, despite her repeated attempts to reach out. Sakura didn’t want to hear her voice, didn’t want her advice—definitely not her opinions. All she wanted was silence. Solitude. Because what Hinata had dared to say—or more accurately, the lie she’d dared to tell—haunted Sakura every night, keeping her from sleep. If only she could keep her delusions to herself, everything would be so much simpler, she thought, her expression hardening. Hinata had spiraled too often, dragging others down with her. And each time, some kind soul had rushed to pull her back from the edge. For a long time, Sakura had been that person. But not this time. Not when the desire to hurt had been hidden behind such a vile lie.

"Did you know Naruto broke up with Hinata?"

Sasuke raised an eyebrow, vaguely surprised, and handed her a steaming cup of coffee.

"Really?" he said, tone detached.

His expression didn’t shift.

He took a sip from his own cup.

"No, and good. I’ve got neither the time nor the patience for her whining," he said, in that cool, unaffected way of his.

Sakura smirked. She knew that mocking tone Sasuke used when Naruto got on his nerves. That was exactly why she had zero doubt that Hinata had lost it—because Sasuke and Naruto had a bond like brothers. It wasn’t something she always fully understood, but not once, not ever, had she questioned it. On the other hand, life had taught her to be wary of Hinata’s so-called visions or overheard whispers.

"I hope she’ll be okay," Sasuke said.

"Who?"

"Hinata," he clarified, still neutral. "She’s not all there."

"Oh... yeah. I hope so too."

Right then, her phone buzzed—time to go. She knocked back the rest of her coffee in one go, stood, and hurried into her jacket.

"Wait," Sasuke said suddenly.

She froze, one arm halfway into a sleeve.

"Yeah?"

"Wednesday. The Yamanaka family’s throwing an event. They’re inviting pretty much everyone."

Translation: just the nobility and upper class, she thought silently. She tilted her head slightly, watching Sasuke calmly load the mugs into the dishwasher.

"Do you know why?" she asked.

"I think they’re opening a gallery or something like that," he replied, not sounding too sure. "I’d like you to come with me."

Sakura blinked, caught off guard.

Sasuke shut the dishwasher, then crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. He looked almost surprised by her silence.

"You don’t want to come?" he asked, eyes scanning her face for a reaction.

She blinked again, still processing.

"No, of course I do... it’s just that..." she hesitated, the words slipping from her grasp. "I’m surprised you’re inviting me."

"Why?"

She gave a nervous laugh.

"You haven’t invited me anywhere in weeks and weeks."

Sasuke’s dark eyes stayed on her, steady and unreadable. His face, as usual, gave nothing away.

Finally, he sighed softly and ran a distracted hand through his jet-black hair.

"You’re right," he admitted. "Sorry."

He straightened up and walked toward her. She stayed still, arms crossing instinctively over her chest like a shield. He kept approaching—slow and deliberate, like a snake—until he stood right in front of her. She held his gaze, trying to hide the nerves tightening her throat.

"I couldn’t invite you lately," he said. "It wasn’t about you."

Relief washed over her, deep and overwhelming. She’d started to believe she’d done something unforgivable—missing all those Uchiha family gatherings had gnawed at her more than she dared admit.

"Then why?" she asked.

"My family’s been dealing with... some issues."

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

His smile twisted into something bitter, like he’d just swallowed an unpleasant taste. His obsidian eyes dropped to her mouth, and he absentmindedly brushed her chin with his fingertip. Despite herself, Sakura felt her heart pick up.

"I didn’t want you to worry," he said.

The young doctor swallowed hard. She’d faced Sasuke’s silence about his family more times than she could count, but each time it hit her just the same—with that same sting of shame, like the problem was hers and not his to begin with.

"That’s a fail."

"I’ll make it up to you."

"By inviting me to more of your fancy soirées?"

"Among other things."

"That’s too easy."

"You think so?"

"Yes."

He smiled. So did she. A quiet settled between them, then he leaned in and kissed her. She closed her eyes, letting her racing heartbeat guide her through the moment.

The kiss lasted longer than usual, but she didn’t pull away. When he finally drew back, she felt oddly calm, like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

He still loved her. And in his own way, he had just apologized.

"We’ve got to make up for lost time," he said. "You’ve been away from the Uchiha for too long."

She let out a short laugh.

"Something tells me they handled it just fine."

"We’re not going to let them enjoy it," he replied with a smirk. "There’s a family gathering at the estate in a few weeks. It’d be nice if you came—like before."

Sakura’s smile faded.

The "estate" was the Uchiha family’s ancestral home—an enormous property shaped by centuries of architectural shifts, from grand baroque excess to the cold symmetry of Jacobean lines. That place terrified her as much as it fascinated her.

"I’m not sure your aunts and uncles—"

"It’s just the cousins," he cut in. "It’d be a chance to see some of them again."

Sakura pressed her lips together, uncertain. Part of her ached to go. It was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen, the embodiment of the Uchiha’s enduring power—past and present. But another part of her recoiled at the thought, knowing full well that some members of the family openly despised her and would no doubt take every chance to throw veiled barbs her way.

"I’ll be with you the entire time," Sasuke said gently.

"I know, but..."

"It’s important to me."

He leaned in, brushing soft kisses along her neck. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the rare tenderness. These gestures didn’t come often from him, and she cherished every single one.

"Okay..." she murmured.

She felt his smile against her skin, his hands sliding to her waist and guiding her back against the counter. She went with it, her movements growing bolder. As the heat between them built, she tilted her head back and parted her legs just slightly, letting him step closer. He was just about to slip a hand under her blouse when her phone alarm blared suddenly.

Sakura’s eyes flew open.

"Shit. I really have to go this time. Tsunade’s going to kill me if I’m late again."

Sasuke sighed, an amused smile tugging at his lips, and let his forehead fall into the curve of her neck. She ran her fingers through the hair at his nape, gently, eyes closed. A quiet, intimate stillness wrapped around them before he finally pulled away. She brushed his face lightly with her hand.

"Sorry..." she said, pouting a little.

He kissed her forehead, then turned toward the bathroom.

"Go," he said, voice somewhere between serious and teasing. "Before I change my mind."

The comment made her smile.

She grabbed her bag, zipped up her jacket, and stepped out of the apartment with a smile on her lips and a rare calm in her chest.

"Nothing but lies..." she thought, as Hinata’s words echoed once more in her mind.

 

Notes:

Hello everyone! Thank you so much for your comments and your kudos, it's really a pleasure to read them all 🥺 Thank you also for all your interest in this story, it goes straight to my heart ❤️

This chapter is a necessary ‘in-between’ for the sake of the story. It allows you to discover more about Sasuke and Sakura's complex relationship.

You'll see that famous evening at the ‘estate’ in several chapters 🔥 I'm really, really, really looking forward to you reading this. This arc will actually be quite long, and a lot will happen (but I'm already saying too much).

For Kisa/Ita fans (and I know there are many of you), be happy, the next chapter is about them 😉

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank @kiryu_giovanna for his wonderful drawing of Juugo and his father (Thanks a lot !!!❤️) : here

Chapter 18: You owe me this

Summary:

Itachi confronts Kisame after a painful betrayal.

Itachi slid down the wall of the gym, just like he did every other time Iruka asked them to split into pairs. He drew his knees up to his chest, rested his forearms on them, and let his hands dangle lazily in the air. His gaze locked straight ahead, where Kisame—tall and solid as ever—was speaking with Iruka. The soldier—because that’s what he really was—stood upright, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark pants. His long-sleeved T-shirt, pushed up around his forearms, clung to the defined muscles beneath.

Itachi took a deep breath and leaned his head back against the wall. He didn’t know what Kisame was saying to Iruka, but he had a good guess it had something to do with what had happened a few days ago. Iruka kept casting worried glances his way while listening intently. After a moment, the mediator nodded, said a few words, then patted Kisame lightly on the shoulder.

Kisame nodded in thanks and turned toward Itachi. This time, unlike before, he wasn’t smiling. His face was unreadable—closed off, almost impassive. Was he upset? Embarrassed?

The thought brought a bitter smile to Itachi’s lips. If anyone had the right to be pissed, it was him. Kisame had lied to him. Kisame, the principled man, had lied.

Itachi stared at him coldly as the soldier grabbed a chair and sat down in front of him. As usual, he straddled it backward, forearms draped over the backrest.

Itachi watched him silently. He wasn’t going to be the one to speak first.

“You didn’t text me,” Kisame said.

Itachi instantly knew what he was referring to. That moment in front of the house, in the pouring rain: “You’ve got my number. Text me—I’ll always answer.”

Itachi had had no intention of doing so. He could have claimed he hadn’t thought about it, but that would’ve been a lie. He’d thought about it every hour, every minute, every damn second. He’d just refused to send anything.

“What for?” he replied coldly.

Kisame sighed and lowered his head.

“I texted you,” he said.

That was true. Three messages. The first to apologize, the second to ask how he was, and the third to apologize again.

“I didn’t read them,” Itachi lied.

Kisame didn’t believe a word of it. The slight raise of his eyebrow and the tension in his jaw said as much. He opened his mouth to respond, but Itachi cut him off:

“What did you tell Iruka?”

The soldier glanced over his shoulder. Iruka was busy talking with Sakon.

“I told him I lied. To the whole group. But especially to you.”

Itachi’s eyes narrowed. He knew Kisame was a man of principle, but he hadn’t thought he’d go as far as confessing to Iruka, the group’s mediator. He hadn’t seen that coming, mostly because he’d always assumed Kisame’s sense of duty ended at the surface—at appearances, at keeping order. And also because if it had been him, Itachi, who’d been caught lying, he never would’ve done it.

“You want a medal?” he snapped.

Kisame closed his eyes slowly, like he was trying to keep his frustration in check.

“No. I want…”

He trailed off, rubbing his temple with a tired gesture.

“I want you to forgive me. So we can move on.”

He opened his eyes and looked straight at Itachi, who had to fight the urge to look away. He didn’t know what to do. One part of him was burning with anger, desperate to punish Kisame for as long as possible. Another part—softer—already regretted wanting that. And he hated that part. Hated how easily Kisame crept into his thoughts, pushed past his defenses, made him want to break his own rules—the ones that said anyone who wronged him was cut out for good.

Itachi knew the group sessions had a lot to do with it. Here, in this gym, they were in a kind of bubble, shut off from the outside world. What was said here stayed here. And over time, being surrounded by the same faces, his guard had slipped—until it was practically asleep. And Kisame, somehow, had made it through.

Normally, a lie like that wouldn’t have fazed him. But here, in this space built on trust and truth, it was different. It felt like a betrayal. Because when he’d spoken, he’d told the truth. He’d made the effort not to lie—partly because of Kisame. Because the man, through his actions and words, had made it seem like honesty was a core part of who he was. And Itachi had followed that example.

“You’ll have a chance to make it up to me,” he said, rising to his feet.

The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, though something else was pressing in—a desire to move forward.

Kisame raised his eyebrows slightly, caught off guard.

“How?” he asked, looking up at him.

“I’ve got another family gathering coming up. Come with me.”

Kisame’s face froze. Then slowly, it crumbled, shifting into something harder. Angrier.

A chill ran down Itachi’s spine. Kisame rarely showed that kind of emotion. He’d only seen it once before—when he’d asked about his wife, during their second meeting.

“No,” Kisame said flatly.

“Why not?” Itachi shot back.

“Because your father made it perfectly clear that—”

“My father doesn’t get to dictate who I—”

“I don’t want to widen the rift between you and your parents. Got it?”

His tone was cold. Dark. Unpleasant. It made another shiver snake down Itachi’s spine.

“You can rest easy,” he replied just as harshly. “They won’t be there. Just my cousins. Normal people who won’t care if you come with me.”

He locked eyes with Kisame, challenging him. He wanted to push him. Wanted to see him bend, to force him to do something he didn’t want to—just to prove he was sorry for lying.

“Itachi…” Kisame warned.

“You owe me this.”

Kisame’s jaw clenched, his hands tightening around the back of the chair. The silence stretched, thick and tense, until finally, Kisame stood. His towering frame forced Itachi to look up.

“Well?” the Uchiha pressed.

The silence between them shattered with the sharp clap of Iruka’s hands, signaling the end of the session. The sound echoed through the gym, but Itachi didn’t look away from Kisame.

“I’ll go,” the soldier finally said.

Satisfaction chilled Itachi’s blood like ice water, but he didn’t show it. Keeping his expression carefully neutral, he grabbed his jacket with a casual flick of his wrist, stepped around Kisame without a word, and walked straight for the exit.

Notes:

Hello everyone! A short Kisa/Ita chapter (I know it's short), but we'll soon be getting to an arc where you'll have Kisa/Ita at your disposal (so a little more patience). Still, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thanks for your comments and kudos!

Chapter 19: Treason

Summary:

Sakura learns what the word “chaos” means.

They stepped into a reception hall that was modern yet elegant—perfectly in line with the Yamanaka family’s refined aesthetic. The room was packed, and the hum of conversation nearly drowned out the soft jazz playing in the background. Sakura recognized only a handful of faces in the crowd.

Sasuke took her hand and led her through the tightly packed throng. Around them, guests laughed, spoke animatedly, and exchanged knowing glances. Waiters struggled to weave through the crowd, refilling champagne flutes and offering trays of foie gras and caviar-topped toasts.

"My parents are over there," Sasuke said, nodding in their direction.

She turned her head and spotted them. Mikoto, flawless in a pencil skirt and matching blouse, stood poised and graceful. Her heels emphasized the curve of her calves, giving her an air of delicate, almost fragile elegance. Beside her, her husband—dressed in a casually tailored suit—scanned the room with a stern gaze, as if inspecting the crowd. But as soon as he caught sight of his son, his expression softened. He leaned toward Mikoto, who gave them a small wave.

"Sakura, what a pleasure to see you!" she said warmly, leaning in for a kiss on both cheeks.
"You look stunning, as always."

Sakura felt her cheeks flush. Compliments from Mikoto always carried a certain weight. To her, she was the epitome of the ideal woman: elegant, intelligent, cultured, and strikingly beautiful.

"Thank you," Sakura replied.

She turned to Fugaku Uchiha and offered her hand. He shook it with a polite nod and even smiled—a rare enough gesture to be noteworthy. Fugaku and Mikoto had never been thrilled about Sasuke choosing her. In the beginning, their barely concealed disdain had made her deeply uncomfortable. But over time, that coldness had melted into something resembling mutual respect. These days, no one was surprised to see her at family gatherings. They had accepted her—though earning that acceptance hadn’t been easy. Sakura had never been their first choice. That honor had long been reserved for Ino, at least if Sasuke’s cousins were to be believed. They never hesitated to remind her.

"Sasuke, you could have worn a tie," Mikoto remarked gently, kissing her son on the cheek.

Her tone was kind, but there was a glint in her eye that hinted the comment wasn’t entirely innocent.

Sasuke looked around the room, clearly uninterested.

"It’s not that formal," he replied, just as his father pulled him into a brief hug.

"Never neglect your appearance," Fugaku said calmly. "Your brother has his flaws, but that’s something he’s more or less figured out."

Sakura’s face lit up with a smile.

"Itachi’s here? I haven’t seen him in ages."

The atmosphere shifted instantly. Mikoto paled, and Fugaku’s expression hardened. Sakura felt the blood drain from her face, her throat suddenly dry. She’d said the wrong thing—somehow.

"No, he’s not here," the patriarch replied simply.

He downed his champagne in one gulp and placed the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray. Then he turned to Sasuke, resting a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Your mother and I want to introduce you to someone. He might be able to help with your university specialization."

Sakura understood the message immediately. It was subtle, but unmistakable: time for her to step aside.

Over the years, she’d learned how to read them. She knew when to speak, when to stay silent, and—most importantly—when to leave.

"I’m going to grab a glass of champagne," she said with a smile.

She kissed Sasuke on the cheek, then slipped into the crowd, her heart pounding. Shit, she thought. I shouldn’t have brought up Itachi.

She had always suspected that Sasuke’s older brother was somehow tied to his inner turmoil, but she hadn’t realized the resentment ran this deep. Now it was obvious: something had happened—something serious enough that even mentioning his name was taboo.

What the hell did he do to deserve that? she wondered, her thoughts spinning.

Despite his distant demeanor, Itachi had always been one of the few Uchiha who never made her feel unwelcome. On the contrary, he had a quiet way of putting her at ease.

Sure, at first, his frosty stares and aristocratic posture had intimidated her. But over time, he’d become a strange kind of refuge.

Whenever she was invited to the estate and the weight of stares and whispers grew too heavy, she’d slip away to one of the summer garden balconies. More often than not, Itachi was already there—alone, lost in thought. They would make small talk, chat about trivial things, or sometimes play cards. Sakura had never asked why he, too, sought solace there. Experience had taught her that if an Uchiha wanted to talk, they would. No questions needed.

"Sakura?"

She turned around and blinked in surprise. Naruto stood before her, dressed in a crisp chef’s jacket and matching pants.

"Naruto? What are you doing here?"

"I'm working," he said, grinning. "The restaurant got hired for the event. We're doing the catering for the whole evening." His smile was bright, infectious. "And you?"

Of course. Naruto’s recent commis position at a high-end restaurant in the city had started opening doors to the same events attended by Ino, Sasuke, Sai, Hinata, Neji, and the rest of their elite crowd. Sakura smiled at the thought of this quiet but very real infiltration into that tightly locked world of privilege. “Something my mother would be proud of,” she thought dryly.

"I'm here with Sasuke and his parents," she explained. "It’s a Yamanaka event, so basically all the big names are here, if you know what I mean."

"Don’t pretend it bothers you, you little hypocrite," he teased, giving her arm a playful pinch.

She mock-winced, then smacked his shoulder lightly. Naruto burst into laughter and flagged down a passing waiter. He grabbed a canapé off the tray and handed it to her.

"Try this. It’s to die for. Poached peach in white wine, ricotta, thyme, and a drizzle of honey. Absolute heaven," he added, kissing his fingers in a dramatic chef’s flourish.

"Naruto!" someone suddenly called out.

Another kitchen runner, arms full of wine bottles, burst through the service door.

Naruto winced and turned back to Sakura.

"Gotta go before I get fired. Catch you later, yeah?"

"Sure thing."

He gave her a wink before disappearing behind the swinging door. Sakura glanced at the canapé, then took a bite. Her eyes widened at the first taste, and she nodded to herself. Naruto wasn’t exaggerating—it was an explosion of flavor.

Finishing the rest of the toast, she began weaving her way through the mingling guests. She passed Neji on the way. True to form, he gave her a respectful nod before heading toward the rest of the Hyuuga clan. Hinata wasn’t with them. “Good,” Sakura thought. The last thing she wanted tonight was to meet her gaze.

Turning her eyes away, she continued wandering as soft jazz floated in the air. Her steps brought her to a pristine wall adorned with several paintings hung side by side. An impeccably dressed hostess, clad in a sleek black satin jumpsuit, was presenting the artwork to a pair of extravagantly dressed women—one wearing a dazzling gemstone necklace, the other in a custom-tailored suit with rare elegance.

"Diane and Solveig Von Stakelberg," came a sudden voice beside her. "Art lovers. No kids. Will probably leave their fortune to their dreadful nephew."

Sakura turned toward the speaker, caught off guard. Her face fell when she recognized Obito. He was still wearing a surgical mask that hid much of his scarred face.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, surprised.

The question seemed to amuse him—she could see the dimples forming near his eyes: one faint and close to his living eye, the other deeper, twisted by the scars near his blind one.

"Shouldn’t I be asking you that?" he replied. "This is my world, remember?"

He wasn’t wrong. Obito, by name and birth, belonged here. She… she was just an outsider. An add-on nobody really noticed.

"So?" he prompted.

A server approached and handed him a flute of champagne. He took it smoothly and removed his mask with deliberate ease. Sakura’s breath caught when she saw his face—scarred and weathered, a map of pain etched into his skin.

"Sasuke invited me," she answered.

Obito raised an eyebrow as he took a sip.

"Really?" he said with a chuckle. "He does that?"

"Obviously," she snapped, unable to hide her irritation at his mocking tone.

Obito let out a short laugh. He finished his champagne and carelessly set the glass down on a nearby cocktail table.

Dressed in black with a cap pulled low over his head, he stood out sharply from the rest of the polished crowd. Probably the least put-together person in the entire room.

When you’re that rich, you don’t have to prove anything, Sakura thought. Everything gets easier. You get to be whoever the hell you really are.

"And you?" she asked in return. "What brings you here?"

"Chaperoning my aunts while they’re in town," he said flatly.

Sakura raised an eyebrow. Obito—acerbic, distant Obito—agreeing to accompany family? She could hardly picture it.

"Where are they?" she asked, curious.

He tilted his head subtly in the direction of the two women.

Of course, Sakura thought as she cast a glance their way.

The pair stood side by side, listening intently as the hostess explained the artworks. One of them—the one in the tailored black suit—wore heels so impossibly high it looked like she walked solely on her toes. Which, honestly, she probably did. Her blonde hair gleamed under the lights, slicked back into a flawless ponytail. Next to her, her partner rested a hand on her arm. She wore a red dress that hugged her figure and brought out the softness of her chestnut curls.

"Who’s who?" Sakura asked, turning her attention back to Obito.

"Solveig is the blonde in the suit. Diane’s the brunette."

"One of them’s related to the Uchiha family?" she asked, genuinely intrigued.

She’d never seen either woman at the Uchiha estate, nor at any of the clan gatherings. Which meant two things: either the Uchihas—rigid as ever—refused to acknowledge same-sex relationships (which wouldn’t have surprised her, given their allergy to anything outside the norm), or the women were tied to Obito through another branch.

The suspense didn’t last long.

"No," Obito replied calmly. "Solveig is my mother’s sister. And my mother isn’t an Uchiha. She’s a Von Stakelberg."

Sakura nodded, then frowned, puzzled.

"And her background…?"

"It’s Swedish," he cut in before she could finish.

The doctor looked at him, surprised.

"You’re part Swedish?"

He gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable.

"Uchiha genes bulldoze everything in their path, so we all end up with the same profile—black hair and deathly pale skin."

Sakura’s eyes widened before she burst out laughing. It was an unfair portrayal of the clan. Sure, there was something dark and mysterious about all the Uchihas, but each of them had their own kind of beauty. She, for one, would’ve given a lot to have that pale skin and raven hair he was dismissing so casually. That combination gave them a near-ethereal presence, like they belonged to another world.

"You’re—" she began, but a voice interrupted her.

"I will never understand the Yamanakas’ obsession with modern art. Honestly, it baffles me."

Solveig Von Stakelberg was approaching, visibly annoyed, Diane trailing behind.

"You’re just not connecting with these pieces," her wife pointed out, sliding naturally in beside Sakura.

"It’s a blank canvas with three red—"

"Three purplish-red splatters," Diane corrected, raising a finger.

"Same difference," Solveig grumbled. "Looks like a kid had a nosebleed on it. I mean, seriously... we've seen better."

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her elegant suit and finally turned to face Sakura.

"And you are?"

Sakura blinked, surprised by the directness. She was used to furtive glances and polite smiles—if she got that much.

"Sakura Hatake," she replied.

"Hatake?" Solveig repeated. "Doesn’t ring a bell…"

"Oh, that’s not surprising. My last name isn’t exactly… known."

"Don’t worry, darling," Diane said with a conspiratorial smile. "Neither is mine. I’m what you’d call a commoner."

Solveig and Obito both rolled their eyes at the word as if it physically pained them.

"I only got my title because Solveig was kind enough to marry me."

"You know," Solveig sighed, "normal people don’t judge others over that kind of thing."

"Normal people, maybe," Diane conceded with a small grimace. "But in this room? Ninety percent would beg to differ."

"Oh, you're just—"

Solveig didn’t get to finish. A figure stepped onto the stage at the center of the room. Sakura recognized Ino’s mother immediately—an elegant woman with light brown hair pinned in a graceful bun. A waiter handed her a microphone, and she tapped her glass gently with a knife to capture the crowd’s attention.

"Thank you all for being here," she said with a smile as radiant as her pearl necklace. "Today is especially meaningful to my husband and me, as we’re about to bring a project to life that’s very close to our hearts."

She swept the room with her gaze, clearly savoring the spotlight.

"Inoichi and I are thrilled to announce the construction of a brand-new art gallery—right here in the heart of the city."

A thunder of applause broke out, the room already won over before the announcement was even finished.

"Again?" Solveig murmured, clapping half-heartedly. "Is their fortune bottomless or what?"

"Says the woman about to drop over half a million on a painting she can’t stand—just to beat Butsuma Senju," Diane teased.

Sakura nearly choked on her drink. To her left, Obito remained expressionless, watching the scene like a detached observer, though the faint smirk tugging at his lips gave him away. Solveig, on the other hand, shot Diane a sharp look. She opened her mouth to reply, but Ino’s mother’s voice rang out again, cutting her off.

"This gallery," she continued, her voice shimmering with emotion, "will be dedicated to supporting young artists—especially those from underprivileged backgrounds. My husband and I, along with the entire Yamanaka clan, are deeply committed to fighting inequality and fostering talent wherever it may be. Construction will begin next month, and the gallery will be the largest in the capital, with over—"

Half a million… Sakura glanced at the painting again. What would she even do with that kind of money? Splurge in boutiques? Travel across the world? Too many things, she thought.

With a subtle glance, she studied Solveig Von Stakelberg. She was listening, but with the air of someone enduring another performance at a party she didn’t really want to attend.

So this was what real wealth looked like—being able to throw millions around like it was coffee money. What must that feel like? No bills looming, no student debt, no scrambling to keep your job just to stay afloat. Just… living. Doing whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted.

She cast one last look at the stage, then set her champagne down on a nearby high table as a sudden urge struck her.

"Excuse me," she said simply.

Solveig and Diane responded with polite smiles. Obito didn’t move, just as she expected. Pulling away from the group, she slipped into the dense crowd, trying to find her way. The venue felt like a maze, each room more crowded than the last. She squeezed between two women who gave her daggered looks, nearly bumped into a passing waitress, and opened her mouth to ask for directions—only for the girl to vanish into the sea of bodies.

She sighed, frustrated, just as she noticed a door. Pushing it open, she stepped into a courtyard framed by stone arches. Shit… now what? she muttered. She was about to turn back when a familiar figure caught her eye.

Sasuke.

Curious, she followed him through one of the arches and into a small garden centered around a softly burbling fountain. Naruto was there, cigarette in hand, eyes glued to his phone. He was no longer in his work uniform.

She was just about to call out when Sasuke stormed forward and grabbed him by the collar, shoving him back.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he hissed, his voice harsh and cold.

Sakura’s eyes widened. She had never seen him like this—so visibly angry. Instinctively, she stepped back, retreating behind one of the arches.

"Answer me!" Sasuke barked, voice cracking with rage.

Naruto looked down at the hand gripping his jacket. His cigarette had fallen, rolling across the stones. Despite the tension, Sakura couldn’t help but notice how much taller Naruto had become. In just a few years, he’d filled out with that broad-shouldered swimmer's build, the kind she sometimes saw at the beach.

"I have no idea what you’re talking about…," Naruto said, clearly baffled.

"Cut the crap. Now."

"Cut what?"

"You know exactly what."

Naruto frowned.

"Sasuke," he growled. "I’m working tonight. I’ve been on my feet since five in the damn morning. I just finished. I’m exhausted. And now you’re hurting me."

He grabbed Sasuke’s hand and began prying his fingers off one by one. Sasuke’s eyes widened in surprise at the act—he let go before Naruto had finished peeling off the last of his grip. The abruptness of it made Naruto stumble slightly. He glanced down at his jacket and smoothed out the wrinkled fabric.

Sasuke, unfazed, pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He placed one between his lips and began patting his pockets, searching urgently.

"This what you’re after?" Naruto asked, pulling out a lighter.

Sasuke gave him a glacial look and reached for it, but Naruto pulled back slightly, leaning in instead to light both their cigarettes at once. Sasuke stared at him through lowered lashes. The flame finally caught, and he turned his head, stepping aside without a word.

They stood there in silence, smoking, the tension thick but wordless. Then Sasuke’s sharp gaze flicked toward Naruto.

He lit his cigarette and took a long drag, eyes fixed on the distance.

"You broke up with Hinata?" he asked.

His tone was sharp, almost accusatory. Naruto didn’t flinch. He exhaled smoke slowly and nodded.

"Not exactly."

"What does it mean?"

"She broke up with me."

Sasuke froze. For a moment, the anger on his face vanished, replaced by disbelief—a look that didn’t suit him. He stared at Naruto like he didn’t recognize him, then composed himself.

"Do you know why?"

Naruto's gaze drifted. He blinked, searching his memory, then shook his head and took another pull on his cigarette. He exhaled to the side, stubbed it out on the fountain’s edge, and tossed the butt into a trash can.

"She said the love was gone. That it was better to end it."

Sasuke frowned, a flicker of rage in his eyes.

"And you didn’t ask for more of an explanation?"

Naruto shook his head tiredly.

"You didn’t try to stop her either?" the Uchiha pressed.

"What for?"

The response seemed to ignite something deeply unpleasant in Sasuke. He threw his cigarette to the ground and crushed it underfoot. His dark eyes locked onto Naruto's with such fury that Sakura felt a chill run down her spine. The blond, however, didn’t move. He held Sasuke’s gaze, steady and unflinching, as if any sign of weakness would be a surrender.

Sasuke exploded.

"Why are you doing this, huh?!" he shouted, voice full of venom.

His features, usually marked by cold indifference, were now twisted by burning anger, as if he could incinerate everything around him. Brows furrowed, jaw clenched, he was unrecognizable.

“Why do you keep following me?!” he spat. “What the hell do you want?! Leave me the fuck alone! LEAVE ME ALONE!”

His voice tore through the garden like thunder. Everything around them felt frozen in place.

Naruto stared at him, expression blank, as if he’d seen this coming. He shoved his hands into his pockets and sighed.

“What?!” Sasuke barked immediately, clearly provoked by the nonchalance. “Speak!” he demanded.

Naruto looked down, shook his head.

"You..."

He hesitated for a moment, then looked up at his friend, his gaze now cold, unfamiliar.

“You're acting like I'm the one chasing after you... when it's you who's always following me. Just like tonight.”

A silence followed this revelation. They stood motionless for a moment, then Sasuke stepped forward and, with a swift motion, punched Naruto hard in the abdomen.

The blond let out a rough breath and doubled over, forced to bow before the unyielding figure of the Uchiha who stared at him without a hint of emotion.

"Go fuck yourself," Sasuke spat, hatred etched across his face. "Come near me again, and I’ll kill you."

He cast a condescending glance and turned on his heel, ready to walk away. But Naruto didn't give him the chance: grabbing the collar of his shirt, he yanked him back and slammed him violently against one of the stone arches.

A hiss of pain escaped Sasuke's lips. Struggling, he broke free, then retaliated with a punch that sent the blond's head snapping to the side.

Silence fell again, broken only by their ragged breathing.

Naruto wiped his bloody nose with a sleeve, then shook his red-stained hand.

Sasuke let out a dry, emotionless laugh.

The blond stepped closer and, without breaking eye contact, grabbed him by the throat. Sasuke's laughter choked off, but he didn't look away, a flame of pride still burning in his eyes.

For a moment, a heavy tension held them in place, the distance between them reduced to almost nothing. Then, without a word, their faces drew closer, and their lips met.

Sasuke gripped Naruto’s collar and gasped as the blond deepened the kiss. Their bodies pressed together, hands frantic, as if the world beyond them had ceased to exist. Only their mingled breath remained—hot, hungry, aching with everything they’d never said.

From a distance, Sakura took a step back, then another. She turned away and walked off, like a shadow slipping into the night.

When she opened the door leading to the main hall, the noise of the crowd hit her like a wave. She stopped short, surprised by the sudden change in atmosphere, and a server bumped into her. Blushing to the ears, the young man stammered apologies, trying to dab at her dress, now soaked in champagne. Sakura let him, eyes downcast, her mind elsewhere. It was only after a few seconds that she realized he was asking if she was okay. She looked up, surprised, and nodded absentmindedly before murmuring:

"Can you tell me where the restrooms are, please?" she asked.

He pointed across the room. She thanked him and made her way there. Slowly, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. She gripped the edge of the sink and stared at her reflection.

Pale.

Her stomach twisted violently, and she rushed into the nearest stall, vomiting everything she had consumed. When there was nothing left to expel, violent cramps still shook her, leaving her dizzy, on the verge of collapse.

After what felt like an eternity, she clung to the stall walls and stood up, arms trembling. The young woman returned to the sink, rinsed her mouth, drank deeply from the running faucet, then wiped away the streaks of makeup that had run down her cheeks. Shaky, she grabbed her purse and exited the restroom.

Outside, nothing had changed. People continued celebrating the construction of a new gallery, stuffing themselves with champagne and foie gras toasts. Sakura turned her head, searching for an exit, and met Ino's gaze about twenty meters away. The blonde, laughing with a guest, stopped upon seeing her. She whispered something to her companion, then headed toward her.

Sakura's eyes widened.

No, she thought in panic.

Horrified, she backed away hastily, bumping into several people before turning to flee. Casting desperate glances over her shoulder, she passed through one door, then another, before hurriedly climbing a staircase. Mid-ascent, her foot slipped, and she collapsed. A guest rushed to help her up. She thanked him with a dazed look and resumed her flight, breath short, face burning.

She eventually emerged onto a deserted rooftop, where a bartender—busy polishing cocktail glasses behind the counter—paused mid-motion when he saw her.

"Is everything alright, miss?"

Sakura, her breath barely holding together, forced a smile.

"Yes, everything's fine!" she blurted out a little too loudly, her heart pounding in her chest.

The bartender blinked, unconvinced, then cleared his throat.

"Would you… like something to drink?"

She stared at him, momentarily disoriented, then nodded.

"Whatever’s strongest."

He nodded and began working behind the bar. When he returned with a glass, she reached for it, but he held out a card reader instead.

"Drinks on the rooftop aren’t included in the Yamanaka event," he explained, clearly uncomfortable. "I’m sorry."

"Oh..."

She let out a nervous laugh and reached for her wallet. Her trembling hands eventually found it, but her nerves and fatigue betrayed her—it slipped from her grasp and spilled open on the floor.

"Shit..." she whispered, her voice faltering as she knelt to gather her things. "I’m sorry, I..."

Her voice broke, and the words got stuck in her throat. Tears blurred her vision, leaving her frozen, hands splayed on the cold rooftop tiles, crouched over the mess of scattered cards and coins.

"Miss, are you sure—?"

The bartender didn’t get a chance to finish. A calm, confident voice spoke up beside him.

"Put the drink on my tab."

Sakura lifted her head and saw a woman approaching. She had red hair swept into an elegant chignon, pale skin, and dark eyes. A dark dress revealed the graceful curve of her shoulders.

Mito Senju, Sakura thought.

She’d never met her before, but the name—and the reputation—were well known. Her husband, Hashirama Senju, was a powerful man… and one of the Uchiha family’s sworn enemies.

"Need a hand?" the woman asked.

She didn’t wait for a response. She crouched with poised ease and began helping Sakura collect her belongings.

"Thank you..." the younger woman murmured. "I can pay for myself, I just..."

"No need," Mito said. "Consider it a pick-me-up."

Sakura swallowed. What was she supposed to do? Refuse? Accept? Run again? But where would she even go? And from whom? Or rather—from what?

She bit her lip. She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything anymore.

Utterly disoriented, she simply nodded and slid onto one of the high stools at the counter.

"I’ll have the same, please," Mito told the bartender.

"Yes, ma’am."

He moved off again, and Mito took a seat beside her.

Sakura glanced at her discreetly before grabbing her drink and knocking it back in one go. The burning liquid slid down her throat, igniting her frozen, weakened body from the inside. Mito, a sly smile on her lips, did the same. She set her empty glass on the bar and turned toward Sakura.

"I’d be tempted to go for another, but I doubt I’d survive it," she admitted with a chuckle.

"Same here," Sakura replied softly.

Mito turned to the bartender again.

"Something lighter for both of us, please."

He complied, preparing a pastel-colored cocktail and sliding it toward them.

"Cheers," said the Senju.

"Cheers," Sakura echoed.

But this time, neither of them downed it. They simply sipped the fruity flavors in silence before setting the glasses back down.

A calm quiet settled between them—until Sakura heard the flick of a lighter. She turned and saw Mito lighting a cigarette. The elegance and ease of the gesture reminded her of her mother.

Clearing her throat, Sakura searched for words.

"You… you don’t want to rejoin the others?" she asked.

Mito raised an eyebrow as she exhaled a puff of smoke.

"Oh, no," she said with a wry smile. "I much prefer the solitude of rooftops." She tapped her cigarette above a nearby ashtray. "You often catch far more interesting performances from up here."

"Performances?"

"Mmh," Mito hummed.

She nodded subtly toward something behind Sakura.

The young woman turned—and froze.

The rooftop’s glass barrier looked directly out over the garden, framed by stone arches.

Sasuke and Naruto were gone. Only the fountain remained, still flowing peacefully, untouched by what had just happened.

Sakura’s heart skipped a beat. Mito had seen. All of it.

Slowly, she turned toward the Senju, her neck stiff. The woman was still smoking, unfazed, as if nothing had happened.

"Men are so weak," she murmured, a bitter smile curling her lips. "They have a natural talent for never knowing what they want. One day, they roll out the red carpet, promise you the world—praising your intelligence, your elegance, your beauty, and... your simplicity. And the next, they cheat on you with someone who’s the complete opposite of everything they claimed to admire in you—everything they tried so hard to instill."

She blew out a stream of grey smoke and tapped her cigarette against the ashtray.

Sakura stared at her, stunned, words caught in her throat. She wanted to deny it, pretend she didn’t understand where Mito was going with this. But her shoulders slumped, and she lowered her eyes to her half-full glass.

For a moment, Naruto’s face flashed before her—eternally cheerful, brimming with wild energy—and then…

"I don’t know..." she whispered.

She took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut, as if to push away the images looping through her mind.

"I don’t know what to do."

Mito took a long drag from her cigarette, eyes fixed on the line of bottles behind the bar.

"Well... let me tell you what an old friend once told me." She turned to Sakura. "There are only two options. One: accept it. Two: walk away."

Sakura furrowed her brows, her heart still pounding. She closed her eyes, pressing her clasped hands against her mouth, trying to muffle a silent scream.

Mito swirled the cocktail in her glass.

"What really matters isn’t the decision itself," she said. "No... What matters is accepting everything that comes with it. That’s the key."

"Madam," someone called.

It was a tall man in a suit with a neutral expression. He leaned toward Mito and whispered:

"Your car has arrived."

She nodded, then stubbed out her cigarette.

"Put all of this young woman’s drinks on my tab," she said to the bartender.

"Of course, ma’am," he replied.

Mito stood up and slipped on her jacket. Sakura watched her, still dazed. She murmured a quiet thank you, which Mito returned with a calm smile. Unbothered, the billionaire grabbed her purse, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and made her way to the exit.

Sakura followed her with an empty gaze—then flinched.

"Wait," she called out.

The woman stopped, watching her.

Sakura cleared her throat, uncertain.

"What did you choose?"

Mito gave her a knowing smile.

"Well... I still wear the Senju name." 

She let the ring on her finger speak for itself, then slipped her arm through the man’s and descended the stairs with quiet poise. Moments later, they were gone.

Sakura stayed at the bar for a while. She finished her drink. Then ordered another. And another. By the fourth, the bartender gave her a polite glance that said the night was drawing to a close. With a small smile, he served her one last cocktail, its surface dusted with gold. Then he began cleaning up his station.

Sakura thanked him, downed the glass in one gulp, and left the rooftop.

She gripped the stair railing tightly to keep herself steady, each step echoing in her heavy head. When she reached the ground floor, she was relieved to see most of the guests had already left. The hall was nearly empty. A few staff members were clearing empty glasses and tidying the glossy floors under dimmed lights.

She glanced at her phone: three in the morning.

“Shit...” she muttered, frowning.

At this hour, public transport was sketchy, and cabs were ridiculously expensive. Sasuke had tried calling her about ten times to check if she’d gotten home safely, but she hadn’t picked up. She’d finally sent him a vague message, saying she’d gone back home—no details. She’d rather take the subway alone at 3 a.m. than face him.

Sighing, she clumsily slipped on her jacket, smoothed her hair, and pushed through the building’s glass doors.

"Sakura?"

She jumped.

Obito stood at the entrance, cigarette in hand, the glowing ember briefly illuminating his face.

Sakura closed her eyes and let out a long, frustrated sigh.

Great, she thought. Just what I needed.

"Where are you going?" Obito asked.

Sakura frowned.

"Home."

"Yes, I figured. I meant—how are you getting there?"

"Subway."

"At this hour?"

"Yes."

He frowned, and she saw something like disapproval in his expression.

"Where’s Sasu—"

"Gone," she cut him off sharply. "Good night, Obito."

"I’ll drive you," he said from behind her.

Sakura froze. She turned slowly to face him, eyes narrowing. Obito still smoked, surgical mask resting under his chin, cap pulled low over his face.

"No thanks," she replied flatly.

"That wasn’t a question," he said, eyes narrowing.

"I don’t give a fuck, Obito."

He raised an eyebrow at her tone. He wasn’t used to seeing her angry. And that made sense—they barely knew each other. Normally, Sakura always maintained a polite distance, an effort Obito never made himself. Now, the roles had flipped, and it felt strange to step into this unfamiliar version of herself.

"I’m taking the subway," she snapped through clenched teeth.

She turned to go, but Obito’s voice echoed again in the empty night:

"Sakura."

"WHAT?!" she shouted, nerves frayed.

He stubbed out his cigarette on the pavement, his cold gaze piercing straight through her.

"It's three in the morning. You're in a skirt, clearly tipsy, and the trains only run every thirty minutes. Do I really need to explain why it's a bad idea for you to go home alone?"

Her jaw clenched as she looked around. The streets were empty, the lamplight casting uneasy shadows on the wet pavement, and she was on the verge of missing the next train.

He’s right, she admitted bitterly, the thought catching in her throat like something too sharp to swallow.

Being a woman meant living with constant vigilance. Even Obito understood that. He might have seemed selfish and heartless, but that ended here. This was the line he wouldn’t cross.

"Come on, get in," he said, already heading toward a black vehicle parked out front.

She watched as he opened the door of a sleek, black sport car with tinted windows. He slid behind the wheel, staring straight ahead, saying nothing more.

Screw it, she thought with a sigh.

She climbed into the passenger seat, shut the door, and was immediately engulfed by the sharp scent of leather. She wrinkled her nose, nearly overwhelmed by the car’s heady perfume, but said nothing, trying instead to get used to Obito’s proximity—a mix of tension and discomfort buzzing in her skin.

"What's your address?" he asked, voice neutral.

"I’ll type it in."

She typed the address into the GPS and leaned back in her seat.

Rain began to fall.

Obito started the car, then switched on the wipers—their steady rhythm casting a strangely hypnotic effect.

A heavy silence settled between them, and Sakura swallowed hard. She’d expected him to say something—anything. Even a sarcastic jab. But nothing. The longer the silence stretched, the more she wanted to bang her head against the window. She closed her eyes, trying to keep the bitter taste from rising in her throat.

Between the alcohol, the fatigue, and the relentless memories, she didn’t even know what she was feeling anymore. Anger? No. Sadness? Not quite. More like a cold void, like a sinkhole in her chest pulling everything down with it.

Was this shock? She couldn’t even tell. She rubbed her temples and took a long breath.

"Thanks for the ride," she blurted suddenly, unable to take the silence any longer.

Obito glanced at her, then looked back at the road. He didn’t reply—typical. Sakura cursed him silently. She would’ve given anything for him to say something. Tease her. Snap at her. Anything to break that unbearable quiet.

I’m going to lose my mind, she thought, leaning forward to turn on the radio.

Soft jazz filled the car, a fleeting distraction. She settled back into her seat and closed her eyes, focusing on the melody to ground herself.

When the car finally stopped, she felt an odd pang of disappointment. Obito killed the engine and turned toward her.

"Your carriage awaits, milady," he said.

Sakura gave him a faint smile.

"Thanks."

She stepped out into the fine drizzle, feeling it land on her hair and jacket. Digging her keys out of her bag, she walked up to the building. But as she reached the door, the stillness of the street wrapped around her. She paused, hesitated, then glanced back over her shoulder.

Obito was still there, eyes fixed on the GPS screen, probably entering his next destination. She bit her lip, turned on her heel, and walked back toward the car. As she approached, he raised an eyebrow and lowered the window.

She cleared her throat, resting one elbow against the door.

"Do you want to come up for a drink?"

Notes:

Hello everyone! I'm really happy to have finally posted this chapter! It took me quite a while to write and correct, but here it is: finally published <3 As you could see, Hinata wasn't lying (poor her). Sakura is in a state of shock, she still doesn't understand what's happening to her (and that's understandable). I hope you liked Obito's aunts: Solveig and Diane (they'll be back later in the chapters) :D For Solveig's outfit, I was inspired by a suit worn by Blake Lively in one of the films she starred in: you can find an image here. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! The next chapter arrives tomorrow ;) Thanks for your comments and kudos, they're really encouraging <3

Chapter 20: Just the truth. Nothing but the truth

Summary:

Sakura and Obito try to talk.

"What do you want to drink?" she asked as she stepped into her tiny studio.

Sakura might not have been the tidiest person in the world, but she couldn't help feeling a hint of pride every time she set foot in this space. The place was small—ridiculously so—but impeccably organized. She’d long since realized that tidiness was the key to comfort, and she’d poured her heart into it. Now, she cherished this space—her home—even if, to Obito, it probably looked modest at best.

"What do you have?" he asked.

"Beer?"

"Perfect."

She walked to the fridge, grabbed two bottles, and popped the caps off with a swift motion. She slid one across to him and kept the other for herself.

"Did something happen?" Obito asked.

"No," Sakura replied, forcing an amused smile. "Why do you—"

"Because I’m here, and Sasuke isn’t."

She blinked, suddenly speechless. He knew. And so did she. Neither of them was fooling anyone. She’d heard herself offer him a drink before she’d even had time to think. He’d hesitated—a silence just a bit too long—then accepted. And now he was here, in her space, and she still couldn’t quite believe he’d actually gone along with it.

Maybe she’d hoped he’d refuse. Tell her she was insane. Turn her down with a look of disgust. But he hadn’t. And that, more than anything, felt strange. Strange because they had absolutely nothing in common.

Rin and Kakashi would’ve been horrified to see them in the same room. Naruto would’ve choked on his own spit. As for Sasuke… he simply wouldn’t have understood what the hell they were doing. But she didn’t care. She didn’t need the opinion of those two—nor did she want to see them again. They disgusted her. Deeply. In a way she never thought possible.

"Sasuke isn’t the master of my life, you know."

"Oh really?" he replied, mockingly. "Could’ve fooled me."

"I don’t see why."

He looked at her with surprise, then burst out laughing. The sound made Sakura jump. She’d never heard him laugh like that before. It was warm, almost carefree. She didn’t even know he was capable of that kind of laughter. She was used to him being bitter and sharp, not... good-humored.

"You worship the guy," he teased. "He’d tell you to jump off a bridge and you’d do it."

"That’s not true."

"Don’t think so," he smirked.

"Well, you’re here, aren’t you?"

Obito narrowed his eyes, amused.

"Wow. Such rebellion..."

"Shut up," she said, moving to stand beside him.

She had no idea what she was doing—or what she even hoped to get out of tonight. All she knew was that she didn’t want to be alone. And Obito, while a questionable choice, at least had the advantage of keeping her distracted, pulling her away from what she’d seen earlier. The man was like a shadowy blur, a riddle she’d never managed to solve—and that was perfect. As long as he remained the unknown, the obscure, she could lose herself in his world for a little while, asking anything and everything just to stay adrift.

"What’s your relationship like with your parents?" she asked.

He immediately turned to face her, that pale eye locking onto hers with intensity.

"Why are you asking me that again?"

He was referring to the last time they’d crossed paths at the hospital. She’d already tried to ask about his family then, but Obito had brushed her off with vague answers. Just like the rest of the Uchiha, who all seemed hell-bent on keeping her in the dark.

"Because I’m curious," she said. "And because we never got to finish that conversation."

He scoffed.

"It’s complicated," he muttered.

"No, it’s not. You just have to answer."

He shot her a disdainful look before laughing again—this time, the sound was bitter and harsh.

"Easy for you to say, huh?" he sneered. "I’m not throwing myself under the bus alone."

He took a few gulps of his beer and set the bottle down with a dull thud on the counter.

"My cousin Itachi told me about a game he plays with someone he knows."

"A game?" she echoed, intrigued.

She had no idea where this was going, but something in his gaze warned her he was about to stir things up again.

"Yeah, a game," he confirmed. "Rules are simple: one person asks a question, the other answers—honestly. Then you switch. No limits to the questions. If you don’t want to answer, you use a pass. But you only get one."

Sakura shrugged.

"Sounds fair enough."

Obito’s scarred lips twisted into a grin.

"Too simple, if you ask me. We should add a rule."

"Like what?"

"No pass. Instead, you get dares. As many as it takes."

She eyed him warily.

"You mean… truth or dare?"

"Exactly."

He looked her straight in the eye, and for some reason she couldn’t explain, her heart started pounding. It wasn’t excitement—it was something else. Darker. Heavier. Almost like fear.

Her fingers tightened around her bottle.

"The problem is, we’ve got no guarantee either of us is telling the truth," she murmured.

"True. I’ll never know if you’re lying. And you’ll never know if I am. This only works if there’s at least a bit of trust."

"I don’t know if I can trust you."

"You can," he said. "For this game, at least."

He gave her a crooked smile, and Sakura swallowed hard.

"So I can ask you anything I want?"

"Anything."

"Even about the Uchiha?"

"Whatever you want," he repeated. "Just remember—I can choose not to answer. And the more delicate your questions get, the sharper mine will be. The good news is, you’ll always have the option to back out."

His gaze had hardened—intense, almost predatory. He stared at her like he was analyzing every reaction, waiting for the smallest crack to appear.

He’s looking for prey, Sakura thought.

But she wasn’t fooled. And she definitely wasn’t stupid. She was looking for prey, too. A soul—damaged, easy to manipulate. And Obito fit the bill perfectly.

"Do you swear to tell the truth?" she asked.

"I do. And you?"

"Nothing but the truth and only the truth," she replied, placing a hand over her heart.

"Good."

He held out his hand, and she shook it.

"Who starts?" she asked.

"Ladies first."

She glanced up at the ceiling, thinking. Now that she had free rein to ask absolutely anything, her mind was flooded with ideas—none of which felt quite right. She pressed a finger thoughtfully to her lower lip, then tilted her head.

"I know," she thought suddenly.

Crossing her arms, she met Obito’s gaze. He was waiting silently.

"What happened with Itachi?"

Obito’s smile froze. For a moment, he was completely still. Then he regained his composure and locked his dark eyes onto hers.

"He had a fight with Mito and Fugaku. It got... violent. Really violent," he added, raising an eyebrow. "They decided to have him committed to a psychiatric clinic. That’s why you haven’t seen him. He’s undergoing treatment."

Then he took another drink of his beer, as if it were no big deal.

Sakura stared at him, stunned.

Itachi? Violent? She would never have believed it. He was always so calm, so serene, so... thoughtful. Probably the most mature person she’d ever met. Sasuke practically worshipped him. And Mito and Fugaku? He was their pride and joy. There was no way they would send him to a psychiatric clinic.

"Impossible," she thought.

Was Obito lying?

"It’s the truth," he said before she could even ask. "I promised I wouldn’t lie."

His dark eyes held hers, unwavering. She took a few gulps of her beer to avoid meeting his gaze. The alcohol, already spreading through her system, didn’t warm her as much as she’d hoped.

"I believe you," she said simply.

"Good," he replied. "My turn now."

His scarred lips curled into a predatory smile.

"What happened with Sasuke?"

Sakura looked up at him. Her vision narrowed to Obito’s battered face as a low hum filled her ears.

For a moment, she had the overwhelming urge to hurl her beer bottle at his head—but she held back. Obito was just playing by the rules of the game. She could still choose to ignore the truth, to stay silent, or change the subject. Better yet, she could lie—make up something soft to dull the sting of that raw, brutal ache that had taken hold of her.

But she didn’t want to.

Anger, pain, and disgust clenched her jaw too tightly. And a part of her—a twisted, almost freeing part—burned to release this storm of emotion that clouded her every thought. She needed an outlet, a confessor—even if Obito was the worst possible choice.

For some reason, that only made the idea more appealing. Maybe because the truth she was about to confess was just as ugly and unworthy as he was—she didn’t mind staining him with it. In fact, she kind of wanted to drag him down into it with her.

"He cheated on me. With someone I care about."

Her voice echoed through the small kitchen, like the walls themselves were holding onto her words. Obito’s eyes flickered with something—something dark—but the rest of his face stayed unreadable. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, and enough to tell Sakura that he wasn’t totally untouched by her confession.

After a moment, he exhaled slowly and leaned back against the counter.

"Welcome to the club," he said, raising his half-empty beer.

The left corner of Sakura’s mouth twitched into something like a smile, then started to tremble. She gave a hiccup and looked at the ceiling, trying to keep her tears at bay.

A minute passed—silent, heavy—before she cleared her throat, donned her best cheerful mask, and turned to him with a forced smile.

"My turn," she said with fake enthusiasm. "Why are you still my patient?"

That made him smile.

"Because I like seeing the disgust in your eyes," he said. "It amuses me."

Sakura’s mouth fell open, stunned. She hadn’t expected that. Not at all. And that only made Obito grin wider as he kept staring at her.

He’s completely deranged, she thought, retreating into her beer just to avoid looking at him.

"Your turn," she rushed out, eager to move on.

"Okay," he replied, turning to face her fully, one shoulder against the fridge.

He was facing her now.

"Who do you think about... when you touch yourself?"

Sakura choked, spraying beer and widening her eyes in shock. She coughed violently, cheeks blazing, and wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve.

Had she heard that right?

Slowly, she looked up at Obito—and met his gaze, calm and oddly amused.

Yes, that is what he said, she realized.

A wave of heat flushed over her face, and from the frantic thudding of her heart, she knew she was bright red.

"I... I’m not answering that!" she stammered, scandalized. "That’s... that’s—!"

"Then you get a dare," he interrupted coolly.

"But I—"

"Answer or dare," he repeated, voice firm.

Her eyes widened in pure embarrassment. She didn’t want a dare—but answering seemed impossible. She turned her head, jaw clenched.

"...Sasuke," she whispered, almost against her will.

Of course. Who else?

Obito’s eyebrows rose skeptically before he burst out laughing. The sound—sharp and warm—rang through the room again.

Sakura flinched, feeling like a child caught in a lie. She hadn’t been ready for this.

"It’s not Sasuke," he mocked, his gaze cruel. "You’re lying. And badly."

Sakura’s eyes widened, and her fists clenched as a slow, burning anger rose inside her.

"Yes, it is him! Of course I think about him!" she snapped. "Who do you think I am?!"

But her voice was shaking, and her face kept getting redder, which only provoked another burst of laughter from Obito.

She felt herself crumbling, crushed beneath a shame so fierce she wished the ground would swallow her whole. Every fiber of her body burned with embarrassment.

"No, it’s not him you think about," he repeated, his cruelty barely masked. "Because if it was, you would’ve answered right away. No hesitation. No shame."

His sharp eyes pierced through her without mercy, and Sakura had the terrible feeling that this pale eye of his could read her like an open book. She looked away, unable to withstand that cold, cutting stare.

Of course he was right.

Of course she’d thought about someone else before. But it was never people she actually knew—just strangers, random faces. Like the handsome guy who’d helped her pick up her scattered groceries in the street.

But that was just once… maybe twice… no more! she tried to justify internally, jaw clenched.

And she’d never acted on it. The fantasies stayed in her head. Did that make her a bad person? Was that why Sasuke had—

"Relax, Hatake," Obito mocked. "No need to act like some startled virgin. You’re allowed to think about whoever you want. Even when you’re getting yourself off."

She wanted to protest, but the sheer vulgarity of his words stole all sound from her throat. Her mouth opened, then closed again, nothing coming out. Obito didn’t wait.

"You cheated, so you owe me a dare," he said.

"What…? But—"

"Those are the rules," he cut in. "You still want to pretend you’re telling ‘the truth and nothing but the truth’? Or are you ready to own up?"

His gaze shattered her last line of defense.

Burning with humiliation, Sakura clenched her jaw and nodded, forcing herself to meet that cruel stare.

"I’d rather die than back down," she thought.

"Perfect," Obito said, clearly pleased by her resolve. "Let me think of something worthy."

He smiled and looked up, fingers trailing over the scarred side of his face. A few seconds passed. Then he stopped mid-motion, his eyes dropping to meet hers.

For a moment, he seemed massive compared to her.

"What?" she asked.

"Touch my face," he ordered.

She froze, breath caught in her throat.

Obito stared, expression blank, but his sharp, unrelenting gaze never left her. That pale eye of his looked deep—too deep—like he could see every corner of her mind. And she understood. He was testing her. He didn’t want her to obey. He wanted her to refuse. He was hunting for that revulsion she showed in their previous meetings. He fed on it. He reveled in it.

She stepped out from her corner of the kitchen and took a slow step toward him. Then another.

Her hand rose, cautiously, toward his face. Instantly, he flinched—just barely.

His gaze darkened, following every detail of her fingers like they were radioactive.

I knew it, she thought, hand hovering in the air. Just a bluff. He wanted to disgust me.

She smiled and let her hand drop, satisfied to have seen through him. Obito immediately scowled.

"Keep going," he ordered.

The tension in his voice—and the flicker of something in his eyes—sent a shiver down her spine. She bit the inside of her cheek to steel herself and raised her hand again, this time determined to finish what she’d started.

Her fingers met the rough, uneven texture of his scars. Nothing was smooth. Everything was broken, ruined, unrecoverable—a map of cracks and damage that resisted her touch.

She saw Obito watching her and forced herself to hold his gaze, even as her fingers slid across the most disfigured part of his face. After a few seconds, she noticed his brow twitch—and she realized she was hurting him. She paused, hand hovering, then shifted her touch to a gentler path, brushing along his dead eye and trailing toward his ear.

Her fingers, expecting something dry and coarse, found instead a surprising softness—silky hair. She let her thumb drift over his temple.

Obito parted his lips as if to speak, then seemed to change his mind.

She went deeper, letting her hand sink into his dark strands, feeling the ghost of his breath against her palm. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back slightly, like he was surrendering to the gesture. And with that realization, a strange warmth—quiet, consuming—spread through her.

She pulled her hand away, heart pounding violently.

Obito didn’t move, still standing there with his eyes shut, as if trying to hold onto the moment just a little longer. When he finally opened them, he looked at her in silence. Then, slowly, he crossed his arms, something unreadable flashing in his gaze.

"Your turn," he said simply.

Sakura’s heart thundered so hard in her chest, she thought she might actually vibrate. Was it the alcohol? Or the shock? Maybe both. She couldn’t tell. But one thing was clear: she was losing control.

And strangely, she didn’t want to stop.

She lifted her chin, staring him down. I’m not afraid of anything. Not you, not what you think of me, she thought as she held that dark gaze, refusing to back down. If he’d wanted to rattle her, fine. She’d be more than happy to return the favor.

"Do you like it," she asked, "when I watch you undress?"

She caught the faint arch of his brow—surprise, subtle but real. That was all. He lowered his gaze slowly, his expression unreadable.

"Yes," he said calmly.

A chill rippled through her, but she didn’t look away. Neither did he. Silence stretched between them, thick with something electric, something charged enough to vibrate in the air.

Then Obito’s voice cut through it, sharp as a blade:

"Who do you think about when you touch yourself?"

Again.

That question again. Sakura’s whole body tensed before she could stop it. She clenched her teeth and rolled her eyes, exasperated.

"I’m not answering that."

"Why?"

She frowned, searching for a comeback.

"Because that’s none of your business."

And more than anything… I don’t want to humiliate myself again, she thought, her stomach twisting in discomfort.

The idea of saying any name other than Sasuke’s revolted her—especially in front of Obito. If she admitted anything, he’d laugh again, that mocking laugh she was starting to recognize all too well. And she wasn’t sure she could take that one more time.

"Alright," he murmured. "Then it’s another dare."

She nodded, her expression resolute.

Obito motioned to the right side of his neck.

"Kiss me here," he said, brushing the damaged skin lightly with his index finger.

Sakura narrowed her eyes, studying the area. The skin was red, uneven—puffy in some places, thickly scarred in others.

"You’re completely insane," she muttered.

Obito responded with a wicked smile, clearly enjoying her discomfort.

"You don’t have to do it. But if you don’t, the game ends."

The words hung between them, heavy with meaning.

Say no, she told herself. Refuse. Open the door and kick him out.

But her body wouldn’t move. Her feet felt glued to the cold tile, and her lips refused to form the rational words pounding in her head. Instead, her heart raced—pounding like a stone ready to drop.

After what felt like an eternity, she stepped toward Obito.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, she rose onto her toes, closed her eyes, and let her lips brush the burning skin of his neck.

Beneath her mouth, she felt his pulse—steady, vibrating, like a promise of something dangerous.

She pulled away gently, her heels finding the floor again, and without a word, turned to sit on the countertop. Her fingers ran absently over the cool, smooth surface as she looked up at him, waiting.

Obito didn’t move for a second too long. Something flickered across his face—an inner struggle—before he smiled, deliberately pushing aside whatever emotion had tried to surface.

"He must’ve really pissed you off…" he murmured.

"My turn," Sakura said sharply, cutting off the moment with a decisive tone.

She slowly crossed her legs, letting her dress ride up slightly, revealing the tops of her thighs.

Obito’s gaze dropped immediately, drawn to the motion.

A voice echoed in her mind, sharp and clear—Mito’s voice: "Men are weak."

A wicked smile tugged at her lips.

"Who do you think about when you touch yourself?" she asked in return.

Obito’s face lit up with unfiltered satisfaction. He’d dared to ask her that question—there was no way she wouldn’t give it right back.

"I don’t feel like answering," he said, calm as ever.

Sakura swung her leg casually over the other, her mind racing with questions.

Is he thinking about Rin? Someone else? Or does he just want a dare?

She fixed her gaze on his.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

Obito tilted his head slightly, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.

"I’m listening."

"Kiss me. On the neck."

Obito didn’t move. That told Sakura everything—his surprise never showed on his face, only in his stillness, like his body refused to process the command.

Nevertheless, after a moment, he finally stepped closer, placing his hands on either side of her body, leaning over her on the countertop. His body dipped toward her neck, and she felt his breath first—warm and steady—before his lips finally pressed to her skin.

She closed her eyes as a shiver ran down her spine. His kiss was warmer, longer, and deeper than hers had been. His mouth lingered at her carotid, as if he were trying to feel every beat of her heart.

Maybe he was.

She felt his fingers brush her wrists—briefly, almost tentatively—before he pulled back. Obito stared at her, eyes locked onto hers, still leaning in close. His face was inches from hers, too close.

"Do you want me?" he asked, voice low and measured.

Sakura studied his scarred face, his impassive expression, and that dead eye void of all light.

No. I don’t want you, she forced herself to think.

But his breath ghosted over her lips, and his scent—dark and heady—clouded her thoughts.

He was close. Too close.

"I don’t want to answer that," she whispered, her eyes flicking to his mouth.

A spark lit in Obito’s expression. He leaned back slightly and said, like a sentence passed down:

"Kiss me."

There was no room for refusal in his voice.

Sakura sat up slowly. Her lips brushed against his—barely, a soft, hesitant contact. She closed her eyes, trapped in the moment, their breaths mingling. An unfamiliar warmth bloomed in her chest—gentle, overwhelming—spreading like fire through her whole body.

Her heart raced. Her lips parted instinctively, and Obito understood the signal immediately.

He kissed her back, deepening it with a precision that stunned her. Soon, their breaths melted into one, their kiss unfolding in slow, silent rhythm. A strange, enveloping heat moved through Sakura, curling in her belly, scorching and tender all at once.

Obito pulled her closer, as if afraid she might disappear. Their bodies aligned, exploring and fitting together with unsettling ease. Her legs opened around him without thought, her hips tilting forward, seeking him.

And then she felt him—hard, pressing against her thigh. He was there, solid, undeniable. Far more than she’d expected.

Obito’s hand slipped beneath her dress. His fingers, hot and unerring, traced her bare skin until they reached the edge of her underwear. Sakura, flushed with heat, lifted her hips slightly, wordlessly allowing him in. That single motion shattered the last of her resistance.

His hand drifted along her hip, then slid toward the place where she was most vulnerable—and touched her there.

Sakura’s breath caught in her throat, and her whole body ignited. His touch, hesitant at first, grew bolder—more intimate—until it sparked a craving inside her she hadn’t known was there.

She jolted upright and pulled him in, her right hand gripping the back of his neck as she kissed him with desperate fervor. He didn’t resist—he couldn’t—while her other hand fumbled with the buckle of his belt. He helped her, fingers joining hers to undo the metal clasp.

The belt gave way, revealing the front of his boxers. Without hesitation, she slipped her hand inside. Her fingers first met the rough texture of scar tissue—marks from a past she had never dared to question—then wrapped around something hot, hard, swollen with the tension of the moment. 

She tugged down his underwear, exposing him to the soft, low light of the kitchen. Then she touched him. His breath hitched immediately, unraveling into a mess of sighs and ragged exhalations. She felt his body tense with every stroke, every deliberate movement of her hand, as if he was barely keeping something from breaking loose.

When she finally heard a sound escape his throat, he cut her off by grabbing her hand. Without a word, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a condom. The sharp tear of the foil between his teeth sliced through the thick silence. With cold precision, he rolled it on.

Sakura barely looked at him. She didn’t care about details—the soft lighting, the shadows trembling across the walls, none of it mattered. She didn’t want clarity. She wanted the moment—raw and immediate. She wanted him, now. Because if she thought too much, if she hesitated, Naruto and Sasuke’s faces would rise in her mind, bringing that same sickening nausea with them. So she shut it all out, pushed the ghosts away, and clung to Obito like a lifeline.

"Go on," she whispered.

He didn’t need to be told twice. His lips trailed down her neck, leaving a burning path to the hollow of her collarbone. Sakura tilted her head back, a shiver running down her spine as she basked in those impatient kisses. She parted her legs further, offering him unobstructed access. Obito’s hands gripped her hips tightly, and she slid toward him just as he thrust into her.

A sharp breath tore from her lips as her eyes fluttered halfway open, gaze drifting to the ceiling.

Yes, she thought, the word echoing like an absolute truth—a release.

He moved inside her with a rhythm that was almost hypnotic. Slow at first, like he was testing her edge, then faster—each thrust more intense, more deliberate. Every push sent waves through her body, saturating her senses like a drug. She fought the urge to moan, to beg him to touch her more, to take all of her—mind, body, and memory—until nothing was left but this heat, this now.

He shifted her back onto the countertop, his body pressing over hers in a clumsy but desperate embrace. His breath, short and uneven, puffed hot against her temple, grounding her in the weight of him.

He drove deeper, pulling a gasp from her throat. His pace quickened, sharpened—each motion rougher, more raw—as a searing warmth spread inside her, burning hotter with every second.

Her brow furrowed, lip caught between her teeth, and she focused on the mounting pressure consuming her from the inside out.

And then—she shattered.

It hit like a firestorm, blinding and hot. Her back arched beneath him, a strangled moan breaking from her lips as her climax crashed over her. She felt him follow right after, his body going rigid, movements stalling into one final, trembling thrust as they came together in synchronized release.

Their ragged breaths filled the kitchen, breaking the heavy, humid silence. Obito collapsed against her, chest pressed to hers. They stayed like that for a moment, locked in that raw, intimate stillness, until he slowly pulled away.

His face hovered above hers—damp hair clinging to his forehead, eyes searching her expression as if trying to read her thoughts.

When he started to pull away completely, she reached up and touched his cheek. The contact stopped him. He stared at her for a moment, unmoving, until she lifted herself onto her elbows and kissed him.

At first, he didn’t respond—but slowly, he kissed her back. Feeling him still inside her, she gave the faintest roll of her hips. That was all it took. A breath slipped from his lips, and he began to move again—slower this time, as if trying to stretch the moment beyond its limit.

Notes:

Hello everyone! For those who love Sakura/Obito, I think this chapter has pleased them. For the others: sorry :D Don't be too hard on Sakura, she's in a state of shock and clearly not in a thoughtful, mature phase. Obito is true to form: he saw a gap and jumped in without the slightest hesitation. The next chapter concerns Ino and Juugo (also to be posted tomorrow). Then comes the long-awaited Kisa/Ita Arc (I can't wait for you to read it!) :) Thanks again for the kudos and comments. I see there's quite a lot of visits on the story, but I'm not sure if it's people who read without commenting or if it's just people who reread the same chapter several times... I'm just curious (it intrigues me). See you tomorrow!

Chapter 21: Apologize

Summary:

After weeks of silence, Ino decides to track Juugo down at his workplace.

Juugo hadn’t shown up to the meeting after their museum debacle. Or the one after that. Or the one after that. And judging by the silence in her inbox, Ino was pretty damn sure he wouldn’t show up today either.

“Little shit,” she muttered, tapping her index finger nervously against her crossed arm.

She’d left messages. Tried calling. Each time, he’d dodged her. Either the day before or the day of, a curt little text would pop up on her screen: Got work, won’t make it to class.

The first time, she’d shrugged it off. The second, a seed of doubt had crept in. By the third, she knew he was lying.

And today, fed up, she’d picked up her phone and called Achievement Academia—the organization overseeing Juugo’s schooling. The coordinator’s response was still looping in her mind, irritating like a pebble in her shoe: He does, in fact, have a side job. We sometimes have to accommodate their schedules. Every student is different.

“Bullshit,” she snapped, mostly to herself.

“Yes, miss?”

She jumped. Andrew, the driver, was eyeing her in the rearview mirror, a flicker of concern in his tired eyes.

“Oh… nothing. Just daydreaming,” she replied with a tight smile.

Andrew nodded, not pressing the issue.

“We’re nearly there,” he announced.

“Perfect.”

She glanced out the window and caught sight of the city’s more run-down district—concrete towers, weather-worn and crumbling. These grey, hulking blocks were a far cry from the plush comfort she was used to. “Konoha’s murder alley,” her grandfather used to call it.

“Here we are,” the driver said, easing the car to a stop.

They’d pulled up in front of a worn-down building with a peeling sign that screamed: Auto-Moto 500, your trusted garage!

From the main entrance came the clatter of tools and chatter, the sound of dented cars and grease-stained mechanics at work.

“This is the place,” she thought.

The Achievement Academia coordinator had given her Juugo’s work address and gently suggested she go there herself. At first, she’d flat-out refused—she wasn’t going to go that far for him. But ambition had a way of catching up to her. The more she thought about it, the more she realized she didn’t have much choice. If Juugo kept skipping classes, he’d probably flunk his exam. And if he failed, her plan went up in smoke: no entrance to the prestigious Aurea Mentis club. No prestige. No network.

She sighed and stepped out of the car, adjusting her jacket.

“Miss,” the driver called behind her.

Ino turned to see Andrew’s apologetic face.

“I’m sorry, but I need to pick up your mother from her appointment. I can’t stay.”

She closed her eyes for a second, exhaling a long-suffering sigh.

“I understand. It’s fine, go ahead. You can pick me up after.”

“I don’t think I’ll be back for at least two and a half hours,” he added.

She shrugged and waved a hand dismissively.

“If that idiot actually gives the lesson, that’ll be more than enough. Go.”

Andrew hesitated, glancing around warily.

“Are you sure?” he asked, lowering his voice like the neighborhood might hear him and take offense.

Curious, Ino mirrored his caution and scanned the area.

Overflowing garbage bins stood nearby, torn bags spilling scraps of daily life. Rusty, battered car wrecks looked like they’d been abandoned for years.

“Absolutely sure,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “Go get my mother. I’ll manage for the next couple of hours.”

Andrew opened his mouth to protest, but one look at her calm, commanding tone shut him down. He nodded, still a bit unsure, then turned back to the car.

Ino crossed her arms and watched him drive off before spinning on her heel and striding toward the garage.

The workshop opened up in front of her like a noisy cavern, men bustling around half-repaired cars. The harsh stench of fuel, grease, and other chemical fumes made her grimace.

“Looking for something, missy?” a worker suddenly called out.

The man, smelling of sweat and hot metal, was dressed in worn-out work gear. His rolled-up sleeves revealed strong, burly arms, which he crossed proudly over his broad chest.

“Not something—someone,” she informed him coolly.

The man raised a brow and cracked a smile.

“If it’s the boss you’re here for, he…”

"Juugo Tanaka," she cut him off before he could finish. "He’s the one I’m looking for."

The man’s smirk vanished instantly.

"Juugo Tanaka? Never heard of him. But if you’re looking for a mechanic..." His gaze slid slowly down toward her cleavage. "I’m your guy."

Ino clenched her jaw, a flash of icy fury in her eyes.

"I know he works here," she interrupted again. "He told me himself."

In truth, he hadn’t told her a damn thing. Everything she knew came from the academic coordinator. But there was no way she was going to admit that—or let this creep twist the conversation to fit whatever sleazy fantasy the mechanic had in mind.

"And you are?" the man asked, his tone dripping with disdain.

"His tutor. I’m here to bring him to class."

The man blinked, as if she’d just spoken in a foreign language. Then a harsh, mocking laugh burst out of him.

"You hear that, boys? That bastard Tanaka’s got himself a private tutor!" he cackled, glancing around for backup. "And a damn fine-looking one, too..."

Raucous laughter rippled through the garage, vibrating in the thick, oily air. Scattered workers began eyeing her openly, shamelessly. Ino took a deep breath, resisting the urge to tug her skirt lower.

If only I had Temari’s nerve, she thought. She’d have shut them up with one sharp remark.

"Where is he?" she asked finally, keeping her voice steady despite the heat rising in her cheeks.

The man’s grin widened.

"Well, shit... Guy’s charged as an accomplice in a serial murder case, and he’s still pulling girls like this?"

Murmurs of approval spread through the others. Ino’s jaw tightened. She inhaled deeply, forcing her temper down.

"He was never indicted for accessory to murder," she snapped.

"If you say so..." the man shrugged.

He lifted an arm and pointed toward the back of the workshop.

"All the way back, to the right, behind that wall over there."

"Thanks."

She brushed past him, her brisk stride betraying her simmering irritation, and headed straight toward the indicated corner. Just as she rounded the partition, she came face-to-face with a half-gutted car, its mechanical innards strewn everywhere like the aftermath of a messy surgery. Near the front wheel, Juugo crouched, fiddling with a headlight, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was tangled in wires, oblivious to her presence thanks to the earbuds jammed in his ears.

"There you are!" she barked, her frustration loud and clear.

Without hesitation, she marched up and smacked him sharply on the shoulder with her handbag. He jolted in surprise, yanked out his earbuds, and stood up, unfolding to his full, imposing height. His eyes widened when he recognized her.

"Ino?" he stammered, his voice unsure. "What are you—"

"Three classes, Juugo!" she exploded, jabbing a finger at him.

She had to look up to meet his gaze now that he was standing, looming over her like a damn mountain.

"Do you have any idea how much you’ve fallen behind?! What the hell are you doing here? Just giving up?!"

"No, it’s just that—"

"You don’t have an excuse! Missing three sessions is a big deal! Do you realize how much time you’ve wasted?! While I’ve been breaking my back prepping your lessons, you—"

"I have to do overtime," he interrupted.

Ino blinked.

"What do you mean, overtime?"

"If I want to get paid, I have to work extra hours."

She gaped at him for a second.

"Then don’t do them," she said flatly.

"I don’t have a choice."

"Why?"

He frowned, like he couldn’t tell if she was being deliberately dense, or if he was the one missing something.

"Because... I need to earn a living?" he said, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

Ino blinked again, then sighed.

"Do you have an employment contract?"

Juugo looked uncomfortable.

"Uh..." he mumbled.

"Yes or no?" she snapped. "Answer me."

"I... um... No. I don’t have one."

"Great. Where’s your boss?"

"Upstairs, but I—"

"Stay here," she ordered, spinning on her heel.

"No, wait— You can’t—"

He reached to stop her, but she shot him a furious look that froze him in place like she’d pulled a weapon.

"Stay. Here," she repeated firmly.

"But I—"

"Shut up."

She stormed off, climbing the grated stairs as he watched her anxiously. She arrived at a door with a crooked label reading staff, and knocked hard. She heard the sound of a chair scraping back.

"Come in," a gruff voice called.

She pushed the door open and found a broad-shouldered man sorting through a stack of papers. His office was dark and messy, reeking of gasoline, tobacco, and sweat.

The garage manager glanced up at her, one thick eyebrow arching as if to say What now?

"You are?" he asked, giving her the same dismissive once-over as the mechanic downstairs.

"Juugo Tanaka’s tutor," she replied coolly.

The man leaned back in his chair, crossing his bulky arms.

"I don’t do discounts for employees’ friends," he grunted.

"I’m not here for a discount," she shot back without blinking. "I want you to release Juugo from his overtime. He has exams coming up, and I’m sure you can spare him for a few hours this week."

The man narrowed his eyes.

"I’ve heard some real crap before, but this..." he muttered, shaking his head.

He rummaged in a drawer, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with practiced ease.

"So Tanaka’s taking the schoolboy route now, huh?"

"That’s right," Ino replied. "And I’m the one assigned to help him."

He let out a dry laugh, a cloud of gray smoke curling from his nostrils.

"Juugo’s one of my best guys," he sneered. "I need him. Your exams don’t keep my business running. So you can pack up your things and go back to wherever you came from before I—"

"You know what could really tank your business, Mr....?"

She squinted at the dusty nameplate.

"...Evans?"

The garage owner frowned, clearly more annoyed at being cut off than by her actual words.

"What?" he growled.

"A visit from the Health and Safety Executive."

Evans stared at her in surprise, then burst into a coarse laugh. He stubbed out his cigarette in a cracked ashtray.

"You know how many people have tried that line on me?" he scoffed. "Get out of here before I throw you out myself. Who the hell do you think you are?"

"A Yamanaka," she replied evenly.

That hit home. Evans froze, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"I know that name..." he muttered, eyes darkening.

"You should," she said confidently.

She pulled a photo from her wallet and held it up to his face.

"This is my father, Inoichi Yamanaka. He’s a new Member of Parliament—waging a full-on war against those who exploit workers. You see where I’m going with this?"

She stepped up to his desk, planting both hands firmly on its edge, locking eyes with him.

"Juugo might be naïve, but I’m not. I know modern slavery when I see it. The hours he puts in here are obscene, and I’d bet even if you’re paying him under the table, it’s not even a quarter of what he’s worth. So here’s my offer: either you stop working him like a dog, or I send in a team of suit-and-tie professionals who’ll happily go through your books and take a good look at the ‘safety conditions’ of this metal heap you call a garage."

Silence fell like a hammer, and Ino had to force herself to hold his gaze. Be Temari, she reminded herself, willing her voice not to tremble, even though her heart was pounding against her ribs.

It was the first time she’d resorted to something like this. Or at least, the first time she’d wielded a threat with such composure. She’d never needed to before—usually, raising her voice was enough to get her way. But this was different. Evans was the kind of man who didn’t care about what women said—unless they made him listen. So she had to be clever. Ruthless.

"I want your guarantee that no one’s coming down here," Evans finally said, grinding out his cigarette with a frustrated grunt.

Ino had to suppress the surge of triumph rising in her chest. She straightened up, a satisfied smile tugging at her lips.

"You have my word. As long as Juugo’s rights are respected, your garage stays off the radar."

She swept her hair back with a smooth gesture and turned toward the door.

"I’ll send a lawyer to get his contract in order. Good day, Mr. Evans."

She gave a quick, dismissive wave and left the office, flying down the grated stairs without looking back. Juugo watched her, caught between awe and anxiety. She passed him like a gust of wind, her resolve brushing away hesitation like it was nothing.

"It’s settled," she declared sharply. "Now come with me."

Juugo’s eyes darted from his boss’s office to her. He hesitated for a beat, then dropped his tools and followed her, as if pulled forward by the sheer weight of her voice and presence.

"Is there a library around here?" she asked as they exited the garage.

Of course, there wasn’t. But Juugo mentioned a few restaurants and cafés that were usually quiet. Ino wasn’t thrilled about the idea of setting foot in a place like that, but she eventually gave in and followed him.

They ended up in a dim, nearly empty café where the walls seemed to absorb more light than they reflected. Ino ordered a tea—flavorless, just as she’d expected—and Juugo got a milkshake. He sipped it distractedly at first, then buckled down and got to work.

Ino watched him. Despite the dark circles under his eyes, he focused the best he could, following every instruction she gave without complaint. In moments like this, even though he stood nearly two meters tall with the build of an MMA fighter, she couldn’t help but think he looked like a diligent schoolboy at his desk. His awkward movements, his oversized hand clumsily gripping the pen, the almost childlike focus he brought to the task... It was oddly fascinating.

Leaning on her elbow, she watched him, eyes tracing the gentle curve of his hunched back. The scratch of pen against paper paced the seconds, time drifting by with a calm, quiet rhythm.

"I think that’s enough for today," she finally said, handing him back his work.

Juugo slumped against the back of his chair, clearly exhausted.

"Thanks," he said, then leaned forward to help her gather the materials she’d brought.

A surly-looking waitress appeared just then with the check. Ino reached for her wallet, but Juugo was faster, already handing over a bill.

"My treat this time," he said simply.

Ino opened her mouth to argue, but stopped when she saw the look on his face. He meant it.

She just thanked him quietly, and they left the café in a peaceful silence.

Outside, night was beginning to fall. The sky hung low with heavy clouds. Ino pulled out her phone, ready to call Andrew, then frowned.

"Something wrong?" Juugo asked, zipping up his jacket.

She glanced up briefly, distracted by the sound of his voice, then returned her gaze to the screen.

"Andrew can’t come get me. He’s stuck in traffic with my mother." 

"What about your dad?"

"He’s abroad," she muttered through gritted teeth.

Just my luck, she thought. This kind of situation was rare.

Fine, I’ll just get a cab.

She opened her ride-hailing app and booked a car. When she looked up from her phone, Juugo was still there, standing completely still, watching her with those sharp, cold eyes.

"Yes?" she asked, surprised he was still by her side.

"I can wait with you, if you want."

Ino bit her tongue, uncertain. It wasn’t that she was still afraid of him—well, maybe a little: he still had that intense, intimidating presence. But she didn’t want to spend more time with him than necessary. His presence made her uncomfortable, and she much preferred the distance that had naturally settled between them. Her goal was to help him pass his exam. Not to bond.

"No need," she replied, forcing her tone to stay polite. "My taxi will be here soon. I’ll be home before you know it."

Juugo didn’t move. He kept staring at her, his hands relaxed at his sides, heavy and silent. Then he looked away, scanning the street warily.

"This isn’t a good idea," he said. "It’s getting dark. This neighborhood’s not safe."

Ino shrugged, pretending not to care.

"I’ll be gone in exactly..."

She glanced at her app.

"...twenty-three minutes. Not much is likely to happen in that time. Really, I’m fine. Go home and get some rest."

"It’s not—"

"I said I’ll be fine," she cut in, sharper this time.

He looked at her again, as if making sure she wouldn’t change her mind. Finally, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and nodded.

"See you next week, then."

"Yeah, right," she replied with a mechanical smile. "And don’t forget the readings I gave you."

He nodded and walked off, his massive figure casting a long shadow under the flickering streetlights. Ino watched him until he turned the corner, then finally let herself exhale.

I thought he’d never leave, she sighed internally. But almost immediately, a pang of guilt hit her. She frowned, uncomfortable with herself for thinking that. He’d only offered to help. She clicked her tongue, slightly ashamed, and shook her head to clear it.

I wasn’t being mean. I just didn’t need him, she tried to convince herself.

Just then, her phone vibrated in her hand. She looked down and saw her ride had been canceled. No explanation.

Driver probably figured it wasn’t worth the trip... she thought bitterly.

"Shit..." she muttered.

She reopened the app, requested another ride, and zipped up her coat as the autumn chill bit into her skin. The wind was picking up, icy and sharp, and even her thick sleeves weren’t enough anymore. Behind her, the café’s front gate slammed shut with a metallic groan that scraped her nerves.

The waitress, keys jingling in hand, locked the door and walked off in the same direction Juugo had gone. Ino rubbed her hands together to warm them, then sat on the darkened storefront’s ledge.

Time crawled. Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty. The cold crept in deeper, ignoring her layers, slipping under her clothes. When she checked her phone again, the app showed another cancellation. Brutal and impersonal.

"You’ve got to be kidding me..." she growled. "Are they all gonna do this...?"

"Need some help, sweetheart?"

Ino jumped. She turned her head and saw three men approaching. The first, tall and young, had a visible tattoo on his neck and a hoodie pulled over his head. The other two, shorter, had shaved heads and bare faces.

A shiver crawled up her spine.

"No thanks," she said firmly but politely, keeping her voice level.

The three men kept walking. Hands in their pockets, crooked smiles tugging at their lips. They casually positioned themselves in a loose semicircle around her, and she instantly felt boxed in.

"You sure? You look a little lost," one of the shorter ones said, his eyes drifting down her body before settling on her purse.

"I’m waiting for a taxi," she replied, her voice hardening despite herself.

The men exchanged a glance, then the tall one burst out laughing—loud and sudden, like a gunshot.

"Taxis? They barely come through here."

"Well, mine’ll be here in a few minutes," she shot back, gripping her phone tightly.

"Oh yeah? Then we’ll wait with you."

They stepped closer, shrinking the space between them. Ino instinctively backed up until she felt the cold glass of the café storefront press against her back. Her heart raced, pounding violently in her chest.

She glanced around quickly, searching for an exit, a witness, anything—but there was no one nearby. The sense of danger surged within her, heavy and suffocating, like an invisible vice tightening around her.

"That’s a pretty little thing you’ve got on," the tall one said.

He reached out and brushed the hem of her skirt with his fingertips.

Ino flinched hard, jerking away. The sudden movement caught them off guard for a second—then they all burst into laughter. Their circle closed in tighter, their smiles twisting into something far more sinister.

She opened her mouth, trying to tell them to back off, but her voice caught in her throat. Only a shaky, barely audible sound came out—something that only amused them more.

The tall one stepped closer, closing the last bit of distance. The smallest reached out quickly, aiming for her purse. The third one just stood there, arms crossed, grinning like he was enjoying the show.

"Can I tell you a secret?" the tall one said suddenly, his voice syrupy and dripping with mock sweetness.

She turned her head to avoid the heat of his breath against her face. He leaned in, a sick smile twisting his features.

"I really love your perf—"

The rest was swallowed by a muffled cry. A massive shadow had appeared out of nowhere, grabbing the man by the shoulder and hurling him violently onto the pavement.

Ino froze, eyes wide. In front of her stood Juugo, towering, breathing heavily, his eyes gleaming with barely restrained fury.

The smallest thug dropped her purse instantly and lunged. Juugo didn’t even hesitate—he grabbed him by the collar like a rag doll and slammed him into the nearest wall. The impact echoed down the empty street, ripping a startled gasp from Ino.

"What the hell—!" the third one began, hesitating.

But he didn’t get to finish. Without even looking, Juugo swept his legs out from under him with a precise kick. The man crashed to the ground, hard.

In under ten seconds, all three were down.

The smallest was the first to scramble back to his feet. He didn’t think twice—he bolted, vanishing into the shadows of a side street. The second followed soon after, limping away, but not before casting one last panicked glance at Juugo.

The tall one, however, stayed on his knees for a moment, then slowly stood. His eyes, burning with rage, locked onto Juugo’s. He was nearly as tall, but the tension in his body betrayed the fear he was trying to mask.

"You son of a bitch..." he hissed, venom in his voice.

Then he lunged.

Juugo dodged with effortless precision. But unlike what Ino had seen at the museum—when he had only pushed the woman away—this time, he didn’t hold back. His fist slammed into the man’s face with bone-cracking force. The thug crumpled, collapsing like dead weight.

Juugo stepped around him and drove a brutal kick into his stomach. The sound of the impact was sickening, almost inhuman. The man doubled over, coughing up blood, his breath ragged and gasping.

Ino flinched, frozen in place. Juugo turned toward her, drawn by her movement.

Her heart stopped. His eyes were wide, shining with cold fury. His breath came in harsh bursts, jaw clenched like an animal about to strike. She swallowed hard, unable to move, then slid down the glass behind her until she was sitting on the pavement, trembling.

Juugo’s eyes followed her descent. He took a step toward her, one hand half-reaching out—but then stopped himself. His anger flared again. He turned abruptly and glared down at the man groaning on the sidewalk.

In two strides, he was on the guy, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him across the pavement to Ino’s feet.

"Apologize," he ordered.

His voice, usually low and steady, had become a guttural growl.

The man groaned something unintelligible, his mouth stained with blood. Juugo, unyielding, grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head up to face her.

"Apologize," he repeated, this time icily, each syllable dripping with threat.

A chill ran through Ino.

The man slowly opened his eyes, squinting in pain. He met her gaze, dazed, his face twisted with agony.

"S-sorry..." he croaked, weak and broken.

Juugo turned his eyes to her, hard and unrelenting. He was waiting for her reaction, as if she were the only one in control. 

"Apology accepted," she said, her voice colder than she expected.

Juugo gave a slight nod, then yanked the man backward without care, dragging a groan of pain from him before tossing him aside like garbage. The man crumpled to the pavement, pathetic, and slowly got on all fours. Wheezing in pain, he staggered upright and bolted into the shadows of the nearby alleyways.

Silence fell again, sudden and heavy.

Ino, still seated on the ground, didn’t dare move. In front of her, Juugo remained motionless, his broad shoulders rising and falling with each ragged breath.

He rolled his neck, loosening the tension in his muscles, then slowly turned toward her.

She must have flinched, because he approached cautiously, as if afraid of scaring her more.

"I’m sorry," he murmured, crouching beside her.

His gaze dropped, clearly avoiding her face, and settled on her left knee. Ino followed his eyes and felt her breath hitch.

She was bleeding.

It wasn’t much—just a shallow scrape—but it was already too much. A bitter taste rose in her throat. She hated the sight of blood.

Juugo carefully slipped an arm behind her back and gently lifted her. She let him, instinctively leaning against his chest to keep her balance.

"Like this," he murmured softly.

Once he was sure she could stand on her own, he slowly stepped back, watching her every movement like he was handling a tower of glass about to shatter. Then, without a word, he took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

"You look cold," he explained. "This should help."

Ino stared at him, speechless, words caught in her throat. She pulled the jacket a little tighter, realizing how frozen she truly was.

"Thanks," she whispered, barely managing to swallow.

She didn’t dare look at the wound on her knee, afraid she might faint.

"It’s not deep," Juugo said, as if reading her mind. "We’ll clean it up, put a bandage on it. You’ll be fine."

Ino nodded weakly, unable to argue.

"Give me your bag," he said, holding out his hand.

She handed it over without protest. He looped the strap around his wrist and placed a hand gently at her back.

"Let’s go."

She let herself be guided, her trembling fingers clutching his jacket around her like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Juugo’s building was just a block away. A worn-down structure, aged and weathered by time. They stepped into a creaky elevator that groaned at every floor until they reached a grimy hallway filled with peeling paint and muffled shouting behind thin apartment doors.

His unit was at the very end, top floor. Juugo pulled out a keyring, unlocked the door, and entered first to turn on the lights.

Ino followed him in, eyes scanning the space with quiet curiosity.

It was probably the smallest apartment she had ever seen. Even Sakura’s place, which she’d always found cramped, felt spacious by comparison. Everything here was compressed: a kitchenette across from a bed, a sliding door leading to a tiny bathroom, and further in, a few storage shelves, a desk, and a small TV mounted on the wall.

"Sit here," he said, gently pulling out his desk chair.

She sat without a word while he opened a cabinet and retrieved a first-aid kit. He returned with disinfectant and bandages, then crouched beside her.

The moment he touched her knee, Ino flinched and pulled her leg back out of instinct.

Juugo immediately raised his hands, as if he’d done something wrong.

They locked eyes, both startled, then he slowly lowered his hands, tense.

"Sorry. I didn’t mean to—"

He swallowed hard, clearly uncomfortable.

"You can do it yourself if you’d rather."

He looked almost horrified with himself.

"No," Ino said, clearing her throat. "I was just surprised. You... can keep going."

She didn’t want him to feel that way. He had saved her. Yes, his intervention had been brutally violent, but without him, she might not have been there to reflect on it at all.

"Go ahead," she encouraged gently.

Juugo seemed to relax a little. He slipped a hand under the bend of her knee and guided her leg toward him. Ino shivered at the contact, surprised by how warm his hand was against her cold skin. It wasn’t unpleasant—but it made her feel strangely vulnerable.

With measured movements, he dabbed disinfectant on the wound. She stared at the ceiling, refusing to look, while the sting of alcohol tickled her nose.

Once he was done, he gently placed a bandage over the cut and pulled his hand away with care.

"There you go," he murmured.

"Thanks."

Silence settled over the room as he turned his back to her to put away the disinfectant and bandages.

"Um..." Ino began hesitantly. "Can I stay here?"

Juugo froze, glancing back over his shoulder. Embarrassment swept over her like a wave.

"Just until Andrew comes to pick me up," she added quickly. "I’d rather… I mean, I’d prefer not to..."

She cleared her throat, flustered by her own awkwardness.

"Let’s just say I don’t want to go back out there alone."

Juugo gave a small shrug.

"I wasn’t planning to kick you out," he said simply.

She thanked him quietly, both relieved and a little embarrassed. He gave a small sideways smile—rare enough that she noticed it immediately—then turned back to tidying up. Ino took the opportunity to send Andrew her location.

"You hungry?" he asked, still facing away.

"Oh, no, not really. And I wouldn’t want to impose. You’ve already done enou—"

Right on cue, her stomach growled loudly, betraying her.

Juugo threw her an amused look.

"Didn’t plan on having company, but I’ve got some pasta."

He turned and pulled out a pot, filling it with water.

Ino stayed seated for a few more minutes, then, unable to sit still, got up to help. Unfortunately, she wasn’t much of a cook—and Juugo didn’t seem particularly skilled either.

They improvised, clumsy but willing, laughing at their mistakes and trying out random combinations.

"Is that your mom?" Ino asked suddenly, halfway through her plate.

Seated at the small table pushed against the wall, she had noticed a photo of a woman tucked into the corner of a mirror near the entrance.

"Yeah," Juugo replied.

Ino stood to get a better look. In the photo, a woman smiled at the camera, her long, curly red hair framing a radiant face. She stood on a beach, a straw hat shielding her pale skin from the sun. Freckles dotted her cheeks, and her bright green eyes sparkled with life.

"She really does look like her," Ino murmured.

Juugo frowned.

"Like who?"

"The Birth of Venus," she replied. "You told me that painting reminded you of your mother. I see it now. Her hair’s exactly the same."

Juugo stared for a moment, caught between surprise and something deeper. Then a gentle smile crept across his face—warm, almost tender.

Ino found it touching. She didn’t dare ask where his mother was. Given what she knew about his father, she was too afraid of saying the wrong thing.

She cleared her throat and looked away, only to spot another photo pinned to the opposite corner of the wall. This time, Juugo was pictured with two other people: a woman with blazing red hair and a man with almost white-grey hair. Unsurprisingly, Juugo was the tallest of the three.

"And this?" she asked. "Who are they?"

"Suigetsu and Karin. Friends."

"They work at the garage with you?"

"No," he said with a small smile, as if the idea were absurd. "Karin’s a school nurse. Suigetsu’s a lifeguard."

Ino raised her eyebrows.

"That’s funny. I wouldn’t have guessed…"

Guessed what? she thought brutally. That he had friends? A life? Something beyond work and school?

She felt the sting of self-directed shame at her own bias.

Of course Juugo had a life. Of course he had friends. Of course he existed outside of their tutoring sessions.

"What I mean," she tried to recover, "is... I pictured you as more of a loner."

If Juugo noticed her discomfort, he was kind enough not to comment.

"I don’t have many friends," he replied quietly.

And just like that, his expression closed off.

A wave of guilt surged through her—but she didn’t have time to sit with it: her phone rang. It was Andrew, letting her know he was downstairs.

She hung up, then turned toward Juugo, who was already grabbing his keys to open the door. He’d understood before she even had to explain.

"This way," he said simply.

He walked her down to the ground floor, where Andrew’s silhouette was visible through the glass doors.

She turned to him one last time. He watched from a distance, hands in his pockets, his relaxed posture a stark contrast to the tension he’d carried just an hour before.

"Thank you," she said, meeting his gaze. "I should’ve listened to you and waited. I was stupid. Really, I’m sorry, and—"

"It wasn’t your fault," Juugo cut in firmly. "It was theirs."

"But still, I—"

"It wasn’t your fault," he repeated, slower this time, each word deliberate.

A lump rose in her throat, but she nodded.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words. She stepped closer and placed her hands gently on his arms.

"Thank you," she said again, her voice softer now.

Her thumbs brushed lightly over his biceps—a tender gesture, instinctive, almost unaware.

Juugo looked away, visibly uneasy at the sudden closeness.

She gave him one last smile, then stepped outside.

 

Notes:

Hello everyone! Here I am again with this new chapter <3 I really enjoyed writing it, Juugo is just a fascinating character, I think. He's a sweet, friendly character (when he's not flipping out, of course). This chapter illustrates that perfectly (I hope). As usual, many thanks for your comments and kudos! It's a real pleasure, you've no idea. Thank you very much. And thanks also to @kiryu_giovanna for his concept of the Uchiha house <3 It's really lovely. If you want to see it, it's here!
FYI: next time will be Kisa/Ita <3

Chapter 22: Lochhaven Castle

Summary:

Artistocrat family, Castle, and Kisame.

A Jacobean-style castle stood proudly in the middle of a sumptuous park, itself nestled deep in a vast forest. The building—or what could still be called a "building," though the word felt laughably insufficient in the face of such grandeur—was flanked by four imposing towers, each crowned with battlements, and dozens—no, maybe hundreds—of mullioned windows that caught the last golden rays of the setting sun.

Kisame cut the engine and dropped the kickstand on his bike.

Downton Abbey, he thought as he pulled off his helmet.

This was where Itachi had chosen—or rather, insisted—that they meet up with his cousins for the weekend: in a place that looked like a postcard straight out of British aristocracy.

Of course, Kisame had expected something nice. He’d already caught glimpses of where the Uchiha clan lived. But he hadn’t been prepared for... this. This wasn’t a "country house," like Itachi had described it. It was a castle. A fucking castle, frozen in all the splendor of the seventeenth century.

"He sure kept that part to himself," Kisame muttered, looking up at the towers.

He’d always known the Uchiha were wealthy. Noble, even. But never in his life had he imagined their fortune stretched this far—Obito had always made a point of hiding just how much old money was behind the name.

“Mr. Hoshigaki,” called a clipped voice.

A man in a dark suit stood on the massive front steps, right in front of a heavy wooden door reinforced with wrought iron. Tall, gaunt, stiff as a board. Not a smile, not even a nod.

“You were expected at five o’clock,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Kisame checked his watch. Five thirty-eight.

“Traffic on the ring road,” he replied. “Had to push the clock a little. Sorry.”

The man raised a single eyebrow, an expression somewhere between skepticism and disapproval. At that moment, several others emerged from inside. They wore matching uniforms, the women in crisp blouses and black skirts. The newcomers nodded politely before heading straight for the motorcycle, already unfastening the saddlebags. Only then did Kisame realize they were staff.

“No need, I got it,” he said, reaching out. “Didn’t bring much…”

But the staff ignored him, unloading with near-military efficiency under the watchful eye of the man who’d first spoken. Kisame watched them for a moment, thrown off by their precision, then climbed the steps toward the entrance.

“Welcome to Lochhaven Castle, sir,” said the man in the suit, offering a polite bow.

“Thanks,” Kisame replied. “And you are…?”

The man arched a brow, an almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips.

“Duncan, sir. I am in the service of the Uchiha family,” he declared, putting clear emphasis on the last words.

Kisame caught the undertone. It was barely veiled, pretty damn inappropriate for a butler, but he wasn’t about to start a fight. Barking orders at people he didn’t pay had never been his style.

“If you would please follow me, sir.”

The butler gestured toward the heavy door, now cracked open, and Kisame stepped through, passing beneath a stone lintel clearly designed to intimidate.

The entry hall, in full Scottish manor style, was just as majestic as the castle’s façade. A grand staircase rose toward upper floors with dizzyingly high ceilings, and a chandelier—the largest Kisame had ever seen—hung in the center of the space, its crystals glinting like a captive starry sky. Along the walls, an imposing array of firearms and portraits formed a grim gallery, broken only by the occasional hunting trophy staring down at newcomers with glass eyes.

“Ah! There he is at last!”

A young woman approached. Tall and slender, with dark hair. Kisame immediately recognized the fine Uchiha features in her face, though freckles and striking green eyes set her apart from the family mold.

“You must be Kisame,” she said, extending her hand confidently.

“That’s me,” he replied.

She gave him a once-over, her gaze running quickly from head to toe.

“Itachi always had a thing for friends much taller than him,” she said in a dry voice.

Kisame blinked. Mikoto Uchiha had made the exact same comment to him just a few weeks earlier.

“Duncan,” she called, turning to the butler. “Make sure he gets a bed that’s long enough. Grandfather was obsessed with preserving the original furniture, but no one fits in those anymore.”

"The beds were all modified last year, Miss," Duncan replied, with polished courtesy. "The original frames were kept, but extended with custom-built parts."

"Who handled that?"

"Madam Mikoto."

The young woman's expression immediately softened.

"Perfect. A brilliant initiative."

She turned her attention back to Kisame.

"I'm Carolina. One of Itachi’s cousins. Maybe he’s mentioned me?"

"Not really. He’s... pretty private when it comes to the people around him."

"Sounds like him."

She rummaged through her handbag and pulled out a folder, holding it out to him.

"I’m going to need you to sign these," she said, pointing to a blank space at the end of the last page.

Kisame glanced at the title, frowning.

"'Non-disclosure agreement'?" he muttered, flipping through the pages to find dense legal jargon and complex clauses. "What is this, exactly?"

Carolina gave him a smile that was just a little too polished to be genuine.

"Oh, nothing major. Just standard paperwork we ask our guests to fill out."

Kisame raised an eyebrow. The file was over ten pages long, full of fine print and legal references. The kind of document that made lawyers grind their teeth—and he happened to know one.

"This is exactly the sort of thing my legal advisor would forbid me from signing blindly," he said calmly, handing the folder back to her.

Carolina looked down at the papers but didn’t take them.

"That’s unfortunate. You can’t just—"

"Don’t sign anything, Kisame," interrupted a voice he knew well.

Itachi was descending the grand staircase, his gaze locked on his cousin. He wore a pale blue shirt tucked into dark jeans—simple, elegant, almost casual. A surprising break from his usual palette of black and gray. His hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, as always, but his face seemed a little less closed off, the shadows under his eyes a little less harsh.

"NDAs are for outsiders," he said coldly.

"Which he is," Carolina shot back.

"Kisame is my guest. And a longtime friend of Obito’s. He’s far from a stranger."

Carolina narrowed her eyes, her expression hardening. She snatched the folder from Kisame’s hands and launched into a language Kisame didn’t immediately recognize.

Russian, he guessed, listening to the sharp, crystalline sounds spilling from her lips.

To his surprise, Itachi responded with flawless pronunciation. Not just fluent—controlled, elegant. It was mesmerizing.

Kisame stood there, listening without understanding a single word, struck by how natural the language sounded coming from him. As if Russian had been designed for the Uchiha and no one else.

"As you wish," Carolina said at last.

She muttered something under her breath, shaking her head with a sharp, irritated movement, then turned on her heel and stormed down one of the wide corridors on the castle’s north side. Kisame and Itachi watched her disappear, then looked at each other.

"You speak Russian?" the soldier asked.

"Among other things," Itachi replied coolly. "Most of the Uchiha are trilingual."

"Even Obito?"

His tone must’ve carried enough disbelief, because Itachi gave a faint smile—subtle, almost involuntary.

"Even Obito."

Kisame squinted.

"Never heard him say a word in Russian..."

"That’s because he hates it. But he speaks perfect Swedish too."

Kisame nodded. That, he already knew. Obito had once told him his mother had taught him from a young age.

He took a step toward Itachi, instinctively—some part of him needing to bridge the distance. But the young man stepped back just as quickly, a sharp, almost reflexive motion.

Kisame froze. Stopped mid-step. He stood there in silence, confusion flickering in his eyes. Then he remembered—Itachi was still angry.

A quiet pang of regret tightened in his chest. He wanted to say something. To smooth things over. Explain. Find the right words.

But, true to form, Itachi beat him to it.

"I’ll give you the tour," he said, as if nothing had happened.

His voice was calm—too calm. A well-honed blade never made a sound.

Without waiting for a response, he turned and started up the stairs.

Kisame followed him, eyes locked on the rigid line of his back.

"The castle is laid out like a square," Itachi explained as he ascended the massive dark wood steps. "It may seem simplistic, but it’s the most efficient way to navigate. The four wings are named after the cardinal directions—north being the main entrance, where you arrived."

His tone remained unchanged—monotone, almost mechanical. He spoke like he was reciting an old lesson, one he’d repeated countless times, completely unaffected by the splendor surrounding them. Kisame, on the other hand, couldn’t stop staring at the walls that seemed to whisper with every step.

Huge portraits of unfamiliar ancestors watched them pass, their stern faces frozen on canvases cracked with age. Between the gilded frames hung hunting trophies—polished horns and gleaming fangs, silent remnants of long-dead beasts. Farther down, a line of crossed spears above a blackened shield stood like a challenge to any visitor bold enough to approach.

"The first floor is for the elders—our parents, grandparents, uncles and aunts... basically everyone who walked this earth before us. We rarely go there. Most of the rooms are locked."

They reached the landing, where a vast hallway stretched out on either side of the staircase. Itachi paused briefly, gesturing with a tired hand, before continuing without a word.

He didn’t look back. Didn’t check if Kisame was still following. Everything about him radiated that same cold detachment—a distance that stretched and thickened between them like fog. He was angry, clearly. But Kisame saw something else beneath the polished surface. Something more fragile.

He was starting to know the younger man well enough to understand: punishment, at least this kind, never came without a reason. Not this one. Not unless there’d been pain first.

As they reached the first steps of the second floor, Kisame crossed the invisible line between them. He reached out and gently rested a hand on Itachi’s hip—light, but firm enough to make him turn.

Itachi stopped, now facing him one step above, those obsidian eyes scanning his face with a flicker of surprise. A heartbeat later, the softness was gone, replaced by his usual sharp-edged coldness.

"Itachi..." Kisame murmured. "Can we... call a truce?"

Simple. No embellishments. Not an apology—just a request.

"I'm not at war with you," came the reply, low but unyielding.

Kisame sighed.

"I'm going to be here all weekend, exactly like you asked. Are you really planning to avoid me the whole time?"

Itachi lifted his chin slightly, and Kisame caught a spark in his eyes. His jaw tightened, and his fists clenched just enough to be noticeable. He stared at him with that quiet, noble intensity only the Uchiha seemed to possess—an aura both natural and quietly terrifying.

His face, framed by his inky-black hair, held that signature cold beauty. Long lashes, the graceful arch of his brow, the curve of his lifted chin—each detail gave him the air of a wounded prince: proud, inflexible, and ready to pass judgment.

"It’s not fair," he murmured finally.

He didn’t need to say more. Kisame understood.

It wasn’t fair. Not fair that he’d lied. Not fair that he’d ruined that crucial dinner with Fugaku. And even less fair that he’d dared show up here, heart in hand, asking for forgiveness like this was just some minor misunderstanding.

It was insulting.

And humiliating.

"I know," Kisame admitted.

He stepped up, closing the distance between them until their faces were level. His hand remained on Itachi’s hip. He felt the twitch beneath the thin shirt, but held steady, unwilling to let him retreat.

Itachi turned his face away. Exhausted, distant. His eyes drifted toward a nearby painting—an absolutely horrific hunting scene where a doomed stag was being cornered by dogs.

"I’m sorry," Kisame said. "You know I lied to protect myself, not to hurt you."

He tilted his head slightly, trying to meet his gaze. But Itachi stayed still, eyes locked on the painting. The silence between them stretched, broken only by the muffled sounds of staff moving below, swallowed by the towering ceilings.

Finally, Itachi turned his head just enough.

"Don’t lie to me again," he said. "It doesn’t suit you."

Kisame raised his hand slowly, brushing aside a dark strand that had fallen over the younger man's forehead. Itachi flinched at the touch—but didn’t pull away.

"I won’t," Kisame promised.

His hand, still resting on his hip, lingered. With his thumb, he gently traced the sharp edge of Itachi’s hipbone through the fabric, surprised once again by how thin he was. The realization stirred something instinctive in him—a need to pull him closer, to hold him.

Like that night. Outside the family house. When Itachi had melted into his arms, silent and exhausted.

Kisame could still remember the feel of his hair between his fingers, the light weight of him pressed against his chest. He wanted to whisper that he was sorry. That he’d been stupid. That he’d never let this distance grow between them again.

But this wasn’t the time or the place.

And Kisame wasn’t sure Itachi would even allow it. He was naturally tactile. Itachi… not so much.

"Should I keep showing you around?" the younger man asked suddenly.

His voice had lost its edge. There was something else there now—something softer, almost shy. It made a quiet smile tug at the corners of Kisame’s lips.

"Gladly."

He let go of his hip, letting his hand trail away gently.

Itachi climbed the last of the stairs and stepped into the hallway on the second floor.

"This wing is for the cousins," he explained.

The walls were lined with massive doors carved in elaborate Gothic patterns. Roses and swords entwined in dark wood, lending the hallway a sense of grandeur—and something vaguely ominous.

"Most of the rooms are assigned," he continued. "But there are exceptions. The guest rooms are in the east wing. Same floor, opposite side."

He gestured toward an adjacent corridor, bathed in golden light from stained glass windows that filtered the setting sun.

"Is that where I’ll be sleeping?" Kisame asked, eyeing the procession of doors.

Itachi slowed, his shoulders tensing slightly.

"No..." he said. "Each wing has about ten rooms. It felt like a waste to stick you off by yourself. So... I thought you could stay in the one next to mine. This one."

He stopped in front of the second-to-last door and opened it without another word, stepping aside so Kisame could enter.

Kisame nodded and stepped inside.

The room was large and richly decorated. A four-poster bed stood at its center, draped with heavy curtains. A stone fireplace, carved with floral designs, faced two antique armchairs arranged around a small table. A tall window offered an open view of the estate gardens below.

He scanned the room, taking it in—until his eyes landed on his things.

His saddlebags had been opened, his clothes neatly folded and placed inside the wardrobe.

"The staff... went through my stuff?"

Itachi, still near the doorway, followed his gaze.

"Ah... yeah. It’s a thing they do with newcomers."

He cleared his throat discreetly, visibly uncomfortable.

"I hope you didn’t have anything... compromising. They tend to file... detailed reports to my grandfather."

Kisame looked at him, half convinced he was joking. But Itachi’s face remained perfectly serious.

"Don’t worry," he said with a smile. "Nothing incriminating."

He walked over to the bed and ran his fingers along the fabric.

"Well… nothing they’ll find."

Itachi raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, carving the hint of a dimple.

"Good. Around here, you should never assume you're alone. Even when you think you are… you’re probably not."

Kisame shot him a sidelong glance.

"Sounds charming."

"It’s all about getting used to it," Itachi said.

He gave the room one final look, and his expression shifted—just a flicker.

"I forgot to mention one thing."

"What’s that?"

He crossed his arms, looking slightly sheepish.

"Dinner... we dress in the evening."

Kisame raised an eyebrow, amused.

"I wasn’t planning on showing up naked."

A soft laugh escaped Itachi—light, nervous, but real.

"I mean formalwear. Suits."

Kisame tilted his head, curious.

"Suits?"

Itachi stepped forward and leaned casually against the bedpost. His posture was still proud, dignified, but Kisame caught the flicker of discomfort behind it.

"It’s an old family thing," he said, avoiding his gaze. "At dinner, we dress up. It’s... tradition. Tonight they’ll probably let it slide, since everyone’s arriving late. But tomorrow... no one gets a pass."

Kisame thought the whole thing was absurd, but he held his tongue. It was clear Itachi already felt awkward explaining this ridiculous "tradition," and the soldier had no desire to embarrass him further.

Still...

What kind of world had he stepped into?

He felt like he’d walked into the plot of an old movie, where family wealth spilled across grandiose decor just long enough for everyone to air their grievances. The kind of story where, inevitably, someone ended up murdered, and —thanks to a snowstorm or some other act of God— all the guests were stuck inside the castle, slowly accusing each other of premeditated homicide.

No snow here—but Kisame couldn’t help thinking they weren’t too far off.

He turned toward Itachi.

"I didn’t pack a suit, in case you were holding out for a miracle."

"That’s fine. I’ll ask Duncan to find one for you."

Kisame froze.

"No need. I already got chewed out for being late—I’d rather not have him silently judge me for showing up costume-less, too."

"Don’t be intimidated by him. He’s strict, yes... but he’s not unkind."

"Strict? That’s a fucking understatement. That guy’s possessed by the ghost of a Prussian colonel."

Itachi rolled his eyes.

"He’s been with the family for thirty years. That’s why he—"

"Thirty years?" Kisame cut in. "He's part of the foundation."

"In a way."

They shared a quick laugh, then silence settled again—comfortable, easy.

"Ah, I almost forgot," Itachi said suddenly.

He walked around the four-poster bed and opened a door off to the right. They stepped into the most beautiful bathroom Kisame had ever seen. In the center stood a claw-footed tub, opulent and still. Pale marble floors reflected the warm light filtering through soft linen curtains. Against one wall, porcelain sinks gleamed under a wide mirror, which amplified the room’s quiet elegance, capturing the glass bottles perfectly aligned along the counter.

Kisame let out a low whistle, clearly impressed.

"My room’s just next door," Itachi said, nodding to another door embedded in the opposite wall. "We’ll share the bathroom. I hope that’s not a problem."

"It is. A big one. I don’t share facilities with the peasants."

Itachi stopped, arched an eyebrow, then stepped forward slowly. Arms crossed, chin slightly raised, he studied him with that signature Uchiha elegance—cool, haughty, perfectly controlled.

"Most unfortunate, Mr. Hoshigaki," he replied in mock hauteur.

Kisame let out a soft laugh.

They lingered there for a while, leaning against the bathroom vanity, talking about everything and nothing. Then Itachi suggested they continue the tour. Kisame followed at a relaxed pace, hands in his pockets, eyes drifting across the architecture with growing curiosity.

The more they walked, the more Kisame understood why Itachi was attached to this place. It wasn’t just the beauty—though that was undeniable. It was something deeper. A memory. A living history.

Every corner of the castle seemed to carry the weight of the past. Over here, a structural feat that must’ve taken years to build in a forgotten era; over there, a painting of two visiting foreign princes, greeted by one of Itachi’s ancestors; farther still, a second edition of a rare book penned by an 18th-century madman, unrecognized in his lifetime.

Kisame listened—and more importantly, watched. Itachi came alive. He talked more, moved more. He was in his element. And he was beautiful—more than usual. Not just in his features, but in his silences. In the way he gestured, in the cadence of his voice—it was like discovering a hidden facet of an already mesmerizing crystal. His smiles—frequent, shy, sometimes teasing—were rare gems. They suited him—far too well—and Kisame found himself savoring them like rare wine, with that quiet awareness that such moments were fleeting by nature.

"Kisame?" someone suddenly called out, just as they entered one of the smaller sitting rooms.

He turned and saw a young woman with pink hair. The former soldier blinked, surprised.

"Sakura?"

He stepped forward to greet her, a smile on his face.

"What are you doing here?"

He knew Kakashi’s protégé well enough. They didn’t run into each other often, but he saw her from time to time when visiting his friend.

"I’m Sasuke’s girlfriend," she explained, glancing quickly toward Itachi, who had naturally drifted to stand beside the soldier. "Itachi’s little brother. And you?"

"Itachi was kind enough to invite me to your little family gathering."

Sensing she was about to ask how they'd met, Kisame quickly cut in.

"You staying the whole weekend?"

"Yeah."

She glanced up at the ceiling, admiring the Renaissance-style frescoes stretching above them.

"Have you had the chance to look around yet?" she asked.

"We were just doing that."

"Pretty nice, right?"

"Yeah. Feels like I’m in—"

"—a fucking museum," cut in a bitter voice.

They turned in unison.

In the massive doorway leading into the lounge, a figure stood against the light, silhouetted by the pale hallway beyond.

Obito leaned against the doorframe, hands buried in the pockets of a black bomber jacket. A dark cap and a matching surgical mask obscured much of his face.

"Obito?" Kisame said immediately.

They hadn’t spoken since the incident at Fugaku Uchiha’s house.

The shame of it still stuck in his throat. He’d tried to avoid reopening that wound—especially to avoid a fight with his friend.

"What are you doing here?" Itachi asked.

Obito removed his cap and mask with calculated slowness.

"This is my place too," he reminded them. "Pretty sure my name's carved on the third bedroom upstairs, second floor, if I’m not mistaken."

He raked a hand through his messy hair, then looked at each of them in turn. His gaze lingered longer on Sakura, who immediately stiffened.

"You hate family gatherings," she said coldly.

Her hostility was obvious, and no one was surprised—Obito had never liked her. To him, she was just an extension of deeper grudges—the ones he reserved for Rin and Kakashi.

"I heard my friend would be here," Obito replied with a smile that was anything but friendly. "I couldn’t miss that. Lochhaven doesn’t open its gates to guests every day."

Then a mock frown creased his forehead.

"Oh no…" he murmured, feigning sorrow. "You were hoping to keep him all to yourselves, weren’t you?"

He shook his head slowly, eyes on the floor as if genuinely disappointed.

"Tough luck. You’re gonna have to share."

He stepped forward and laid a friendly hand on Kisame’s shoulder.

The former soldier didn’t react at first, simply meeting his gaze—where a familiar glint danced. That blend of resentment and precision-cut cruelty only Obito could wield.

Kisame removed his hand and stepped forward.

"Can I talk to you for a sec?"

Obito raised an eyebrow, mock-surprised.

"Of course, my friend."

Kisame didn’t miss the heavy emphasis on the last two words. He ignored it and turned toward a side door leading out of the lounge.

Before disappearing, Obito glanced back at Itachi, a cruel smile curling his lips.

"Don’t get jealous. I’ll give him back in a few minutes," he said with a sneer.

If that bothered Itachi, he didn’t show it. Instead, he turned to Sakura and struck up a conversation. Her shoulders gradually relaxed, and by the time Kisame stepped out onto the terrace, he heard her laughing behind him.

Obito waited until Kisame caught up, then descended the steps to a gravel path curling through the immaculate lawn. He pulled out a cigarette pack and handed it over silently.

"You could’ve told me you were coming," he said.

Kisame took a cigarette, lit it, and exhaled slowly.

"I wasn’t sure I would. Didn’t know if it was a good idea."

Obito snorted, his lip curling in a sneer.

"I can tell you right now—it was a fucking stupid one."

They walked in silence for a bit, their steps muffled by the gravel.

"I didn’t really have a choice," Kisame said eventually. "It was either this, or—"

"Or what?" Obito interrupted. "Itachi would stop talking to you?"

He gave a joyless laugh.

"He’s a master at that—emotional blackmail. Real prodigy. And you fell for it like a rookie. Should’ve stayed the hell away."

"And why’s that?" Kisame shot back. "We’re not doing anything wrong."

Obito’s eyes darkened instantly.

"Why?" he repeated. "Because he’s your fucking colonel’s son, that’s why. The same man who kicked you out and forbade you from going near his son. You remember that detail, or did you conveniently forget it?"

He brought the cigarette to his lips.

"You show up here like it’s nothing—into the ancestral home of the Uchiha. You have no idea what you’ve walked into."

Kisame raised an eyebrow.

"From the way you talk, sounds like I’m behind enemy lines."

"You are," Obito said without hesitation. "This family’s nothing like the one we built with Nagato, Shizune, Pakura, Konan, and the rest. Here, everything is watched, analyzed, remembered. Fugaku will find out you were here. And when he does... he’s gonna blow."

A memory flashed through Kisame’s mind.

Itachi, leaning against his motorcycle, wind in his hair, helmet tucked under his arm. That day, he’d said softly, "My family isn’t like yours. It’s complicated. Difficult. Horrible, sometimes. Depends on the day."

Back then, Kisame hadn’t fully understood. Now, he did.

"I had to fight to keep Fugaku from kicking him out of the support group," Obito said suddenly.

Kisame froze.

"What?"

"You heard me."

Obito stared him down, stone-faced.

"Fugaku was livid after you left. Everyone caught hell. Me included. And believe me, being treated like a fucking piece of shit by him? It’s not fun. Not even close."

His brow furrowed.

"I thought he was gonna send Itachi overseas for treatment."

Kisame stared at him, his eyes darkening.

"He didn’t do anyth—"

"He doesn’t care!" Obito snapped, cutting him off. "He wants his son surrounded by the best people, in the best possible environment. And now the soldier he had to kick out of his unit for assaulting a civilian is suddenly spending time with his son thanks to some goddamn support group?! And to top it off, the guy lied about his personal life!"

He winced, stunned.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Kisame! Marine biologist? Are you fucking serious?! Fugaku thinks you’ve lost it! That you're a fucking brain-dead lunatic! And now he’s convinced you’re trying to get back at him for booting you from special ops—by getting close to his son!"

Kisame snorted, disgusted.

"I’d never do something like that. That would be—"

"It’s not what you would do. It’s what he sees," Obito cut in coldly. "And trust me—that’s worse."

He crushed his cigarette under his shoe, expression unreadable.

"So cut the shit. Stay for the weekend, fake a smile, then switch groups. Cut ties. Disappear."

Kisame gave a quiet laugh.

"Itachi wou—"

"I’m not saying it for him," Obito interrupted. "I’m saying it for you."

He gave him a hard look.

"Fugaku isn’t just a colonel. He’s an Uchiha. And the Uchiha don’t tolerate parasites in their system. If you push it—he will go to war with you. And he’ll win."

Kisame took one last drag, let the silence settle between them, then flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it lazily.

"Message received."

Obito shot him a skeptical look. He could tell that Kisame’s surrender had come far too easily to be genuine.

"I’m serious. Don’t fuck around."

A simple nod was all he got in return.

Kisame turned around and started walking back toward the castle.

Obito let out a long sigh, then followed him—grudgingly.

As they reached the bottom of the steps leading up to the terrace, Kisame slowed down and turned slightly toward him.

"What?" Obito snapped.

"Don’t make Sakura’s life hell."

Obito stared at him. For a second. Then raised an eyebrow—almost mockingly.

"I’m the one making it bearable," he replied, brushing past him.

Kisame wanted to ask what the hell that was supposed to mean. But Obito was already a step ahead, pushing open the glass door to the salon.

Inside, a sea of black hair and pale faces turned toward them.

Notes:

Hi everyone! Thank you all so much for your comments and kudos <3

I'm super excited to share this chapter with you! As you’ll see, there are quite a few new elements.

First of all: Carolina. I wanted to introduce another female cousin to balance things out a bit—Naruto’s universe is great and all, but let's be honest, female representation isn’t exactly its strong suit. Carolina is basically Ino… but worse. She definitely has her flaws, but she also has plenty of redeeming qualities. I’m even thinking of turning her into a full-fledged character later on—I might have a storyline in mind for her (though nothing’s set in stone yet).

As for the castle: Lochhaven doesn’t actually exist (I made up the name), but I based it on Highclere Castle for inspiration (hopefully the descriptions made that clear enough!). Just so you know, the story isn’t set in any specific European country, though it obviously takes place somewhere on the continent. I imagine it as a fictional country that would stand in for the Land of Fire—to stay true to the manga.

When it comes to the dynamics of the aristocratic families, I drew from a mix of cinematic references (Saltburn, Succession, and more). Speaking of which, Duncan the butler is directly inspired by Saltburn. As for the Uchiha family’s behavior and traditions, they’re a blend of what you might find in old French and British aristocratic families—a bit of both worlds.

I hope you enjoyed it! I had so much fun bringing the atmosphere and characters to life :D

Chapter 23: Provocation

Summary:

Sakura and Obito have a chat.

Sakura hadn’t run into Obito again since… well, since that infamous night they’d spent together. That night, they hadn’t just done it once—but three times: twice on the kitchen counter, once on the couch. And every time, they’d both come. Her just as much as him.

Was he a good lover? Sakura couldn’t even say. She couldn’t even fully process what she’d done. It was only when he’d slammed the door on his way out that it hit her. That she realized how utterly insane she was. How deep in shit she really was.

The next day, when she saw Sasuke again, she didn’t feel anything special. A dull anger, sure. A sharp pang of sadness, yes. But not as intense as she’d expected.

No. That bitter, gut-wrenching sense of betrayal only came when she thought of Naruto. And in those moments, she cried. Long, violent sobs that left her trembling until she staggered into the bathroom to throw up.

“Sakura.”

She startled and looked up. Sasuke had just walked into the room.

“You okay?” he asked.

He looked at her with concern.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’ve got a weird look on your face.”

She let out a short laugh.

“I just ran into Obito in the living room. Could’ve done without that.”

Sasuke narrowed his eyes.

“He’s here?”

“Yeah.”

The Uchiha raised an eyebrow. He stepped closer, his face just inches from hers.

“Tell me if he’s bothering you.”

“I can handle myself.”

“I know. But tell me anyway.”

He studied her for a few seconds, then kissed her. She closed her eyes, a faint smile tugging at her lips, before pulling away.

Had he kissed Naruto before coming here? And if he had… did he feel something for him? Did it turn him on, knowing he had both a brother and a sister wrapped around his finger?

The thought made her shudder. A wave of nausea rose in her throat.

“I’m going to see Shisui,” Sasuke said. “Haven’t talked to him in a while.”

“Okay,” she replied with a smile.

He lingered for a moment, as if about to say something else, then left the room.

Sakura waited until his footsteps faded down the hall before heading to the bathroom. She leaned over the sink and stared at her reflection. Her face looked normal. Maybe a little paler than usual. But otherwise, it was like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

She turned on the taps and splashed cold water on her face, took a deep breath, allowing herself a brief moment of calm, then stepped out, towel in hand.

When she looked up, a figure was standing by the fireplace.

She let out a sharp scream, completely caught off guard.

Obito looked up at her.

“And here I thought you were starting to get used to my face,” he said with a dry edge.

He had a book in his left hand. The other was buried in his pocket.

Sakura stared at him, stunned.

“What the hell are you doing here…?” she asked in a panicked whisper.

He went back to his reading like nothing had happened.

“Just taking a stroll.”

Her mouth fell open, dumbfounded.

“Get out. Right now.”

“Why? I wanted to talk.”

Her eyes went wide.

“No…! I don’t want to… talk…! I want you gone! This is my room! I could’ve…” she hesitated. “I could’ve been naked!”

A sharp laugh escaped him.

“Oh, come on… No need to pretend anymore,” he sneered provocatively.

Sakura’s face, frozen in shock a second ago, hardened. She let the silence settle thick between them before straightening, her gaze cold.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice like ice.

“I told you: to talk.”

He snapped the book shut and placed it down on the mantel.

“You’re still with him?” he asked. “Even after what he did?”

He didn’t need to say the name. She knew exactly who he meant.

Sakura shook her head, exasperated, and bent down to pick up the towel she had dropped.

"That’s none of your business. You’re not—”

“I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed,” he cut in. “Didn’t think you were that kind of girl.”

“That kind of girl?”

“Submissive. I thought that was Izumi’s thing. Or Carolina’s, maybe. But not you.”

Sakura stared at him. For a moment, she felt more humiliated than she’d ever been. She wanted to throw something at his face. But then she remembered who she was dealing with.

“You say that like you didn’t beg Rin to take you back,” she shot back, venom in her voice.

It was a bluff. Truth was, she had no idea how Obito had handled his breakup with his ex-wife. Kakashi and Rin were extremely careful to keep everything under wraps—especially from her and Naruto, like parents shielding their kids. Still, she had a gut feeling. Obito’s anger, his unresolved grief... it said plenty.

The Uchiha sniffed, full of disdain.

“Never said I didn’t,” he scoffed.

He leaned one elbow against the fireplace.

“So what are you gonna do?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you going to do now? Keep pretending nothing happened? Just take it all without flinching? Close your eyes?”

He shrugged.

“Then again, I get it. Dating an Uchiha comes with perks. It’s not every day you get to hang out in places like this, and—”

“I don’t give a damn about the Uchiha money,” she snapped.

She’d heard that one before—thinly veiled or said outright. People forgot to be ashamed, sometimes. And every time, she felt like she had to defend herself. No, she wasn’t with Sasuke for his name. Or his wealth. That idea wasn’t just an insult to Sasuke’s intelligence—it was a slap in her face. They were lumping her in with her mother. With Kat. And that, she could not stand.

She would never be like her. Never. She’d sworn it.

“Then why are you still with him?” Obito asked.

She shot him a look that could kill.

The truth? She had no idea.

She couldn’t explain why she hadn’t cut Sasuke off yet. Why she still talked to him, kissed him, went on like nothing had happened. Why she hadn’t screamed, caused a scene, burned it all down with one well-placed kick.

That kind of logic? Completely out of reach.

It was locked away.

And even though she saw how absurd it all was—how humiliating—not once had she seriously considered leaving him.

“Get out,” she said flatly.

She didn’t owe him an answer. And she sure as hell didn’t have to let him linger in her room.

Obito smirked. He pushed off the fireplace and stepped toward her—slow, deliberate—until she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

“You really want to stay with him, huh? He could fuck another girl right in front of you and you’d just look away and say it was his lookalike.”

Another girl? Sakura thought bitterly. It hadn’t been a girl. It had been a guy. She almost felt like correcting him.

Obito came even closer, forcing her to step back. He leaned in, his breath warm by her ear, his scent flooding the space between them.

“It’d be a shame if Sasuke found out what happened between us,” he whispered. “But it’d be an even bigger shame if we had to stop… wouldn’t it?”

A shiver ran down her spine. But it wasn’t disgust. It was something else—tension, anticipation… excitement.

Sakura looked up at him. He was smiling, smug, thinking he’d gotten to her. That he had her cornered. That he could twist her up and pull her down into his chaos—the same chaos he wanted to unleash on Kakashi, on everything still holding together.

But he was wrong.

Sakura wasn’t just angry. She was shattered. So shattered that her body still couldn’t process what she’d seen between Sasuke and Naruto. But one thing was clear: she wasn’t going to let it slide.

And she definitely wasn’t going to let Obito believe for one second that he could treat her like some hollow puppet.

He wanted to play? Fine. She’d show him exactly what he was getting into...

“Sakura?”

The voice came from the hallway. Obito turned his head toward the half-open door, then stepped back.

Carolina knocked once, then walked in—and froze when she saw him.

Her brows knit together as she glanced between the two of them, clearly suspicious.

“What’s going on?” she asked, stepping closer.

“Just saying hello to a friend,” Obito replied, his tone light.

He gave her a nasty smile, then slipped past her and out into the hall. Carolina watched him go in silence, then turned slowly back to Sakura.

“Do you have a dress picked out for tomorrow night?” she asked in a neutral voice.

It took Sakura a few seconds to process the question. Her mind was still spinning from her exchange with Obito.

“Uh… yeah. I thought about bringing something.”

Carolina looked her over from head to toe, like she was inspecting a product.

“Good. You’re starting to get the hang of it.”

She offered a smile that held no warmth, then turned on her heel and walked out, leaving Sakura alone.

Sakura waited until the silence settled around her again, then dropped onto the bed.

She still didn’t understand what she’d done to deserve this from the Uchiha.

But maybe… it didn’t matter anymore.

Because this time, she finally understood: they didn’t love her. And they never would.

And maybe—just maybe—that painful truth was the start of something real.

A healing.

The kind that lasted.

Notes:

Hello everyone!
I'm super annoyed because I broke my computer (my water bottle opened in my bag). Fortunately, I had put everything in the apple cloud, but honestly... I didn't feel like buying a new computer (especially a Mac, considering how much it costs). So in the meantime, I've found a computer to tide me over, but it's clearly not the most practical.
Anyway, here's the reunion chapter between Obito and Sakura. It's very short (sorry), but you'll have a chance to meet them again in this arc. The next chapter will be much longer and will concern Kisa/Ita. Thanks again for your comments and kudos <3

Chapter 24: You and me. No one else.

Summary:

The storm rumbles on, but Kisame knows how to control it.

Kisame mentally replayed the list of people in the room—the ones he’d be stuck with for the rest of the weekend.

First, there was Sasuke, Itachi’s little brother. The resemblance was uncanny—almost unsettling—but he came across as a more rebellious, more arrogant version of his elder sibling. Kisame had no idea what he’d done to earn the cold look Sasuke had shot him the moment he stepped into the living room, but he recognized it for what it was: good old-fashioned Uchiha hostility. Probably heard about what happened the night I came over for dinner, he thought.

Then there were Shisui and his wife, Izumi. They’d both been polite, but Kisame had quickly taken a liking to her. Izumi had a warm presence, asking him questions with genuine interest and lightening the heavy atmosphere of the room just by being there.

Carolina was there too, of course. But ever since he’d refused to sign her damned NDA, she hadn’t spoken a word to him.

And then there were Izuna and Madara.

Izuna was surprisingly likable. He had the most aristocratic features Kisame had ever seen on an Uchiha—which said a lot—but he was unexpectedly kind and had a sharp sense of humor.

Madara, on the other hand, was another story. When Kisame had greeted him, the man had stared at him. For far too long. The kind of stare that made your skin crawl, like he was studying you—every inch, every move. Then he’d smiled. A cold, cruel little smirk. The kind Obito wore on his worst days.

Like every Uchiha, his voice was calm, distant, authoritative. And his posture? If anyone in the room deserved a crown, it was him. Madara sat straight, chin slightly lifted, watching everyone without ever really looking away. He didn’t talk much—just listened—but Kisame was sure he missed nothing. A slight frown, a flicker of amusement in his expression, was enough to confirm he caught every nuance.

Whenever their eyes met, Madara would peer at him from beneath his lashes—a classic Uchiha move. And sometimes, he’d give him that same chilling smirk, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Less a smile than a warning.

“So, Kisame. What do you do for a living?” Izuna asked.

They were all seated around the large dining room table. Wide gallery windows opened onto the estate’s park.

Thankfully, no one was wearing a suit. Still, Kisame noticed that aside from him and Obito, everyone had opted for long-sleeved shirts or polos—far more formal than his casual clothes.

“Right now, I’m a personal trainer,” he replied, after finishing the bite in his mouth.

They’d been served wild boar in an exquisite sauce, with perfectly roasted vegetables on the side.

“That would explain the build,” Izumi said with a smile.

“Glad to see you noticed too,” Carolina added dryly, sipping her wine.

Izumi blushed bright red, prompting a ripple of laughter around the table—including from her husband, Shisui.

Flustered, she launched into a string of confused explanations, but the more she talked, the deeper she sank. No one jumped in to save her, which only made the scene funnier.

Kisame decided to throw her a lifeline, steering the conversation back on track.

“I used to be in special forces,” he added.

“With Obito?” Izumi asked quickly, clearly grateful for the change of subject.

“Yeah.”

A few intrigued "oh" rose around the table.

From the far end, Obito shot him a tired look. The kind that said, Why the hell would you bring that up?

“What was he like?” Izuna asked, glancing at his cousin. “He never tells us anything about it.”

“Because there’s nothing to tell,” Obito cut in, his tone sharp. “I was completely ordinary. Nothing worth mentioning.”

“I disagree.”

All heads turned toward the end of the table.

Madara was sitting there, eyes razor-sharp.

“I’m interested. Tell me what my cousin was like, Kisame.”

He said his name with a certain weight, like a reminder: I know exactly who you are, and now, I’m watching.

Obito shot Madara a sour look but didn’t push back. That surprised Kisame. Usually, his friend was quick to shut things down when people dug into things he didn’t want to discuss.

“So... what do you want to know?” he asked, unsure how to start.

He was still on the fence about using “you” with Madara, but since the man had spoken informally to him from the start, he figured he could return the favor. Duncan clearly didn’t approve—he pursed his lips every single time Kisame did it.

“What was he like in the field?” Madara asked.

Kisame didn’t answer right away. He wanted to choose his words carefully, knowing he was treading dangerous ground—Obito hated being talked about.

“He was an excellent marksman. The best. Could hit a moving target from miles away.”

He paused, then added with a glance toward his friend:

“But more than that... he was one of the bravest in the unit. Very few soldiers in special forces get medals. He deserved one.”

Silence fell over the table.

Madara leaned on one elbow, lazily circling the rim of his wineglass with his finger.

“That’s a beautiful tribute,” Izuna said eventually. “And that’s the Obito we know.”

He raised his glass toward his cousin. The others followed suit, smiling—everyone except Sakura, who simply looked on in silence.

Kisame lifted his glass as well, just to be safe. He savored the soft warmth of the wine as it slid down his throat like a quiet reward.

“Why did you leave the special forces?”

The question hit like a wall.

He slowly set his glass down and turned toward Madara, who was still watching him with that same, unwavering curiosity.

The former soldier didn’t want to lie. Not again. But he didn’t know how to dodge it, either.

“You don’t have to answer, Kisame,” someone said. “Some things are personal.”

All eyes turned to Itachi. His gaze had hardened, fixed on his cousin with such icy intensity that Kisame could’ve sworn he was trying to freeze him solid.

Madara stopped toying with his wineglass. Slowly, he straightened up and leaned back in his chair. His face remained unreadable, as if weighing every word that had just been spoken.

Around him, the room seemed to hold its breath, suspended in silent anticipation.

Then, as if he’d come to a decision, the faintest smile touched his lips. The world seemed to resume its rhythm. The staff—previously frozen in cautious discretion—quietly returned to their tasks.

“I understand,” he said. “I tend to be a bit too curious sometimes. I hope…”

He turned a pointed look toward Kisame.

“…our guest will forgive my indiscretion.”

“Forgiven,” Kisame replied flatly.

“Then I’m relieved.”

Izuna cleared his throat, breaking the silence before it could settle again.

“Hope you’re all ready for tonight,” he said.

“Tonight?” Carolina echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“They’re predicting a nasty storm. Might shake the whole region.”

“I guess that’s what we get for hiding out in a castle in the middle of nowhere,” Shisui quipped.

“Next time, tell our ancestors to go with the Bahamas,” Obito replied.

“The Bahamas hadn’t even been discovered back then,” Carolina pointed out.

“Neither had sarcasm, apparently.”

The jab earned a round of laughter, sweeping away the tension lingering around the table.

Obito and Carolina fell into a lively, teasing exchange that captured everyone’s attention.

Gradually, the conversation bloomed into an easy, overlapping chorus, leaving no room for awkward silences.

“Would sir care for more wine?” a maid asked quietly, approaching Kisame.

“Gladly,” he answered.

She poured the ruby-red liquid into his glass. He nodded in thanks and took a sip. His brows lifted slightly as he pursed his lips—the wine was excellent, on par with what he’d had when dining at Itachi’s place.

He looked down at his glass, briefly wondering if he’d been drinking swill his entire life without knowing it.

“I imagine you’re a good shot.”

Madara’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Kisame blinked, then turned his head toward him.

Around them, the gentle buzz of conversation continued like a calm, indifferent sea.

“It’s a requirement for getting into special forces,” he replied evenly.

“And are you as good as Obito?”

“Obito’s an outlier. He’s well above average. Even for special forces.”

Madara tilted his head slightly, seeming intrigued.

“Interesting.”

With a casual motion, he swept one long strand of hair behind his shoulder, adding even more weight to the charisma he already radiated.

“How about joining me for some shooting tomorrow morning?”

Kisame raised a brow.

“Shooting? Here?”

“Yes,” Madara replied, clearly amused by his surprise. “This castle used to be a hunting lodge. It’s in its blood. Shooting here is as natural as breathing.”

Kisame didn’t answer right away. Madara didn’t make him uncomfortable—he’d seen worse. But his instincts, sharpened by years in the field, told him to stay alert. He could read people well enough to know when someone meant him well, and when someone… had other motives. Madara definitely fell into the latter category.

“All right,” he said.

Madara’s smile widened just a fraction.

“Perfect. Let’s say nine o’clock?”

“Sounds fair.”

Madara called Duncan over and gave him a string of instructions in Russian.

The butler nodded and disappeared.

The rest of the dinner unfolded in calm, pleasant tones. Cheese was served, then dessert, and bit by bit, fatigue crept onto everyone’s faces. Kisame watched with mild amusement at the almost choreographed way they all stood and dispersed to their rooms.

He scanned the room for Itachi, intending to wish him goodnight, but the younger man had already vanished.

Guess he hit his social quota for the day, he thought.

Back in his room, he pulled the curtains shut with a practiced motion. He was rummaging through a closet for his toiletry bag when a soft knock echoed from the adjoining bathroom door.

Straightening up, he went to answer it. Itachi stood on the other side.

“Yeah?” he asked, surprised to see him.

“Just wanted to say goodnight.”

The former soldier leaned an arm against the doorframe.

“You could’ve said that in the hallway.”

“I preferred to do it here.”

He almost asked why, but decided it didn’t matter. He appreciated the gesture, simple as it was.

“Goodnight,” he said quietly.

Itachi smiled. He looked like he was about to say something more, but stopped himself.

“Goodnight,” he echoed.

They stood there for a moment in the hushed quiet of the room, then Itachi turned and walked away.

Just as Kisame was about to shut the door, the Uchiha paused.

“I’m using the bathroom,” he said over his shoulder. “Won’t be long.”

Kisame gave a slight nod.

“Be my guest, sir.”

They shared a brief, knowing look, faint smiles curving their lips, then parted without another word.

A few minutes later, the sound of running water seeped through the bathroom door.

Left alone, Kisame cast a contemplative glance toward it, the gentle trickle drawing him into an absent-minded sort of reflection.

Shaking his head, he turned back to his suitcase and began unpacking. Not according to the meticulous order the staff had imposed—no, his way. Each piece of clothing folded with purpose, each item shifted just enough to break the illusion of sterile perfection. A matter of principle.

Once finished, a door somewhere between his room and Itachi’s clicked shut. Kisame smirked to himself.

He must be done.

Kisame stepped into the bathroom, where the air was still thick with steam. He turned the taps, and soon, scalding water cascaded over his skin, gradually washing away the day’s tension. He stood motionless under the spray, savoring the heat as it rolled down his back, each droplet like a burning caress.

When he finally stepped out, his skin was flushed from the heat, bearing a fleeting trace of the steam’s touch. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he returned to the bedroom and slid under the sheets. The cool linen, in contrast with the warmth still radiating from his body, sent a shiver down his spine. He stretched out, relishing the generous space of the bed, and drifted off.

At first, he dreamed in fragments—absurd, disjointed images that made no sense. But gradually, they gave way to softer memories, bathed in golden light. He saw Miru smiling at him as he walked into Nagato and Shizune’s backyard for a barbecue. She looked peaceful, radiant, sparkling in the fading sunlight. Rin was nearby, pouring herself a glass of wine, and further off, Pakura was waving him over, surrounded by Konan and Yahiko. He moved toward them, ready with a teasing remark.

But he never got the chance.

A low rumble split the dream, yanking him violently awake.

Kisame’s eyes snapped open, and he pushed up onto his elbows. Darkness cloaked the room, briefly torn apart by a lightning flash that cast twisting shadows on the walls. Seconds later, thunder crashed—deep, thunderous, shaking the windowpanes.

“Shit…” he muttered, eyes squinting.

He should’ve brought earplugs.

With an annoyed grunt, he grabbed one of the pillows and crushed it over his head. He tried to pick up the dream where he’d left it, forcing himself to visualize Miru’s face, her smile, the way her eyes sparkled… But it was no use. The storm was too loud, the lightning too sharp. Sleep wouldn’t come.

After several futile minutes, he shoved the pillow aside and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees.

This isn’t happening, he thought, frustrated.

He threw on a pair of loose pants and grabbed a pack of cigarettes before leaving his room. The hallway was empty at this late hour, lit only by the erratic flashes of lightning that cast cold glints across the ornamental blades hanging on the walls.

Kisame strolled calmly down the corridor, unfazed, and descended the stairs—each step groaning faintly under his weight—before stepping into the vast, silent living room.

He opened one of the tall French doors and stood in the doorway. The sky outside was ink-black. Only the lightning revealed the heavy clouds looming over Lochhaven. He lit a cigarette and let his eyes wander across the rain-swept landscape.

The storm was wild. Water pounded down in sheets onto the orange-tinged leaves of the ancient trees, hammering the stone terrace. Wind howled through the corners of the castle, fierce and unrelenting.

Kisame took a drag from his cigarette and stood still, watching the wild dance of the storm—until a stronger gust than the rest rushed into the room.

He exhaled one last breath into the night, closed the French door, and made his way back up to the second floor, guided only by flashes of lightning.

He was nearly at the landing when something caught his eye.

On the wall to the right, where five ornamental blades were usually displayed in perfect symmetry, one was missing. The smallest of them—the misericorde dagger. The empty space it had left behind seemed to glow faintly in the dark.

Kisame felt the hair on his neck stand up. He knew this sensation. That faint, crawling tension of mistrust. That gut-deep warning that never failed him when danger was near.

Looks like someone just started a game of Clue, he thought wryly.

He turned away and continued, alert now, eyes scanning the shadows.

At the end of the hall, a silhouette stood motionless in front of an old suit of armor. Lightning glinted off the polished metal, throwing reflections onto the parquet floor. Rain lashed against the windows, masking the soft sound of his approach.

“Itachi?” Kisame called out, raising his voice over the storm.

He recognized the slender frame, the straight shoulders, the long hair trailing down the back of the young man’s neck.

Itachi didn’t move. Still frozen before the armor, he looked lost in thought… or maybe completely unaware of his surroundings.

Kisame approached carefully and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“What are you—?”

The words died in his throat.

Itachi whirled and slashed at him with a blade.

Kisame dodged on instinct, seized his arm, and slammed him against the wall. Itachi let out a harsh breath, his head snapping back from the impact. He fought back with erratic, furious movements. Kisame tightened his grip, pinning the armed hand with firm precision—not out of cruelty, but out of necessity. A stifled groan escaped Itachi’s lips, lost in the thunderclap that rolled through the sky.

“Drop it,” Kisame ordered, his voice low and sharp, like a battlefield command.

His fingers clenched around Itachi’s wrist, but the younger man kept resisting, as if possessed by something wild, something dark and unrelenting.

“Itachi… don’t make me…” he growled, strained.

Tension coiled through his arms, muscles taut like wire.

His survival instincts screamed at him to act decisively, to end the threat. But his reason held firm.

He gritted his teeth, fighting back against every ingrained reflex. His body, trained to neutralize danger first and ask questions later, was already assessing weak points: the thin limbs, the exposed throat, the unguarded vitals.

One strike would be enough. Just one.

“Itachi…!” he barked louder now—a final warning before he did something he’d regret.

The Uchiha flinched.

Kisame caught his eyes: wide, blown, wild. Barely visible beneath damp strands clinging to his forehead.

His irises burned with a fevered light, and raw terror—primal, near-animal—twisted his features.

Kisame wrenched the dagger from his hand and stepped back, body tensed.

“I…” Itachi rasped, voice hoarse, broken.

A sharp spasm tore through his chest—then another. He staggered, stumbling back toward his room, using the furniture to keep himself from collapsing.

“Itachi… calm down,” Kisame called after him.

The young man didn’t answer. He grabbed a plastic box sitting on a dresser and pulled out a syringe.

Kisame’s eyes widened.

“Don’t—!”

Too late.

Itachi lifted the needle and plunged it into his thigh. His face, twisted with pain just moments before, softened almost instantly. He wavered, took a clumsy step back, then collapsed onto the bed, curling one leg up against himself.

Kisame rushed toward him.

“Don’t come any closer !” Itachi’s voice trembled as he barked the warning.

One wild eye glared at him from beneath wet strands of hair. His shoulders trembled with shivers, his breathing sharp and erratic.

Kisame saw him like a wounded animal, curled up by the roadside, ready to bite. He slipped the dagger into his back pocket, then took a step forward.

“No…!” Itachi growled, strangled. “I mean it… stay back!”

He tried to kick him. Kisame dodged easily, then moved in and grabbed his arm in one swift motion, pulling him close.

He held him tightly—not roughly, but with no room to escape.

Itachi didn’t fight. He slumped into him, his forehead resting on Kisame’s shoulder.

His frail body shook in his arms, his breath coming in ragged bursts against his skin.

“What did you take?” Kisame asked, lips near his ear.

His fingers slid along the young man’s back, gently tracing the space between his shoulder blades.

Itachi flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away. He remained still, his breathing slowly settling, becoming less erratic with each second.

“A… medication,” he whispered. “For my episodes…”

Kisame’s fingers moved again, softly stroking his back.

Again, Itachi trembled under the touch, but still didn’t resist. He simply stayed there, still and quiet, slowly letting his body unclench, as if after years of tension, it was finally allowed to rest.

“Can I believe you?” Kisame asked after a moment.

“Yes,” Itachi replied.

Kisame felt him swallow hard. He closed his eyes and tightened the embrace, letting his arms wrap fully around him.

Itachi clung to him in return, drawing his legs up to his chest like he was trying to disappear into his warmth.

They stayed like that, unmoving, sharing their body heat in the silence, broken only by the distant growl of thunder. Every now and then, Kisame’s fingers would graze the back of Itachi’s neck. And each time, Itachi shivered, then relaxed, slowly uncoiling from within.

“Kisame…” he murmured.

He lifted his head gently, pulling away from the embrace, one hand brushing across his forehead. His hair fell like a curtain over his eyes, hiding his expression.

“You should go to bed. I’ll be fine.”

He pushed lightly against Kisame’s shoulder, a clear signal.

The man obeyed, his limbs still heavy from having restrained Itachi with something other than force.

He rose from the bed and pulled the blade from his back pocket. It was the misericorde—the very dagger that had gone missing from the wall.

The man weighed it in his hand, tossing it lightly from palm to palm, then looked over at Itachi, still sitting on the bed.

The young man’s dark eyes flicked up, watching him carefully, suspicion and weariness shadowing his features.

Kisame approached him anyway, unconcerned by the wary glances, and picked up the syringe resting beside him. The label read Diazerol in bold print.

He held it out to Itachi, who took it without a word, his ice-cold fingers briefly brushing his.

“Does this kind of episode happen often?” Kisame asked.

“It depends.”

Flat. Distant. No surprise there. Kisame knew that tone—that invisible wall Itachi always threw up when things got too personal. But this time, he had no intention of letting him slip away behind it.

“Since when?”

Itachi’s gaze hardened. The shadows under his eyes deepened, adding to his pale, haunted look. He seemed both present and miles away. Fragile, but dangerous. Still, but coiled. Blank on the surface, but torn to shreds beneath it.

“That’s none of your business,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“It becomes my business when my partner tries to stab me in the middle of the night.”

Itachi’s eyes widened at the bluntness.

Kisame gritted his teeth.

“It could’ve been Sakura. Or Izumi. Maybe even Carolina.”

He didn’t need to say more. They both knew. Itachi could’ve hurt someone. Or worse—killed them. He’d almost done it before with his parents.

“I need to know everything,” the man said. 

“No,” Itachi replied.

He stared back through his lashes, jaw tight, face shuttered in a way Kisame had never seen before. This wasn’t a sulky refusal—this was deep, visceral rejection.

“I deserve to understand,” Kisame pressed.

“And I deserve to keep some things to myself.”

“Why?”

Itachi narrowed his eyes, visibly annoyed.

“Because…”

He stopped short, as if saying it out loud might burn him.

“Because what?” Kisame asked again, more tension in his voice. “Tell me. I need to understand. That’s the only way I—”

“Because you'd be disgusted by me,” Itachi cut in.

His voice had changed. Low. Rough.

“You’d be repulsed. In the worst possible way. You… you’d never look at me the same again. Every time your eyes landed on me, you’d regret ever speaking to me. I know it. It’s inevitable. You’d never want to—”

“That’s not your decision to make.”

The soldier stepped away from the dresser he'd been leaning on and walked slowly toward him. He looked down at Itachi—still curled up on the bed—then crouched to meet him at eye level.

“Itachi…” Kisame murmured. “I crossed a sea to reach the mainland. I’ve seen things no one should ever see. Things that make you lose faith in humanity,” said the man. “Tyrants torturing civilians… Fathers selling their own daughters… Soldiers hacking off innocent people’s limbs… Kids slitting their parents’ throats…”

He stared straight into his eyes.

“And still, I talked to them. I lived with them. I shared my food with them. Because at some point, that’s all there was left to do.”

He tilted his head slightly, softening his tone—just a little—but not his resolve.

“Tell me, honestly: do you really think I’d reject you that easily?”

Itachi swallowed, lips parted.

“It’s not the same. You—”

“I’m still here,” Kisame cut in. “Here. Even after you nearly stabbed a fucking dagger through my heart.”

Itachi flinched again.

Kisame laid a steadying hand on his knee.

“I could’ve screamed,” he said quietly. “Tied you up. Locked you in a closet. Called the cops. Made a fucking scene. Pressed charges. Or broken your bones and walked out of here.”

He paused, eyes fixed on him.

“And yet, I’m here. In front of you. Waiting for you to tell me what the hell’s going on.”

Itachi clenched his jaw, then shut his eyes. His breathing grew rougher. Kisame watched the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, the tension pinching his brows, the way his eyelids twitched. Everything in him vibrated with a silent, violent battle.

Time stretched out. Then Itachi opened his eyes again. He didn’t look at Kisame. His gaze was distant, unfocused—fixed on some random corner of the room. Or nothing at all. There was nothing left in his eyes now. Just cold, distant emptiness. Like something inside had quietly broken.

“I had to be first,” he began. “Everywhere. Always. In everything. That’s… the price you pay when you’re the firstborn in a Uchiha family.”

He took a slow breath.

“At first, it was easy. I’ve always been good at adapting to whatever environment I’m thrown into. School wasn’t a problem—even when they made me skip grades, I still excelled. Because it was simple. All I had to do was follow the rules. It was like drawing a straight line between two dots. Easy. Mechanical. Low risk.”

He mimed the motion with his fingers, then sighed.

“Then college started. The first year was manageable. The second… less so. By the third…”

His hands, lying on either side of him, clenched the bedsheets tightly.

“I wasn’t the best anymore,” he said flatly. “Some people said I was still doing well and it didn’t really matter… but to me… it wasn’t good enough. I couldn’t keep up. Couldn’t draw those straight lines like before. I was… lost. Overwhelmed. Scattered. And the harder I tried, the worse it got. So I…”

He trailed off, shame closing his throat.

Kisame gently brushed his thumb across the boy’s knee.

The young man watched the movement but said nothing. The silence stretched between them. Then he cleared his throat.

“I started taking something.”

“Something?” Kisame echoed.

“For focus,” he clarified hoarsely. “It was meant for ADHD, but a lot of students used it to stay sharp. So I did too. I got through my fourth year thanks to it.”

He paused.

“But even then, my parents were furious. Sure, I passed… but I wasn’t top of the class. So for my fifth year, I looked for something else. Stronger.”

A shiver ran down his spine. His shoulders tightened with tension.

“And then I met a guy. Steve. He was my supplier. And I had enough money to buy out a pharmacy. Finding what I wanted—and helping him profit—wasn’t hard.”

He gave a bitter smile.

“But then the Uchiha family accountant flagged unusual activity on my account. My parents responded by cutting me off. They started giving me just enough to live on. Just enough to prevent… temptation.”

He scratched at his wrist nervously.

“Of course, I couldn’t afford what I needed anymore. And with the final exams of my eighth—and last—year approaching, it was unthinkable to do it without. Just like it was unthinkable to stay sober for a month. At that point, I couldn’t function without regular use. So I asked Steve for a front. He said maybe he could help… if I came to his place.”

His eyes drifted, hollow again.

“I accepted his offer.”

Kisame’s brow furrowed. His expression darkened.

“What kind of offer?”

Itachi held his breath. The air turned thick, suspended in a silence too heavy.

“Everything,” he said at last. “I agreed to everything. Did everything. Endured everything. In exchange… I got what I came for.”

Kisame froze. His mind hesitated to fully register what he’d just heard. Some part of him had hoped, briefly, that the confession would end there. That it would just be about money—something sordid, sure, but less vile. But no. Itachi had said it plainly: everything. And Kisame knew exactly what that meant.

His hand tightened gently on Itachi’s knee.

“What happened after that?”

Itachi didn’t answer right away. He stayed still, then swallowed hard.

“One day… I went to Steve’s place. But this time, when I arrived… he wasn’t alone. There were four others with him.”

He paused. Long. Suffocating.

“I tried to leave. But… there were five of them. And I was alone. I didn’t have the strength. I couldn’t fight back. It was like I was… gone. But still there.”

He furrowed his brow, searching for words that kept slipping away.

“I was there… but not really,” Itachi murmured. “Like a spectator watching what was being done to my body.”

He cleared his throat discreetly, fighting back whatever threatened to rise.

His lips tightened, barely. He wavered—but held on.

“I’ve never been attracted to men,” he said coldly. “Never. And yet, after that…”

He closed his eyes briefly, avoiding Kisame’s gaze.

“I wasn’t sure anymore. All I knew was… I didn’t feel legitimate around women. I couldn’t want them. I… I could only feel that way about men. Like it had been etched into me. Branded.”

He inhaled shakily, voice trembling.

“So I went back to Steve. Not just for the drugs. But to… make sure I hated it. And every fucking time, it happened again. Every fucking time, I prayed it would stop. And every fucking time, I went back. Again. And again. Like I was trapped in a loop I couldn’t escape.”

His fingers dug into the mattress. His eyes stayed fixed on some invisible point.

He looked somewhere else entirely—trapped in the things still clinging to his skin.

“After that…”

His voice was nearly gone.

“I skipped classes. For a long time. I sat my exams without caring. And somehow, by some goddamn miracle… I passed. Dead last in the rankings, of course.”

He gave a short laugh. Cold. Mechanical. Completely void of meaning.

“When my parents found out… they exploded. I remember… we were in the kitchen. My father came at me. He told me I was worthless. That I should’ve been first. That I didn’t deserve the education he’d given me. That I was just a junkie with no future. That I was disgracing the Uchiha name.”

He clenched his jaw, but his face remained still. Controlled.

“I told myself it didn’t matter. My father had always been like that. Harsh. Demeaning. Cold. Vile. But then… he said, ‘I’m cutting you out of this family. Sasuke will take your place. I’ll give him everything I gave you. I’ll raise him properly. He’ll lead the Uchiha one day.’”

A faint tremor passed through his fragile shoulders.

“At that moment… everything came back. Everything I’d gone through. Everything still ahead of me. And everything that would probably happen to Sasuke too. And that… I couldn’t accept.”

His pupils flickered, as if caught by some inner shadow.

“When I looked up at him… I saw Steve. And the others. Their faces blended with his. Like ghosts. So I grabbed a knife—and I stabbed him.”

He bit down on his tongue, jaw tense.

“My mother screamed. And in that moment, I didn’t understand why. Her whole fucking life, she’d been silent. So why now? Why waste her voice after thirty years of quiet?” he spat bitterly.

He shook his head, brows furrowed, the anger still sharp.

“It was deafening. Unbearable. She put everything she had into it. But all I wanted was for her to shut up. Like she always had. So I grabbed her by the throat and I… squeezed.”

His knees jerked slightly, like he was trying to shake off the burn inside.

“The staff pulled me off just in time. Sasuke wasn’t there. He didn’t see anything.”

His face twisted. A silent pain he couldn’t hide.

“After that, my father was hospitalized. My mother too. And me… I was sent to a psych ward.”

He paused. His gaze dropped to his thigh, where the syringe had left a faint mark.

“The doctors gave names to all of it: dissociative disorder, PTSD, hallucinations… A nice little cocktail. Exactly what you saw earlier tonight.”

He glanced up at Kisame—briefly—then looked away almost instantly.

“You know the rest.”

A minute passed. Heavy. Suffocating. Neither of them moved.

Then Kisame finally stood. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked a few steps across the room.

His heart pounded so hard he swore he could hear it echoing. His nerves were stretched taut, like wires ready to snap.

He had always known Itachi was carrying something. But not this. Not this kind of weight. It was brutal. Humiliating. Unjustifiable. And yet… he’d taken it all. Alone. Because he’d rather throw himself in front of a truck than be seen as vulnerable.

Fuck…

All this time, Itachi had been pretending.

“Who knows?” he asked, more sharply than he meant to.

Itachi gritted his teeth.

“Some of the Uchiha. Not all. And… a few doctors at the clinic.”

“Even about…”

He stopped. The words caught in his throat, giving way to a flood of images he hadn’t asked for. Itachi, naked, face pressed to a mattress, eyes blank, unable to fight back. He clenched his eyes shut, forcing the images away.

“Even about the rapes?” he said finally, jaw tight.

He’d forced the words out. Because they had to be said.

Itachi stared at him in disbelief. For a second, he looked frozen. Then his face twisted in anger.

“It wasn’t…” he began, voice thin.

He tried again.

“It wasn’t—”

“Yes, it was,” Kisame cut him off instantly.

Itachi shot up from the bed. The frame creaked sharply under him.

“I went there because I wanted to,” he said hoarsely.

Kisame didn’t flinch. He’d expected this.

Because Itachi was proud.

Because he’d rather take all the blame than admit he was in pain.

Because it was easier to feel responsible than broken.

But Kisame wasn’t about to let him drown in that lie. What happened to him didn’t make him any less of a man. Or any less of an Uchiha. And making him see that was the first step in helping him face the trauma he’d been carrying.

“You went there because you needed your fix,” Kisame said firmly. “Not for anything else. You know that.”

Itachi looked like he wanted to argue—but the words caught in his throat. His jaw tightened, and his eyes stayed locked on a spot on the floor.

Kisame could feel it all rising inside him—rage, shame, sorrow. And still, he knew: the Uchiha was holding back.

He approached slowly and placed a hand behind his shoulders.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

But Itachi still refused to lift his gaze from the floor.

“Look at me,” Kisame repeated, more firmly this time.

He gently cupped the young man’s chin and raised his face.

Itachi’s gaze, though wounded, met his with a cold steadiness. As if daring him to see that he was still standing. That he was still the one in control.

Kisame lowered his forehead until it rested against Itachi’s. The younger man froze, startled. He held his breath… then slowly let it out.

They both closed their eyes, as if seeking balance in the quiet between them.

“I’m on your side,” Kisame murmured.

Itachi’s brows drew together. He was fighting—fighting to stay composed. Fighting not to break.

“No one…” he whispered. “No one can ever know. If this ever got out… I… I couldn’t take it.”

Kisame understood. He meant Steve. The others. What they had done to him. And even if every cell in his body screamed for justice, he showed nothing. It wasn’t his truth to expose. His job was to be there. Present. Solid. To guide him. So that maybe, one day, Itachi could begin to heal.

“I promise,” he said, voice low and sure. “On everything I have. It’s just you and me. No one else.”

Itachi’s hand gripped his wrist tightly.

Kisame felt the tremble in his breath.

“Kisame…” he whispered. “I…”

He hesitated. His fingers clutched at Kisame’s skin.

“Stay with me. Just for tonight. Please…”

Kisame remembered that night on the porch.

The night Itachi had asked him to take him away, right after Fugaku had thrown him out.

He’d said no that night. He’d walked away—shaken, overwhelmed by the realization that Colonel Uchiha wasn’t just some tyrant, but Itachi’s father. He hadn’t known what to do, so he’d left.

Now, he regretted it. Deeply.

If he had known. If only he had known… he would’ve taken him far away. As far as possible.

“You don’t need to beg,” he said at last. “I’m already here.”

Itachi’s breath caught again. Slowly, he rose on his toes and wrapped his arms around Kisame’s neck. The former soldier instinctively leaned down, hugging him back, pulling him close. He felt Itachi bury his face against his neck, breathing in his scent, clinging to it like a refuge.

Kisame closed his eyes.

Itachi’s body was thin. Light. Too light. Kisame could feel his bones through his skin. It would take so little to break him. Like a twig.

That thought made him pull him even closer. His arms wrapped around his back, his waist, his whole chest—but it still didn’t feel like enough. He wanted Itachi to feel it. To know he meant every word he’d said.

It was them.

Just them.

No one else.

But he couldn’t hold him any tighter. Physically, it wasn’t possible. And Itachi’s exhausted body was beginning to falter.

“Itachi…” Kisame whispered.

He tried to pull back, but the Uchiha clung to him, refusing to let go.

“I’m not leaving,” Kisame reassured him. “Just… let’s lie down.”

He moved his hands to Itachi’s hips and gently eased him back. Itachi’s arms slid away reluctantly, falling into the space between them. Kisame cupped his face in his hands, brushing his thumb softly across his cheek. The young man looked at him with a mix of fear and gratitude flickering in his dark eyes. Kisame tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, then stepped around him to pull back the covers.

Itachi followed him silently and slipped under the blankets first. Kisame joined him a moment later, as if it were the most natural thing in the world—as if they’d always done this.

He immediately felt the cold press of Itachi’s body against his side. Slowly, he rolled toward him and opened his arm. Itachi curled into it instantly, burying his face in the hollow of Kisame’s neck. The soldier wrapped him close, fingers drifting gently into the younger man’s dark hair.

He felt Itachi’s lashes brush against his collarbone—like a feather. Like a breath.

“I’m here,” Kisame murmured again.

Itachi blinked slowly… and finally closed his eyes.

Notes:

Hello everyone! This chapter comes in the middle of the night (where I live, anyway). Tomorrow I'm going on vacation, and I don't think I'll be able to post for another four or five days (hence the fact that I'm posting this chapter a bit hastily). I don't know if it's well written, usually I try to concentrate more on grammar, but today I've kind of abandoned that part to quickly post before going to bed (I hope it's not too noticeable)! I think I'll come back later to correct the most obvious mistakes :)

Regarding the chapter itself: diazerol is a fictional drug (I made up the name, so no need to look it up on the internet :D). Keep this name in mind because it will come back in the story :)

As usual, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your comments and kudos. I think there are a lot of people who read this story but don't comment, so thanks to you too, invisible readers <3

Don't hesitate to tell me if there are any really obvious mistakes in the chapter (I won't take it the wrong way, and I'll try to change it as soon as possible) :)

See you soon!

PS: I hope you enjoyed the other Uchihas!

Chapter 25: Shootting session

Summary:

Kisame learns just how deep Uchiha roots run—and just how sharp Duncan’s eye for detail can be.

The first rays of sunlight filtered through the window as Kisame opened his eyes. He immediately felt the weight of a body pressed against his own. Itachi was asleep, his head resting on Kisame’s chest. His dark hair spilled across Kisame’s torso like an ink stain.

Kisame brushed a few shiny strands with his fingertips, trailing them gently along their silky length.

A faint frown creased the Uchiha’s brow. In sleep, the young man looked serene—almost unreal. Nothing like the boy with the wild, frenzied stare who’d nearly killed him the night before.

He caressed his face, the memories of the night before still vivid, then lazily glanced at the bedside table. The clock read 9:20. He stared at it dully, then jolted upright.

Shit, he thought.

Madara. He’d forgotten about Madara.

Kisame carefully disentangled himself, gently shifting Itachi's body to slip out of his embrace. As he stood, the Uchiha stirred and slowly opened his eyes.

“I’ll be right back,” Kisame murmured. “Go back to sleep.”

Itachi stared at him with dull, almost lifeless eyes. He looked drained, like he hadn’t slept at all.

Maybe it’s the drug he injected, Kisame thought.

He pressed a kiss to his forehead and left the room quietly, slipping through the bathroom to reach his own quarters.

He quickly threw on some comfortable clothes and stepped into the hallway, where the orange morning light bathed the doors of the other rooms. He headed downstairs without wasting a second, and ran into Duncan near the hall.

“You’re late, sir,” the butler noted.

“Rough night,” Kisame replied. “Do you know where—”

“Mr. Madara is waiting for you in the dining room.”

“Thanks.”

Kisame crossed the main foyer and entered one of the most elegant rooms in the mansion.

The French doors stood open to the garden, letting in golden light that lit up the tapestries and ancient frescoes adorning the walls. In the center, the long table made was set with delicate breakfast dishes and carefully prepared food. Madara sat at the head, reading a newspaper. A quiet staff member filled his coffee cup.

“Sorry I’m late,” Kisame said as he walked toward him.

Madara looked up slowly.

“Rough wake-up?” he asked.

“Something like that.”

He chuckled softly and turned his attention back to the paper.

“My night wasn’t great either,” he admitted. “That storm kept me up half the night.”

He shook the paper to flatten it, then turned to the staff member standing patiently nearby. With a wave of his hand, he signaled her to approach. They exchanged a few words in Russian, his calm tone laced with casual detachment. The woman nodded respectfully before walking off.

Kisame watched the scene with a wary eye. He didn’t like being excluded from conversations—years in the field had taught him that whispered words in a language he didn’t understand were rarely innocent.

“No need to worry,” Madara said, as if reading his mind. “I was just telling her to let Georges, our gamekeeper, know to get ready for us. I figured you’d be late. No point making a staff member wait out in the cold for nothing.”

Kisame took the hit without flinching. Fair enough—he was the one at fault.

“Thanks for thinking of that,” he said.

“It’s nothing,” Madara replied, not looking up. “My family taught me to be punctual. Especially with the staff. We don’t waste their time. That’s called education. Something you seem to be… somewhat lacking.”

Another jab. Sharper this time.

Kisame offered a bitter smile. He could admit his mistakes, but he had little patience for arrogance. And even less for disrespect.

"Sorry if my manners don’t meet your standards," he said coldly. “My parents got blown to bits in a bombing, so yeah—no etiquette lessons at home."

Madara slowly lifted his eyes from the paper.

Kisame held his gaze, expression unreadable.

Seconds ticked by, thick with tension, until the Uchiha smirked. He folded the newspaper with care, crossed his legs, and rested his hands on the armrests.

“Now that’s what I call bad luck,” he said.

He seemed genuinely amused.

Really amused.

Kisame stared, caught between disbelief and surprise. It was the first time he’d played the orphan card so bluntly… and the first time someone had brushed it off so casually.

“Tea? Coffee?” Madara asked, nodding toward the table.

“No. I’m not really hungry.”

“Shall I take that as a sign you’re ready?”

“Yes.”

The Uchiha stood and gestured for him to follow. He wore a warm jacket, leather gloves, and black lace-up boots—apparently the family’s signature color.

They stepped outside and walked to an open-top off-road vehicle. Madara took the driver’s seat, started the engine with practiced ease, and sped off through the woods.

They drove for a solid ten minutes, Kisame watching the landscape blur past, wondering just how vast this estate really was.

“These lands were conquered by our ancestors centuries ago,” Madara said as he cut the engine.

They had arrived in a rectangular clearing surrounded by orange-leaved trees.

A man—presumably Georges—was waiting for them, sitting on a crate. At the sight of them, he stood and began preparing the gear.

Madara greeted him with a nod, then continued:

“The goal was to make it a prime hunting ground. That wish has always been honored. Today, Lochhaven is one of the most sought-after estates for sport hunting. Game is abundant. And the setting? Stunning.”

Georges handed them each a hunting rifle.

Kisame thanked him.

The man lifted his beret slightly in response.

“Royalty loves to visit in the autumn,” Madara added. “My grandfather insists the wildlife be plentiful for their visits. That’s why I invited you for target practice, not boar hunting.”

He glanced at Kisame.

"Disappointed?"

"No."

Madara raised an eyebrow.

"Not into hunting?"

"I’ve seen enough blood in my life. I don’t need to make a hobby out of it."

"Well, well," the Uchiha said with amusement. "An animal lover. That’s a surprise coming from an ex-soldier."

"Life’s full of contradictions."

"That’s putting it mildly."

Madara calmly loaded his weapon and signaled to Georges to activate the clay launcher. The gamekeeper nodded and walked off toward the machine, set up about twenty meters away.

"I have to admit, I’m a little jealous of the royals," Madara went on, breaking the silence. "They get to hunt here whenever they feel like it, while I have to wait until they’re done pillaging the place before I can scavenge what’s left."

Kisame gave a dry, amused smirk. He might not be a hunting expert, but he’d bet good money that Madara’s idea of "scraps" could feed an entire regiment. And he had no doubt Madara knew that perfectly well—he just liked playing the martyr for effect.

"What kind of royals are we talking about?" he asked, adjusting his weapon.

Madara shaded his eyes with one hand, scanning for Georges. He signaled him, then got into position.

"The British royal family. Princes and princesses from the Gulf. And the Swedish royal family."

Kisame raised an eyebrow.

"Swedes? That’s a new one."

He’d heard about the English royals—every year, the tabloids loved catching them mid-expedition in some remote corner of their island. Same with the Gulf royals, flying across continents for the thrill of the hunt.

But the Swedes? That was new.

"Yes," Madara confirmed. "It’s because of Obito. His mother’s a cousin to the heirs of the throne. That gets them a few privileges. My grandfather never misses a chance to exploit that."

A series of clay disks shot into the air with a sharp clap.

Madara raised his gun and hit each one with effortless precision.

"Obito? Royal blood?" asked Kisame. 

The remark drew a nasty smirk from Madara. He lowered his weapon and stepped aside, offering Kisame the spot.

"Every member of this family has royal blood—too many centuries of inbreeding. That’s why some of us have lost our minds."

"Charming," Kisame muttered as he got into position.

"Yes," Madara said dryly. "Itachi knows something about that. Doesn’t he?"

The disks flew again, but Kisame didn’t fire. He lowered his gun and looked at Madara.

The man was still staring at the horizon.

"Zero?" he asked, frowning. "I expected better from a special forces soldier."

"What are you after?"

His voice was sharp, intentionally so.

Kisame wasn’t naïve—he knew damn well Madara wasn’t interested in him. Not really. His attention had another target. The man had an agenda.

"Me?" the Uchiha echoed. "Nothing special. Just curious."

He gestured to the launcher.

"Your turn."

Kisame slowly looked away, then took position.

The disks launched with a crisp snap, slicing through the air like invisible blades.

Unlike Madara, who’d taken his time adjusting his aim, Kisame moved in a blink. In one smooth, instinctive motion, he raised his weapon, tracked the targets, and hit each one with deadly precision.

He stared for a moment at the shattered fragments on the ground, then disarmed his rifle with deliberate, almost mocking ease. He looked up at Madara.

The Uchiha was watching the broken pieces scattered twenty meters away, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

He stood silent for a while, then raised an eyebrow, those black eyes settling on Kisame with a barely veiled curiosity. A thin, calculated smile touched his lips, as if he’d just uncovered a truth he hadn’t expected.

"I get it now," he said.

He stepped forward with calculated slowness, like a predator closing in.

Kisame stood still as he approached. Madara was shorter—like most people—but something about him radiated danger. Animalistic and elusive. Everything in him—his posture, his low voice, his sharp gaze, the way his expression revealed nothing—carried that feline grace wrapped in latent threat.

A bastard, no doubt. But a charismatic one.

And—Kisame had to admit—handsome as hell. The jet-black hair, the unnaturally pale skin, the broad shoulders, and those coal-black eyes made him something else entirely. A living mystery. A magnetic beast.

Kisame couldn’t help comparing him to a black panther. Not the sleek, elegant kind like Itachi—no. A predator built for combat. Solid, grounded, with the kind of taut muscle that promised real force beneath the surface.

"So the muscles aren’t just for show," Madara remarked, his eyes scanning Kisame’s frame with something close to clinical detachment.

He began to circle him slowly, like inspecting a rare beast at auction.

"I like that," he murmured, just under his breath. "Your body, I mean."

He looked up, eyes still drifting with calculated slowness.

"We should get a drink sometime."

Kisame raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t quite grasp how the man had the audacity to flirt, especially when he’d been met with nothing but blatant hostility since the beginning. But then it clicked. Madara was born for two things—hunting, and putting on a show. Everything about him oozed control: the quiet arrogance of a man with nothing to prove and everything to impose. Of course he wouldn’t feel even a flicker of shame asking something like that.

"I'm not into men," Kisame said over his shoulder as the Uchiha passed behind him.

Madara gave a quiet laugh.

"You all say that."

He circled back to face him, moving like a shadow slipping across the ground.

"Let’s play a game," he said casually.

"What kind of game?"

"A bet."

Kisame let out a short, humorless chuckle. He could already see where this was going. He was starting to get a handle on Madara—and he knew this man didn’t care for empathy or fairness.

"Do I get to say no?" he asked, more out of formality than hope.

"No."

Of  fucking course, he thought grimly. He’d bet money that if he dared to refuse or turn his back, Madara would make him pay for it. And he already had a good idea how. That comment about Itachi hadn’t been idle—he’d been testing how much Kisame cared. And, whether he liked it or not, Kisame had confirmed it: Itachi mattered. Too damn much.

"What are the rules?" he asked. His voice was neutral, just short of polite. He didn’t care to mask his distaste. Madara and his so-called ‘education’ could go to hell.

"Impress me," the Uchiha replied. "I’m not as good a shot as you are. Trying to compete would be a waste of time... and frankly, insulting to your talent."

He motioned for Georges to move the launcher farther back. The gamekeeper complied, retreating until Madara stopped him with a curt gesture. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, dark eyes calculating every detail like it was a chessboard. Then, finally, he turned to Kisame.

"Three disk launches. From fifty meters. You need to hit at least two."

Kisame clenched his jaw. At that distance, the shot pattern widened too much, making precision far more difficult—even for a sniper. With a precision rifle, he could’ve pulled it off no problem. But this shotgun? That was a different story. Maybe Obito would’ve handled it blindfolded. But Kisame wasn’t Obito. And it had been a while since he’d practiced long-range shooting.

"What’s the wager?" he asked, his tone colder than he meant it to be.

Madara seemed to think for a moment, letting the silence drag just long enough to fray Kisame’s nerves. Then, with a smile that promised nothing good, he turned his eyes back to him.

"If you win, I’ll offer you shelter from a storm."

Kisame narrowed his eyes.

"A storm?"

"Yes. And not a small one. It’ll hit this afternoon. Believe me—you don’t want to face it without gear."

Kisame frowned. He didn’t know what Madara meant, but against his better judgment, he decided to take it seriously.

"And if I lose?"

Madara gave a slow, amused smirk.

"I’ve heard of a psychiatric facility out in the Icelandic steppes. The brochures call it a peaceful place—cut off from the world. Perfect for finding serenity far from the stress of civilization."

He unlatched his weapon and stored it in its case with a sharp motion.

"They believe in healing through solitude and silence. Most patients stay for three years. Long, sure—but they come out changed. Obedient. Well-behaved. Like little dogs."

He’s face stayed motionless, carved in stone. No smile, no twitch, nothing. He stared at Kisame with a cold, measured gaze.

"It’d be a shame if that brochure ended up in Fugaku’s hands. Worse still if someone told him how effective the place is, wouldn’t you say?"

Kisame felt every muscle in his body go taut—but he didn’t show a thing. He stayed calm, just as the army had taught him, holding Madara’s stare with unflinching silence.

Son of a bitch, he thought. Now I get it.

Yeah, he got it now. He understood what Obito meant when he said his family wasn’t like the one they’d built with Nagato and the others. He understood why Itachi said his relatives were twisted, cruel at times. He understood Rin, who wanted nothing to do with the Uchiha ever again. And he understood Kakashi, grumbling about Sakura’s nightmare in-law situation.

It all made sense now.

A fucking pack of psychos.

"You’re quiet," Madara noted.

He hadn’t moved, still watching him with that glacial intensity.

Was this just for provocation? Or was he trying to get even for something? Kisame couldn’t read him.

"You doing this because I turned you down?"

Madara raised a brow, as if the question didn’t make sense at first. Then slowly, a spark of amusement lit in his eyes. A sharp, cold laugh cut the air like a blade.

"You’ll have to do better than that to hurt my pride."

"Then what is this?"

Madara didn’t answer right away. He adjusted his leather gloves with that rare grace that seemed to be his alone, then took a step forward, boots crunching lightly on the ground.

"I like seeing what people are capable of when they’re protecting something they care about."

He stepped closer, closing the space between them until only a breath remained.

"Show me," he ordered.

Then, in a quieter voice:

"Impress me."

Kisame felt his breath near his ear, and a chill raced down his spine. It wasn’t thrill—it was a primal warning. An inner alarm. The kind of chill that whispered, quietly but insistently: Careful. Danger ahead.

"Whenever you're ready," Madara said.

Kisame got into position. The air was crisp, but the tension made his skin burn. Can’t let Itachi go through that, he thought, hands locked tight around the weapon. Not again.

Madara signaled George. The launcher whirred to life, and the disk shot into the air with a sharp snap, slicing the sky just like before. Kisame ignored the adrenaline clouding his focus, braced himself, and fired. The disk exploded mid-air in a burst of shards.

His heartbeat began to settle.

One down.

Beside him, Madara clapped slowly, that vague smirk still on his lips.

"Not bad," he said, half-mocking. "Let’s see the second one."

Kisame inhaled deeply, blocking out the fake cheer in Madara’s tone. He kept his stance, eyes locked on the horizon. Seconds crawled by—heavy, stretching—until another disk rose into the sky.

He aimed—but hesitated for a split second. Too late. The shot fired, loud and sharp, but off. The disk dropped untouched into the grass.

The weight of failure hit like a stone. His shoulders tensed, his spine stiff with pressure.

Fuck.

"One shot left," Madara called from behind.

Kisame didn’t need to turn. He could feel the bastard smiling—relishing his stumble, feeding off the tension. He held back the urge to snap. It would only throw off his aim. Still, rage clawed at his throat.

How had it come to this? Gambling Itachi’s future on some stupid game? It was insane. And yet… here he was. Because deep down, he knew. If he didn’t play, Madara would come up with something worse.

Son of a bitch...

These Uchiha wanted to throw him on some remote island, drugged and docile, under the control of that psycho cousin. Strip him from everything Itachi cared about—just to hide the mess.

And for what? Control? Shame? Cowardice?

No way. 

Kisame wasn’t going to let that happen. If winning some shitty bet was what it took—then he’d win. End of story.

The ex-soldier adjusted his stance, widening his footing. He made sure the stock sat snug against his shoulder, finger resting on the trigger. He focused on the launcher, drawing in a breath to still his thoughts.

The disk launched—dark, circular, slicing through the light. Kisame tracked it calmly, gave himself an extra second, then squeezed the trigger.

The shot cracked loud and clean. The round tore through the air and shattered the disk. The sound echoed through the clearing like a verdict.

Kisame exhaled—he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath—and turned to Madara.

"That’s it," he said simply.

The Uchiha raised an eyebrow, then clapped slowly, a thin, mocking smile stretching across his lips.

"Bravo. You’re almost as good as Obito. I’m sure—"

"I won," Kisame cut in, not in the mood for chatter.

Madara froze, lips parted as if he’d forgotten what he meant to say. Then a short, sharp laugh broke from him—cold and cynical.

"A promise is a promise," he said. "I’ll get you your shelter for the storm."

"When?"

"You’ll know soon enough."

Their eyes locked again, both weighing the other in tense silence. Then Madara’s phone buzzed. He answered, murmuring something in German. Kisame frowned. How many damn languages did this guy speak?

"Apologies. I have to cut our session short," Madara said. "Need a ride back?"

He nodded toward the car.

"No. I’ll walk," Kisame replied, packing away his weapon.

"You sure? It’s a bit of a hike to the house."

"Yeah. I’m sure."

The last thing he needed was more time with Madara.

"As you like."

The Uchiha climbed into his car, started the engine, and disappeared into the woods. Kisame waited until the sound faded before letting his shoulders drop. He stood there a moment, unmoving, in the middle of the clearing—then heard footsteps.

He turned to see George.

"He took a liking to you," the gamekeeper said.

He wore a forest-green jacket with a corduroy collar, sturdy boots, and a matching beret—straight out of some old novel.

"You think so?" Kisame replied.

George lit a cigarette with practiced ease, then offered one to Kisame. 

"Mr. Madara likes people who stand up to him. He’s... complicated."

Complicated was putting it mildly.

Kisame let out a low, bitter laugh, then turned to George.

"You need help packing up?"

The gamekeeper glanced around at the gun cases, the launcher, and the shattered disks scattered like the aftermath of a firefight.

"Only if you promise not to tell Mr. Madara. Now that I know he’s got a soft spot for you, I’d rather he didn’t know you helped me do my job."

Kisame smirked.

"I won't say a word," he promised, nodding.

George crushed his cigarette under his boot.

"Good. In that case, let’s get to it."

They rolled up their sleeves and got to work cleaning up. As they stacked broken clay plates and cleared the small clearing, George started sharing bits of his story. He'd been working here for over twenty years—a number that, while impressive, still paled in comparison to Duncan’s tenure. Before him, it was his father who looked after the estate, and before that, his grandfather. And even earlier, his great-grandfather.

"We've been serving the Uchiha for so long," George said with a hint of pride in his voice, "they gave us a plot of land. A nice little Jacobean house with a wooded yard. They say my great-grandfather planted the big oak at the entrance."

Kisame nodded, listening without really responding. The man sounded sincere, and that nearly ancestral connection between his family and the Uchiha stirred a flicker of curiosity—along with something darker he kept to himself.

Of course they gave him a patch of land, he thought, inwardly sneering. That’s how the game works. Hand the peasants a pretty little box to die in, and they’ll sing praises to the bastards who keep the chains polished. Dress it up as legacy, call it loyalty, and suddenly servitude starts looking like tradition.

He kept his silence, letting George's voice fill the space as he stared ahead, lost in thought.

As they made their way toward the terrace, George kept talking—about the estate’s history, old alliances, and even a few stories about some of the more notorious members of the Uchiha clan. One tale stuck with Kisame in particular: an Uchiha ancestor who had supposedly won a duel right in that same clearing, a story George clearly took pride in.

They parted ways at the terrace. Kisame gave the groundskeeper a short nod in thanks before stepping inside. Voices echoed from the dining room, but he didn’t stop. Only one thought ran through his mind: find Itachi. Check if he was still asleep, if he was doing any better.

He took the stairs two at a time, impatience driving every movement. At the end of the hall, he stopped in front of the Uchiha’s room and knocked softly.

"Itachi," he called. "I’m coming in."

He cracked the door open and peeked inside. The bed was unmade, but the room was empty. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, revealing a silent, vacant space. Probably went down for breakfast, he thought.

He shut the door and headed to his own room down the hall. When he walked in, he found Duncan inside, hanging a suit on the rack by the closet.

"Sir," Duncan greeted without turning, eyes still on his task.

Kisame raised an eyebrow, surprised but too tired to ask questions.

"Duncan," he replied simply.

He stepped up to look at the suit. It was a fairly simple tux, though the fabric made it obvious this wasn’t off-the-rack. The black jacket had a satin shawl collar, paired with a crisp white shirt with black buttons and matching trousers. A black bow tie completed the look with just the right touch of elegance.

Kisame frowned.

"You’ve got some kind of sixth sense for suit sizes?"

"I know my profession, sir. Judging measurements is part of my daily work."

Kisame scratched his head, unconvinced. The tux looked like it would fit him perfectly—but still, it didn’t make sense. Even the shoes were there. He had a hard time believing the guy had guessed all that just by looking at him.

"You got all that from two glances and a grunted hello?"

Duncan pressed his lips together, clearly irritated.

"You don’t ask me to handle a firearm. I won’t ask you to dress guests. We all have our trades. Yours is battle. Mine is observation—every detail. Like, say, the way your bed doesn’t look like anyone slept in it."

Kisame’s frown deepened. He glanced toward his bed. Sure enough, the sheets were still smooth, the pillows too perfectly aligned for someone who’d spent the night in them.

"Yeah, well, making beds is part of the training. We’re neat little killers."

Duncan raised an eyebrow.

"Then I’m relieved. I thought perhaps the room didn’t suit you and you’d decided to spend the night in someone else’s."

He delivered the line with a flat, humorless smile, then turned on his heel and left the room, his footsteps echoing softly on the wooden floor.

 

Notes:

Hi everyone! I hope you're doing well :)

Thank you so much for your kudos and comments—as always, they truly warm my heart, and I’m incredibly grateful for your support. <3

About this chapter: Madara fans, I hope you’re happy! Don’t worry—he’ll be showing up again later in the story. His character is mysterious, with a delightfully cruel mind (I love him!).

This chapter was meant to highlight two things: the Uchiha’s wealth and power, but also the darker side of what they do with it. Kisame acts as a quiet observer of this world, and like us, he’s discovering it’s not as glamorous as it might seem.

The shooting scene was inspired by a moment from The Favourite. If you haven’t seen it yet, I highly recommend it—I absolutely loved it.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter! <3

Chapter 26: Only women

Summary:

Tensions run high as Kisame and Itachi navigate the fragile aftermath of last night.

Itachi opened one eye, then the other. His limbs felt heavy, numb—the same as every time he shot up. He reached out, searching for the warmth that had stayed beside him all night, then pulled his arm back, remembering that Kisame was gone. Slowly, he sat up and dragged himself to the bathroom. His muscles were tense, his neck stiff. And he was cold. Bone-deep cold. Like the castle had no heat at all.

He slipped into the shower without hesitation. Scalding water poured over his shoulders and down his back. For a few seconds, he stood still, motionless, then began massaging the base of his neck. He closed his eyes as he loosened the tense muscles, tilting his head back slightly, then to each side.

Kisame’s image surfaced in his mind. He pictured him standing behind him, huge and solid, taking the brunt of the hot water. Itachi would shiver, and the soldier would wrap his arms around him, taking his time to make sure no part of him was left out in the cold. He’d press him gently, sweetly, against his chest. Whisper, "I’m here," right into his ear. His arms would shield him. His warm breath would heat his icy neck, and his body—pressed close—would share all the warmth Itachi needed.

Itachi opened his eyes. His cock was half-hard, nothing intense, but enough to feel the tension. He clenched his jaw and shut the water off with a sharp movement. Grabbing the soap, he started scrubbing himself with mechanical vigor, deliberately ignoring his body’s response.

Kisame would never want him like this. Never. If he knew what went on in Itachi’s head—how his body reacted just to the thought of tenderness—he’d shove him away without a second thought. And he’d be right. Kisame’s embraces were gentle, free of anything twisted or perverse. Itachi had no right to taint them. It was shameful even that something so soft could trigger such a base response. But he couldn’t help it. Ever since what had happened with Steve and the others, his body had been acting like a teenager’s—turned on by nothing, climaxing too fast, getting caught up in risky encounters. His orgasms were mechanical, automatic. He could come with anyone, anytime. His partners mistook it for some kind of incredible performance, when really, he felt nothing. It was like his body was saying, “I’m doing this because you told me to, that’s all.”

He had tried more than once to stop having sex. But he always ended up caving. Going back to his demons: first to the men who had broken him, who welcomed him back with open arms, and then to strangers of every kind, eager to add "that hot guy" to their list. Sometimes they were quick and rough, sometimes brutal and violent. Itachi gave them full control. The only rule: no tenderness.

Glen, the nurse at the clinic who occasionally used his body, was the only one allowed to blur that line. Itachi let it happen only because the man had leverage: access to early test results, deliveries of meds Itachi needed—starting with Diazerol. But that’s where it ended, and that suited them both just fine.

"You could’ve at least said hi," came a voice.

Itachi turned. He’d left the bathroom and holed up in the library on the ground floor, hidden behind an oversized armchair. Sasuke stepped around it and stood in front of him, leaning against the glass door.

"I didn’t feel like having breakfast," Itachi said.

Sasuke nodded, not entirely convinced. He glanced down at the book in Itachi’s hands, then tilted his head to read the title. His brother made it easier by showing him the cover. Sasuke raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, then scanned the room.

"Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Your guest."

"I have no idea."

And it was true. Itachi had no clue where Kisame might be. He pictured him wandering the castle, admiring the artwork, maybe talking to the staff—possibly both.

"That sucks. He should be with you."

"Why?"

"Because he’s not trustworthy. You barely know him."

Itachi gave a faint smile.

"You don’t need to worry about him."

"That’s what you think. But what if he has bad intentions? You should’ve made him sign Carolina’s contract."

Fugaku had clearly passed on his irrational fear of Kisame to Sasuke. And logically, his caution wasn’t unfounded. The man had served under his command for years before being thrown out of the special forces, treated like garbage, and permanently exiled. For someone like Fugaku—raised to be wary—it was almost instinctual. Years of scanning for threats had left their mark.

But that theory crumbled as soon as you got to know Kisame. He wasn’t stupid. If he’d wanted revenge, he would’ve gone about it with cold, calculated violence—no hesitation, no messy emotions involving Itachi.

"I trust Kisame completely," Itachi replied, turning back to his book.

"Fine," Sasuke snapped. "And what about me? Can I still trust your judgment?"

Itachi looked up at his younger brother. Still leaning against the windowpane, Sasuke was watching him with a tense, worried expression.

That look made Itachi’s chest tighten.

Sasuke hadn’t seen the violent storm that had torn everything apart that day, but he’d lived through the aftermath: the fear and despair that had gripped their parents. Their mother’s icy silence, not saying a word for a full week. Their father’s pain—so obvious, despite his cold perfectionism—when he realized his own son had wanted to kill him, even if just for a second.

"You can still trust me," Itachi said softly. "But I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t."

Sasuke’s jaw tensed. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, like he was about to say something but thought better of it. Finally, he dropped his gaze. Silence settled over them, thick and suffocating.

"I miss my brother," he said quietly.

Itachi understood. Sasuke didn’t just miss the version of him from before—it was also the protective figure he used to be: the big brother who could mask his own pain behind perfect smiles, who always found solutions, who always knew just what to say to make things better.

That illusion was gone now. With him committed to a psych ward five days a week, there was no hiding that something was deeply wrong. And Sasuke could no longer rely on him the way he once did.

"I'm here," Itachi said, borrowing Kisame’s words.

And he meant it. Of course he was there for his brother. Even locked up in a clinic, he never stopped watching over him.

"That’s not enough," Sasuke shot back.

Itachi had expected that. He knew his little brother inside and out—and he knew how much attention he demanded. Itachi could’ve jumped off a bridge for him—Sasuke still would’ve complained it wasn’t high enough.

"You’re not easy, you know that?" he sighed.

Sasuke gave a bitter laugh.

"You're the one—"

"He’s good," cut in a voice.

They both turned their heads in sync.

Madara was approaching, unbuttoning his jacket.

Sasuke raised an eyebrow, curious.

"Who?"

"Kisame."

The younger one narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

"What are you talking about?"

"Shooting. We chatted while breaking a few clays, and let’s just say—he’s… interesting."

Sasuke rolled his eyes.

"You’re all so easily impressed..."

He pushed off the window and brushed past Madara, heading for the door. His footsteps echoed briefly along the high walls, then the door slammed behind him.

Madara stepped slowly up to Itachi, taking Sasuke’s former place. But unlike him, he stood tall, hands in his pockets. Standing before the glass doors, his silhouette melted into the shadows, only his eyes piercing through the mess of his hair.

"You look... weary," he remarked.

"You’re all obsessed with that man," Itachi muttered.

Madara gave a bitter smile.

"Can you blame us? Six-foot-five, all muscle and testosterone… He’s hard to ignore."

Itachi gave him a blank stare.

He looked back down at his book and resumed reading.

He didn’t want to talk about Kisame—or at least not with Madara: he’d seen the way the man had looked at the soldier during dinner the night before, and clearly, it was a look of interest. A dangerous one.

"Where’d you find him?" Madara asked, surprisingly gently.

"I didn’t find him," Itachi replied, turning a page.

"He came to you?"

"Not that either."

Kisame wasn’t an object. He and Itachi had met because their paths had crossed, not because he’d been picked up from a lost-and-found bin.

Madara gave a disdainful sniff, like he could read his thoughts.

"He cares about you, at least."

Itachi didn’t respond. He didn’t even flinch. Still, he had to reread the same line several times before it made sense.

Madara’s words had thrown him off just enough to shake his focus—but not enough to show it.

"He cares," the man repeated, "but reasonably. Not like you care about him. He prefers women. Only women."

His voice seemed to echo in the library, despite all the shelves, armchairs, and tapestries. Itachi turned another page, carefully controlling every movement, every muscle.

He had always known Kisame was straight. He could see it. He could feel it. The way the man looked at women wasn’t the way he looked at men. It had been clear from the moment he saw him glance at his mother—the awe of a man dumbstruck by raw feminine beauty. On the opposite, the way he looked at Itachi was different: warm eyes, amused eyes, compassionate eyes, but utterly devoid of desire. No lingering what if hanging in the air. No subtle tension in the way his gaze brushed over his body. No searching glances wanting more than a smile.

Kisame was affectionate, tactile, yes—but nothing beyond that. What he'd done the day before, he could have done for anyone else, if he felt close enough and thought they needed it.

"He has a wife, yes," Itachi replied.

"Had a wife," Madara corrected. "He never mentioned being in a relationship. Not once. And a man like that doesn’t spend an entire weekend here if someone’s waiting at home. He seems like the devoted type—the kind who gives himself completely to his woman. That’s probably why he still wears his ring, even though she doesn’t want him anymore."

Itachi didn’t react. The guesses—well-informed, all of them—didn’t surprise him. Madara had a gift for reading people, especially for spotting their weaknesses. And what he’d seen in Kisame was dead on.

Yes, he was married.

Yes, he was devoted to her.

Yes, she only had to snap her fingers and he’d drop everything to crawl back like a dog.

Because he still loved her.

"You won’t have him," Madara murmured.

A cold smile spread across his face.

"He loves you the way people love wounded animals. He wants to protect you, coddle you, hold you—like you’d do with a half-dead dog found on the side of the road. Because looking at you makes him feel better about himself. He thinks, ‘I could’ve ended up worse. I could’ve been him.’"

Itachi turned another page. His eyes drifted over the words without taking them in, his thoughts caught in Madara’s poison despite every effort to seem unmoved.

"If you ever show him anything more than brotherly affection…" Madara went on, "you’ll lose him. Dying dog or not, he’ll kick you to the curb without a second thought."

He leaned in, his face inches from Itachi’s.

"He doesn’t love you. And he never will. You’re just a dying dog. Nothing more."

Then he pulled back, as fluidly as a serpent retreating after delivering its venom.

Itachi gently closed his book, resting his chin on his fist, his elbow propped on the armrest.

"You’re alone because you can’t see human relationships as anything more than crude echoes of the animal kingdom."

A brief, sharp glint passed through Madara’s eyes.

Itachi watched him from under his lashes, blinking slowly.

"I’m not interested in Kisame," he said. "He’s a friend. That’s all he’ll ever be."

Madara gave a dry, amused snort.

"Shame. I would've bet he had a big dick."

He walked around Itachi’s chair and headed for the exit, leaving him to his book.

The vulgarity of the remark seemed to linger in the room long after he’d gone. Itachi tried to get back into his reading, but couldn’t—not right away. His mind was still reeling from the conversation. He had to reread the same page several times before his focus returned.

Eventually, he managed to lose himself in the text again—until muffled voices made him look up. Through the glass door, he saw Izuna smiling. Across from him stood Kisame, hands in his pockets, chatting with ease. Their exchange looked natural, like they’d known each other forever.

Itachi didn’t have that luxury. His conversations with Kisame were less smooth, often punctuated by silence, unspoken thoughts, subtle gestures. Kisame had figured out that much of what Itachi felt stayed buried behind his words—hidden in his gaze, his posture, his moments of stillness.

Is there anything he doesn’t pick up on? Itachi wondered bitterly.

He was jealous. Jealous of his ability to stay balanced no matter the situation. Of his body—so strong, so tall, so powerful. Of his natural magnetism. Of his heterosexuality. Of the happiness he’d once had with his wife, even if it had fallen apart since.

Itachi continued watching him out of the corner of his eye, then pulled out his phone and opened Instagram. Kisame wasn’t hard to find—his profile wasn’t private, and his username was just his first and last name.

There were only three posts: two landscapes and one of him posing next to his partner. Or rather, his ex-partner, since she’d filed for divorce several weeks ago.

Itachi tapped on her profile. Kisame barely posted, but she didn’t seem to have the same restraint. Her name was Miru. Brunette. Tall. Slim. Long legs for days.

She was clearly into running, and she seemed passionate about dancing too. Her smile was dazzling, her face photogenic, and her body… exactly what you’d expect from someone so active: toned, athletic, flexible.

A model who didn’t know it. Or maybe not: each of her photos had dozens of likes. She wasn’t an influencer—but she easily could’ve been.

So that’s what he likes, he thought. "That kind of woman. Smooth face. Perfect smile. Neatly styled hair. A body sculpted to perfection.

"Itachi," a voice called suddenly.

He locked his phone screen and looked up. Kisame had opened the glass door. Izuna was no longer with him.

"Hi," Itachi said, his voice colder than he’d meant it to be.

He’d almost been caught stalking his ex. His body might’ve stayed composed, but his heart was pounding in his chest.

"Hi," Kisame replied.

He braced his powerful arms on either side of the doorway.

"Wanna go for a walk?"

Itachi stared at him in silence, then lowered his eyes to his book and resumed reading.

"No. I'm reading."

Kisame sniffed sharply.

"I’d really like you to show me the gardens."

"I said I’m busy," Itachi repeated.

"You can read later."

"I’d rather do it n—"

Kisame’s hand landed on the book, crumpling the page slightly. Itachi’s gaze shot up instantly.

"We need to talk, Itachi."

The Uchiha stared back at him without flinching.

It was the first time he’d heard that tone in Kisame’s voice.

Slowly, he freed his book from the man’s grip and stood up, brushing past him as he stepped out through the door. He walked down the terrace steps and onto one of the garden paths.

Kisame followed without a word. For several minutes, the only sound was the crunch of orange leaves beneath their feet.

Itachi glanced over his shoulder, checking they were far enough from the caslte, then stopped.

"I’m sorry," he said, without turning around.

He meant it. He’d spent the whole day suppressing his feelings, but he couldn’t anymore—not now that they were alone, away from prying ears.

He felt ashamed. A deep, visceral shame that twisted his gut and made him want to disappear.

"I know," Kisame replied.

Itachi closed his eyes briefly and pressed his lips together.

"I didn’t mean to do that," he muttered. "I didn’t… do it on purpose."

He opened his eyes and looked at Kisame. The man stood tall, eyes fixed on him. He didn’t look angry, or sad, or even hurt. Just focused. And strangely, that comforted Itachi. The last thing he wanted to see on his face was pity.

"Forget it happened," the young man whispered. "Let’s not talk about it. It was just…"

"No."

Kisame stepped forward, close enough that Itachi had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes.

"That’s not happening," he said firmly.

Itachi’s eyes widened, and his jaw clenched. That flat refusal to let it go sparked a wave of anger he hadn’t realized was simmering inside.

He suddenly wanted to shove him away, to tell him to disappear. He wanted to spit in his face that he  was nothing more than a shared hallucination. That he hadn’t raised a hand to him. That he never said a word about Steve and the others. That it was just a moment of weakness. To deny everything—fully, completely, violently. Because he never wanted to think about it again.

"Leave me alone," he ordered.

He tried to walk around him, but Kisame grabbed his arm and held him in place.

"Stop it. Right now," he growled.

"Stop what?"

"Stop pushing me away."

"I'm not pushing you away."

Kisame looked annoyed.

"You forgot what I said. I'm on your side."

Itachi felt his throat tighten. The anger that had surged just moments ago vanished, replaced by a dull sadness twisting in his gut.

He turned his back to the man, unwilling to meet his eyes, and took a step. But Kisame's deep voice froze him in place:

"I meant everything I said yesterday. Every word. Absolutely all of it. I can even repeat it, if that’s what you need."

Itachi bit his tongue. He waited a few seconds, trying to hold back the torrent of thoughts crashing over each other, then turned to face the former soldier.

"No need."

He wished he could say more. Tell him how much it had shaken him. That he was teetering between shock and pain, between shame and relief. But something held him back. Something unyielding, even with Kisame.

"You know, I could..." the man began.

He trailed off. Seconds passed, heavy and silent. He finally shrugged.

"I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again."

He looked him straight in the eyes, serious.

Itachi narrowed his eyes instantly.

"I don’t need your protection."

He wouldn't stand for it.

Never.

Kisame opened his mouth to speak, but a sharp, shrill sound rang out in the distance.

He jerked his head toward the castle. On the terrace, a maid was ringing a bell, her face blank.

"Lunchtime," Itachi explained. "An ancient method to make sure no one misses the call."

Kisame grimaced.

"Fuck, that thing scared the shit outta me," he muttered, scowling.

Itachi gave him a mocking smile.

"A big guy like you?"

He stepped around the soldier and headed for the castle—a not-so-subtle way to end the conversation.

He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Ever again.

Kisame caught up to him in a few strides. He shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced over.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked.

Itachi shivered. Yes, he had slept well. He had loved the way Kisame’s strong arms wrapped around him with quiet certainty. He had savored the slow beat of his heart under his ear. Blessed every second of that raw, easy intimacy.

"Yeah," he simply said.

And, to avoid an awkward silence, he added:

"And you?"

Kisame chuckled.

"Yeah. Though you talk in your sleep."

A wave of heat surged from Itachi’s toes to the top of his head. Luckily, he wasn’t the blushing type—otherwise, he’d bet anything his face would be beet red.

He bit his tongue and swallowed hard.

"I had a dream," he offered, awkwardly.

"What kind?"

"The weird kind."

"Tell me."

He sighed.

"It was… in another world. We were…"

"We?" Kisame cut in.

"Yeah. You were there with me. And we were some sort of… mercenaries. With long black cloaks, and strange powers."

"And what were we doing?"

"I don’t really remember… All I know is, it was exhausting. And… we’d done terrible things to get there. Really terrible things..."

"Like what?"

Vague images floated back to him.

Shadows, faces, blood.

"Killing… people…?" he said, uncertain.

Kisame stopped dead.

"That’s not a dream. That’s a fucking nightmare, Itachi."

"That part was a nightmare," the Uchiha agreed. "But the rest was a lot nicer."

"How so?"

The young man swallowed again, a new wave of sticky heat washing over him as sweat prickled his back.

"It was just the two of us," he finally said.

Silence followed. Kisame stood still for a moment, then started walking again, a smile ghosting across his lips.

"I see," he murmured. "Well… glad I wasn’t just part of the nightmare."

His foot struck a piece of gravel that skittered down the path.

"Where I come from, they say dreams are visions of another life."

"I hope that’s not true," Itachi replied automatically.

That other life seemed bleak. Suffocating.

Kisame snorted again.

"As long as you’re there too, the rest doesn’t bother me."

Itachi didn’t look at him, keeping his gaze stubbornly fixed ahead. If he dared to meet Kisame’s eyes, the man would see the turmoil in his. And he wasn’t ready for that.

He climbed the steps to the terrace and spotted Izumi and Shisui deep in quiet conversation. They looked calm, confident—but the deliberate space between them was telling: like so many Uchiha unions, their marriage was just another arrangement between families.

"Kisame!" Izumi called out cheerfully when she saw him. "Do you like the castle?"

"He wouldn’t dare say otherwise," Obito said, approaching them.

The man had just stepped onto the terrace, followed by Carolina and Izuna.

"I think the castle’s just fine." Kisame replied.

"A bit too old-fashioned for my taste," Izuna yawned.

He walked past the group and perched on the terrace railing. Carolina followed closely behind, raising a dismissive eyebrow.

"It's a seventeenth-century architectural gem," she shot back. "Of course it's old-fashioned."

"I prefer modern, sorry. What about you, Sakura?"

All eyes turned to the young woman who had just joined them, accompanied by Sasuke and Madara. She blinked, surprised to be asked.

"I think it's beautiful," she said after a moment.

"Of course you do," Carolina muttered with a mocking smile. "I don’t—"

"Shut up," Obito cut in.

Carolina gave him a sharp glare.

"Who do you think you are? You—"

"Wait," he interrupted again, raising a hand.

He frowned and tilted his head, listening.

Silence fell.

Then, a low hum began to rise in the air.

"What is that?" Sakura asked.

"Sikorsky S-76," Obito and Kisame replied in unison.

They looked at each other, a little surprised by the synchronicity. At that moment, the humming grew louder, and a gray helicopter emerged above the trees. It flew over the forest before beginning its descent into the estate, far from the ancient branches bending under the powerful air currents stirred by the rotors.

"Who is it?" Izumi asked, raising her voice to be heard over the roar.

"The storm," Madara replied.

He was giving Kisame a knowing, amused look.

Itachi frowned, not understanding the silent exchange, then turned his eyes back to the helicopter, heart pounding.

Not him. Not today, he thought, his breathing growing heavier.

But luck didn’t seem to be on his side.

The helicopter landed, its engine rumbling to a stop. The blades began to slow. A sliding door opened, and a man stepped out first.

"Kakuzu…" Carolina murmured.

"Who?" Kisame asked.

"Our grandfather’s bodyguard," Itachi explained.

A giant of a man with dark, scarred skin held together by crude stitches. His long black hair fell in tangled strands over his shoulders, and his light green eyes, sharp as a snake’s, scanned the grounds.

Another man followed, emerging from the shadows. Cane in hand, gray-haired.

At the sight of him, Obito spun around to face the group.

"Who called him?" he demanded abruptly.

He was furious. His scarred face contorted with pure rage.

No one answered.

Obito’s gaze swept across the group until it landed on Madara. His cousin was watching the helicopter with a look of smug satisfaction.

Something lit up in Obito’s eyes—wild and uncontrolled. He stormed toward him. The movement was so sudden that Kisame reacted instinctively, ready to step in. But Carolina, moved by a reflex Itachi hadn’t known she possessed, stepped in front of him with a sharp gesture. The former soldier stared at her, bewildered. She slowly shook her head.

Translation: Don’t get involved.

Kisame gave her a worried glance, then turned back to Madara and Obito. The younger man had grabbed his cousin by the shoulder, his fingers digging into the fabric of Madara’s shirt.

His face was inches from Madara’s, but the older man didn’t flinch. He kept his eyes on the helicopter, offering only his profile.

"You’re a son of bitch," Obito hissed in his ear.

Madara gave a dry, amused smirk.

"Have a little respect for your aunt, will you? She may be many things, but not that."

Obito’s features twisted with fury. His grip on the shirt tightened, breath ragged and seething.

Then, suddenly, he let go. Harshly.

A curse escaped his lips, and he turned on his heel, storming off the terrace, his rage still thick in the air.

Notes:

Hello everyone! Hope you're all well!

Sorry, this chapter took a little longer to arrive: I'm taking more time between each publication so as not to catch up too quickly with the most recent chapters I've written :)

I'm not sure what to tell you about this chapter, except that it's important for developing the relationship between Itachi, Kisame and the other characters.

Ah yes: the arrival of Tajima! In this fanficiton, he's not Madara and Izuna's father, but their grandfather (a formidable man :D). He'll be back later, of course (accompanied by Kakuzu, his bodyguard).

Kakuzu will have his own development, but that won't be the case just yet (and I don't want to tell you just yet who his love interest will be ;) )

As usual, thank you so much for the comments and the kudos! <3 I see that more and more people are sharing their opinions with me, or simply telling me that they like this story, and that's so encouraging! Thank you so much! <3

Chapter 27: Meritocracy

Summary:

Tajima Uchiha’s arrival casts a heavy shadow over the weekend, turning dinner into a test of nerves and alliances.

Tajima Uchiha had arrived that afternoon, bringing with him a tension so thick even the most oblivious guest could tell something was off. First, the usually relaxed staff had gone rigid. Second, extra personnel had suddenly appeared around the estate—Tajima never traveled without his entourage. And third, everyone seemed to be avoiding sight, retreating to corners of the castle as if trying to disappear.

Itachi was no exception. After everyone had greeted Tajima —including Kisame—he’d grabbed the soldier by the arm and the two had vanished for a long walk through the gardens, skipping lunch entirely. Kisame had asked just one question: "Are you avoiding him?"

Itachi had answered yes. The soldier hadn’t pressed further, just followed him in silence. Itachi appreciated that—not because Kisame didn’t bombard him with questions, but because he trusted him completely on the matter. If the Uchiha didn’t want to see his grandfather, then there had to be a reason. And that reason didn’t need to be interrogated—at least, not yet.

When they returned to the castle, they’d eaten in the kitchen with Izuna and Carolina, who had also holed up there. The four of them then moved to the library for a card game, followed by several rounds of board games.

"You should challenge Shisui," Carolina said to Itachi.

The sun was setting, and the game was winding down—a general knowledge quiz. Itachi was in first place, Carolina in second, Izuna third, and Kisame… dead last.

"Shisui?" Kisame asked with a yawn, as if the comment had been meant for him.

Carolina nodded.

"He’s a well of knowledge. A real wizard. Totally unbeatable."

Kisame frowned as he drew a card. Behind him, a staff memeber lit a fire in the hearth. The air had turned chilly, marking the definitive end of summer. Even though the castle was heated, it was still an old building with thick stone walls that didn’t retain warmth very well. To compensate, Itachi and Carolina had pulled on turtlenecks, while Izuna had thrown a cardigan over his shirt. Kisame, of course, was only wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt. No surprise there—he radiated heat like a walking furnace. Itachi had felt it himself the night they spent together.

"Smarter than Itachi?" the soldier asked, skeptical.

Izuna and Carolina nodded in unison. But Kisame didn’t look convinced; he made a doubtful face. Itachi, for his part, allowed himself a small, amused smile.

Kisame had basically put him on a pedestal ever since he’d managed to answer the question: “List the major emperors of the Ming dynasty from the 17th to 18th century—in reverse chronological order.” Upon hearing the prompt, the soldier had burst out laughing, claiming it was impossible, that no one could answer something like that because the Ming dynasty was practically unknown to normal people.

Then Itachi had started thinking… and naming them off, one by one. Kisame’s face had gone slack. He’d stared, stunned, then looked at him with something close to awe.

Itachi had struggled to stay focused and finish the list. He’d almost failed—solely because of that astonished look. Normally, he’d be content with earning five points. But this time, he felt something else. He felt proud.

“We should go get ready,” Izuna sighed. “Dinner’ll be served soon.”

“You guys go ahead,” said Carolina. “I’ll clean up this mess.”

She waved them off, as if their lingering presence was messing up her plans.

Izuna fell silent and stood, followed shortly by Kisame.

Itachi got up and trailed after them.

They left the library together and strolled lazily toward the grand staircase.

Itachi stepped onto the first stair… then stopped.

Kisame and Izuna, in the middle of a casual conversation, paused and looked back.

"Itachi?" Kisame asked, watching him carefully.

His gaze was scrutinizing. Wary, to be precise. Since their intense exchange the night before, Kisame hadn’t stopped glancing at him. He tried to be discreet about it, pretending not to watch him, but he wasn’t exactly subtle.

Itachi didn’t know what to make of it. Was he afraid he might stab him again? Or was he worried he might hurt himself?

"You go ahead and use the bathroom first," he said, brushing the thoughts aside. "I need to check something first."

Kisame raised an eyebrow but didn’t push it.

"Alright," Kisame replied.

Itachi gave a nod and turned back. He felt the soldier’s gaze follow him, lingering like a touch on his back, but he kept walking, feigning indifference even as a shiver crept up his spine.

Back in the library, the fire was still crackling and the board games were strewn about. Carolina stood by the door leading to the grand salon, eyes fixed on a narrow gap, gnawing on her thumbnail. She flinched at the sound of his steps, then stepped away abruptly, smoothing her hair with a casual gesture. Her face was pale.

Without a word, she crossed the room and began tidying up the games, flashing Itachi a tight-lipped smile.

His gaze drifted to the door she’d been watching. Voices drifted through from the other side—Tajima’s among them. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it didn’t matter. Carolina wasn’t the type to eavesdrop—not because she was too proper, but because she was too smart to get caught that easily.

No. If she’d been standing there, nail to her lips, it was because she’d been waiting for the right moment to go in.

Itachi stepped closer to the table and picked up one of the game boards.

"If you’re going to talk to him, wait until after dinner," he said. "Tajima’s always more agreeable on a full stomach."

Carolina, true Uchiha that she was, didn’t let anything show. Eyes lowered to the table, she picked up a deck of cards and slid them into their box.

"That’s not guaranteed," she said, her voice unexpectedly flat. "Alcohol doesn’t always sit well with him."

She had a point. Tajima was unpredictable. That’s exactly why none of his grandchildren willingly spent time with him—he could praise you one minute and make your life hell the next. Even Madara, who was firmly in his good graces, tread carefully. One word from Tajima could exalt you… or destroy you. And no one, absolutely no one, wanted to know what it meant to be broken by Tajima Uchiha. Not even Obito.

"Why do you want to talk to him?" Itachi asked.

Carolina scooped up a handful of tokens from the board and dropped them into a pouch.

The silence stretched so long Itachi thought she might be ignoring him.

But finally, after several seconds, she said in a cold voice, "My parents found me a husband."

Itachi looked up at her discreetly.

Carolina was obedient. The model child—everything an Uchiha daughter was supposed to be. Her academic record was flawless, her beauty well-known, her manners impeccable, her intelligence unquestionable. She was, in every way, perfect. It wasn’t like her to ask anything of Tajima. She usually followed the rules, no matter how questionable or outdated they were.

If she wanted to speak to the head of the family, something serious had happened. Serious enough for her to defy her parents and appeal to the one man who could overrule them.

She’s asking for a favor, Itachi thought.

A favor that would carve a debt deep into her skin, one she’d carry for the rest of her life.

Because Tajima didn’t give gifts. Not even to his grandchildren.

"You don’t like him?" Itachi asked.

"We… don’t share the same values."

Translation: I hate him. I hate him so much I’m willing to disobey my parents. He disgusts me so deeply I’d rather be indebted to Tajima than spend a lifetime with him.

Itachi stopped gathering the pieces and studied his cousin. Her gaze stayed downcast, her jaw tight. Her posture was composed, elegant even—but her trembling fingers betrayed her fear.

"Is he difficult?" Itachi asked.

Translation: Is he violent?

Carolina gave a bitter smile.

"More like temperamental."

Very violent.

"Have you had a chance to talk with him?"

Has he hit you yet?

"No. But I think I’ll get the chance soon enough."

Not yet, but it's coming.

Itachi folded the board and placed it into its box.

"Tell Tajima," he said. "Be blunt. No sugarcoating."

Carolina’s head snapped up. A tight smile curled her lips, followed by a nervous laugh.

"Tajima hates when people play the victim. If I tell him my future husband…"

She trailed off. A second too long. Her breath caught, her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and regained her composure, leaning forward slightly, lowering her voice.

"I can’t tell him. Not like that. He might see it as me trying to run away and have me locked up until the engagement."

She shook her head. "It’s too risky."

"Tajima has plenty of flaws," Itachi said, "but he has no reason to let his granddaughter get beaten by her husband. Tell him the guy’s violent, and he’ll take action."

"But he hates when we question the matches our parents arrange for us..."

"Exactly. Which is why you can’t let him think you’re refusing the engagement," Itachi said. "Be smarter than that. Play along. Tell him you’re willing to marry the man your parents picked, but you need assurances. And one of those is that he never lays a hand on you. No matter what."

He stacked two boxes and shot a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure no staff were nearby.

"Tajima hates scandals," he added. "He won’t risk his granddaughter showing up to a gala covered in bruises. Or worse—cracking and running off. He loves order and discipline. If you strike the right balance—warn him of the threat, but reassure him of your loyalty—he’ll handle it. He might even force your parents to pick someone else."

"And if he doesn’t?" Carolina asked. "If he gives me guarantees and still forces me to marry him? What then?"

Itachi looked at her for a moment before answering:

"Take a vacation."

Translation: Run.

Carolina froze. Her eyes widened, her lips parted—but no sound came out. She spun around abruptly to check the door, then leaned in toward Itachi.

"No one ever… I mean, no one’s ever… I could never..."

Translation: No one’s ever gotten away. No one. His reach is too far. He’d hire the whole world to find me.

She was right. And Itachi knew it. Escaping the Uchiha shadow was suicide. The fact that he’d even suggested the idea bordered on madness. There were truths in this family no one dared say out loud.

Others had tried to free themselves from the clan. They always came back—more broken, more exposed than before. Running was betrayal. And you didn’t betray your blood. Ever.

"You won’t have to go that far," he murmured after a moment.

He locked eyes with his cousin.

"Tajima loves you more than you think. He’s always had a soft spot for his granddaughters. And you—you’ve never been a source of trouble for him. You’re smart, obedient. I can’t promise he’ll let you choose someone else, but if he lets you marry a violent man, he’ll make damn sure that man is molded into someone who’ll never dare lay a finger on you. Like I said—he hates scandals."

Carolina stared at him with a dull expression, then gave a small nod.

At that moment, a maid came in to throw more logs on the fire. She offered to clean up for them, but they declined. They liked doing some things themselves—especially when it meant they could talk freely.

They finished cleaning up in silence and left the room to head to their bedrooms.

"You know why Madara wanted our dear grandfather to come to Lochhaven?" Carolina asked as they climbed the grand staircase.

Translation: Why did he have to ruin our weekend?

"To piss me off," Itachi answered.

She gave a dry laugh.

"What did you do to deserve that?"

Itachi wasn’t sure. Maybe there was no real reason. Madara could be cruel just for the fun of it. But that was surprising. Despite what people thought, he usually only struck when he felt provoked. Most of the time, anyway. His mind was too twisted to be entirely predictable.

"Kisame," Itachi finally said. "He doesn’t like him."

Carolina raised a brow as they reached the second floor.

"He doesn’t like him because he knows he could pull you away from us," she said. "Only truly worthy men can claim that kind of power over an Uchiha. And Madara hates that."

She gave him a brief, sympathetic smile and waved before disappearing behind her door.

Itachi stood still for a moment, thoughtful, then headed down the hall to his own room. When he stepped inside, his gaze immediately caught on the bed. His dinner suit was laid out neatly across the sheets—a silent reminder not to forget tonight’s event. He walked over, grabbed the hanger hook, and was about to put it away when something caught his attention.

The bathroom door wasn’t fully closed.

A narrow gap let a line of light spill onto the wooden floor. He didn’t have to move closer to see.

Or rather—to see him.

Kisame stood with his back to him, hands gliding over his shoulders and down the muscles he could reach. He was washing, water running down his body. His shoulders moved fluidly with each motion. His muscles—sculpted and strong—looked like polished marble, something out of a classical statue. Soap foamed along his back, lingered on his waist, then slipped lower, trailing over his thighs.

Everything about him was strength. Power. And strangely captivating.

Itachi swallowed. He quietly shut the door and stepped back. His back hit one of the bedposts, making him jump. He turned sharply, as if caught by the bed itself. He took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and pressed a hand to his forehead, rubbing it in a nervous gesture.

What the hell is wrong with me? he wondered.

No matter where he went, no matter what he did, his mind kept coming back to Kisame. Even mid-conversation with Carolina, he couldn’t help but think: How would he react if I told him this?

He hadn’t found an answer—but he was sure of one thing: Kisame would have worried. And as strange as it was, he liked that. Knowing the man cared about him meant more than he wanted to admit.

Itachi lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He drifted quickly into a half-sleep.

When he woke, night had fallen. Footsteps echoed in the hallway.

He grabbed his phone—an hour had passed.

Sitting up, he picked up his suit, knocked on the bathroom door, and, after confirming it was empty, stepped inside. He showered quickly, then got dressed, catching a glance of himself in the mirror. His hair now brushed his elbows—it had definitely grown. It would be a nuisance at dinner.

He opened a drawer and pulled out a hair tie, ready to pull his hair back. But just as he was about to do it, an image flashed in his mind: Kisame’s fingers running through his strands. Itachi paused, hand frozen mid-motion, then let the tie fall back into the open drawer.

He adjusted his bow tie, cast one last glance at his reflection, and stepped into the hallway.

Around him, the staff bustled up and down the staircase, their hurried footsteps echoing off the walls. Voices and music drifted up from the ground floor, filling the space with an almost oppressive buzz of excitement.

He descended the stairs slowly, until he spotted Kisame at the bottom, deep in conversation with Obito. The man leaned casually against the banister, elbow propped up with practiced ease. His suit fit him… perfectly.

Once again, Duncan had outdone himself with an impeccable eye for detail. The jacket hugged his shoulders without being tight. The pants—off-the-rack, yet somehow flawless. And the shirt… just right. No bow tie at the collar; he’d left the top button undone instead, and still managed to look effortlessly refined.

He looked like an MI6 agent undercover at some posh gala.

He was handsome.

Tall.

Strong.

Itachi swallowed. His hand clenched the banister. For a split second, he considered turning back, disappearing before anyone could notice him. But just then, Obito turned away from Kisame and looked up. He murmured something to his companion, who almost immediately turned his head toward Itachi.

The moment Kisame saw him, he froze—then smiled.

“Took your time,” he said.

He looked even more stunning now that he was facing him fully.

“Can’t blame him,” Obito muttered. “Everyone’s dragging their feet to this dinner.”

He was wearing a suit too, though far sloppier than Kisame’s: his shirt was half-untucked, and like Kisame, he’d skipped the bow tie. Still, he carried himself with that oddly distinguished insolence so typical of the Uchiha. Itachi was fairly certain the only reason he’d bothered dressing up at all was because Tajima was in attendance.

“I’ll leave you two,” Obito mumbled, stuffing his hands in his pockets before slipping through one of the wide doors leading into the formal dining hall, leaving them alone.

Itachi descended the last few steps until he was directly in front of Kisame. Since he hadn’t left the stairs, they were eye-level—maybe even slightly higher on Itachi’s side. For once, he didn’t have to crane his neck to look at him. It was Kisame who had to tilt his head up.

“No bow tie?” he asked, glancing at his collar.

Kisame looked down at his shirt.

“Too stuffy. And Obito told me to skip it.”

“Obito doesn’t always give the best advice.”

“He seemed pretty confident.”

“He always is when it involves provoking my grandfather.”

They exchanged a look—then both smiled. Kisame’s face was close, far too close. Itachi could see his eyes studying the contours of his own face.

An odd tension swelled inside him. To break the moment, he shifted the focus.

“Careful,” he said, grabbing Kisame’s wrist. “Never wear a watch with a suit.”

Kisame blinked.

“I didn’t know that.”

“A watch can be seen as a sign of detachment. Checking the time might be interpreted as disrespect toward the other guests.”

Itachi slid his index finger beneath the band and undid the clasp with a soft click. The watch slipped free into his hand. He held it out.

Kisame gave him an amused look.

“Funny. Everyone does it.”

“We’re not like everyone else,” Itachi replied.

Kisame chuckled.

“Right. Forgot you guys don’t play by the same rules.”

His tone was deep, slightly mocking, but not unkind. Itachi felt the jab—and along with it, a pang of heat. The ache of wanting to lean in. To kiss him. Slowly. Deeply.

“Try to remember that in the future,” he said, keeping his voice steady.

Kisame’s smile widened.

“I will. Every time you wear a suit. You’re too damn good for me to forget.”

Itachi felt warmth flood through him. His heart skipped a beat, but he held still—barely.

“You’re… very handsome too,” he murmured, eyes fixed on a random point across the staircase railing.

Kisame gave a short, muffled laugh.

“Even with the watch?”

Itachi caught the teasing in his voice and looked back at him.

“Even with the watch,” he whispered, surprised by how hard it was to say the words.

He didn’t know what to do. What to say. He felt completely at the mercy of the man standing in front of him—who, right then, was staring at him like he was trying to decode a message hidden beneath the surface.

Itachi thought about turning away, heading down the stairs. But his feet wouldn’t move, rooted to the floor. His chest was hot. His heart thudded against his ribs. He forced himself to breathe normally even though his lungs were screaming for more air.

“Thanks,” Kisame said, leaning in close to his ear.

His breath brushed against Itachi’s neck.

Every muscle in the Uchiha’s body tensed.

The urge to close his eyes and tilt his head, to bare his throat to him, hit like a wave. But he didn’t move. He stayed still as stone.

“We should go down,” he said, trying to end the slow-burn torment.

He slipped past him without another word and began walking down the steps, crossing into the main foyer.

He heard Kisame’s footsteps fall in behind him.

Did he know? Did he have any idea what he was doing to him? Was it intentional? Or just habit?

Because he was straight, right? That’s what he’d told Madara… hadn’t he?

If that were true—then wasn’t this strange? For a straight guy to act like this with another man? Or was Itachi just imagining things? Overanalyzing everything?

Kisame had just leaned in to thank him, right? Sure, he’d done it quietly, close—but still…

“Where are you headed like that, Itachi?”

The deep voice froze him mid-step.

He turned slowly.

Tajima had entered from another wing of the hall. Itachi recognized the brisk, firm stride. The commanding posture. That silent, unshakable presence.

“Grandfather,” he greeted, bowing his head respectfully.

Tajima lifted his chin slightly and turned his gaze toward Kisame.

“You’re not going to introduce me?” he asked, voice cool and imperious.

When he’d first arrived, Tajima had given his grandchildren a curt nod. But when he’d seen Kisame, his eyes had lingered—sharp as a blade. Then Madara had approached, whispered something in his ear, and the two had walked off.

“Grandfather, this is Kisame. A friend,” said Itachi, instinctively stepping closer to him. “Kisame, this is my grandfather—Tajima Uchiha.”

He was glad Kisame was a soldier. The man stood straight, posture impeccable. He shook Tajima’s hand without flinching and gave a polite nod, despite the financier’s cold, assessing stare.

During that brief exchange, Itachi wondered—did Kisame know? Did he realize who this man really was? Had he heard stories? Did he understand that behind that rigid stance and severe expression was a man who could decide the fate of entire industries? Who could choose, with a single word, whether something deserved to be saved—or wiped from the map?

“The soldier, right?” Tajima asked, looking him over from head to toe.

“That’s me, sir,” Kisame answered evenly.

Tajima gave a slow nod, stroked his chin thoughtfully, then turned his gaze to Itachi.

“I’ve heard of him,” he said, eyes locked on his grandson.

Translation: I know who he is and what he’s done.

A chill ran through Itachi.

Of course he knew. Nothing escaped him. His children told him everything. Absolutely everything. The whole world bent over backwards to report on the lives of his descendants.

No one escaped his notice.

At least… that’s what he liked to think. Because Itachi had learned how to keep secrets from him.

“Let’s eat,” the man ordered.

His heavy hand landed on Itachi’s shoulder and guided him toward the dining room, where the guests were already seated.

The women, wrapped in elegant gowns.

The men, dressed in flawless tuxedos.

The staff had prepared the table with painstaking precision. Ten chairs surrounded it: five faced a wall covered in grand tapestries and oil paintings, while the other five had their backs to the towering windows overlooking the grounds.

A soft jazz tune played in the background. The room was bathed in low light, enhanced by the flickering glow of candles. There was a muted gentleness to the space… almost deceiving.

And yet, as Itachi entered the room beside Tajima, it felt like stepping into an arena.

And he wasn’t sure he was wrong.

The patriarch let go of his shoulder, circled the table, and took his seat at the center of the side facing the gardens. His stern gaze swept over the guests before settling on his grandchildren.

Despite the tension that gripped the air, everyone hid their unease behind polite conversation, pretending nothing was wrong.

Then Tajima’s voice sliced through the atmosphere.

“Obito.”

Silence fell instantly.

“Here,” he said, gesturing with the tip of his cane to the seat on his right.

Obito’s dark eyes hadn’t softened since their grandfather’s unexpected arrival. Jaw tight, he obeyed anyway, hands still shoved deep in his pockets.

Tajima studied him for a moment, seemingly satisfied, before turning to Madara.

“To my left.”

Madara offered a smile, obediently taking the designated seat without a word.

“The rest of you, sit where you please,” Tajima added, easing the pressure in the room a touch.

Then, after a pause:

“Except you, Itachi. Sit across from me.”

His eyes slid toward Kisame.

“And you—sit beside my grandson. Right there.”

Kisame didn’t like the tone Tajima used. Itachi noticed it in the way his fist clenched. But the soldier wasn’t stupid: if even Obito obeyed after being summoned like a dog, then this man clearly had power Kisame didn’t yet understand. So he walked the length of the table and sat where instructed without making a scene.

Itachi followed quietly.

For a brief second, he wanted to reach out, grab his arm, whisper that it would be alright. But the impulse passed. Kisame was strong. As strong as Tajima. Of that, Itachi was certain.

They stood before their chairs, waiting for Tajima to sit before doing so themselves. The servers brought in the first course, and conversation resumed around the table.

To Itachi’s surprise, Tajima didn’t immediately address Kisame. He kept to a low conversation with Madara, though their voices carried.

Obito, meanwhile, struck up a discussion with Kisame, who played along—fully aware of the hostile presence looming nearby.

The dinner unfolded in a hushed calm. Occasionally, soft laughter broke the stillness, but the mood was nothing like the other evening.

Something was off.

And that something sat at the center of the table.

“What do you think, Itachi?” Madara asked suddenly.

The conversation had shifted to recent political developments, particularly regarding foreign policy toward unstable democracies rich in natural resources.

What are you trying to do? thought Itachi.

He had a suspicion, but hoped he was wrong: bringing up geopolitics at a table that included a war orphan? Bad idea.

“Misery for many, prosperity for a few,” he replied.

He had no desire to wade into this discussion. But Madara clearly wasn’t planning to let him off that easy.

“Prosperity you’re enjoying right now,” Madara retorted. “If the country seizes that territory, we’ll be set for a long time with fossil fuels. Enough to boost the family treasury even further.”

Itachi said nothing. Madara knew exactly what he was doing—one wrong reaction, and he’d drive the knife in deeper.

“At the cost of hundreds of thousands of lives,” Izumi interjected timidly.

Madara gave her an amused glance.

“If they work, they’ll manage,” he said casually.

A sharp, derisive snort cut through the air.

Itachi tensed. He didn’t need to turn his head to know who it was. The way everyone looked to his right said it all: Kisame had walked straight into the trap Madara had set.

“You disagree?” Madara asked, wasting no time.

“Why would I?” came the reply.

A chill ran down Itachi’s spine.

He recognized that tone. That cold, flat voice.

It was that Kisame—the one from the early days. The one who didn’t know why he’d even joined them. The one who held everyone in contempt, Itachi included. The one whose words cut like a freshly honed blade.

A flicker of something twisted lit up Madara’s eyes. He liked that tone.

He leaned on the table, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers.

“Not a fan of meritocracy?”

“Can’t say I am.”

“Cut it out, Madara,” Obito snapped suddenly.

He was glaring now—he’d seen the setup, too.

Madara raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence.

“Why? It’s a worthwhile subject.”

“There are others. So shut up.”

“Enough,” Tajima said, delicately dabbing at his mouth with his napkin.

The silence was immediate.

He didn’t have to raise his voice. His presence alone was enough to silence the room. You could see it in his upright posture, the chiseled lines of his face, and the salt-and-pepper hair trimmed with military precision.

He set his napkin down and looked up at Kisame.

“You don’t believe in meritocracy?” he asked.

There was no warmth in his tone. Just disdain. But that was to be expected. To Tajima, Kisame was nothing more than a weed in his manicured garden. And he had all the tools he needed to eliminate anything he considered invasive.

“No,” Kisame said flatly. “If hard work were enough, cleaning ladies and care workers would be running the world by now. Maybe even your staff members.”

Tajima didn’t flinch. He slowly chewed a piece of meat, as if savoring something else entirely.

“And in your opinion, how was all this acquired?” he asked, gesturing slowly at their surroundings.

His tone and demeanor were enough to send a chill down Itachi’s spine. Tajima had just led Kisame onto dangerous ground—one where few walked away unscathed.

Itachi opened his mouth, ready to step in.

But a hand landed on his leg. Large. Warm. Strangely gentle, despite the speed of the gesture.

Itachi fought the urge to look down. Kisame had done it discreetly, deliberately. He couldn’t afford to break the fragile balance of the moment.

He cast him a sidelong glance. The soldier didn’t look any more nervous than he had when they entered.

The message was clear: Let me handle it.

“Through work, yes,” Kisame said. “But mostly through the right connections. Without a network, you can grind your whole life—it won’t change a thing.”

Tajima raised a brow.

Several long seconds passed—interminable to Itachi—before the old man turned to Madara.

“You were right. He’s not stupid.”

Madara gave a polite nod, then offered Kisame a subtle smile.

Itachi frowned.

The two men were watching each other strangely, as if they were sharing a silent conversation.

Madara never vouched for anyone—least of all in front of Tajima. He must have made some sort of deal with Kisame. Otherwise, he would never have sung his praises to their grandfather. There was no other explanation.

And the rest of dinner only confirmed that theory.

Tajima didn’t stay silent. He talked. A lot. And always to Kisame.

The conversation jumped across a wide range of topics. Tajima brought them up with rare interest, testing his guest. Weighing him. For what purpose, Itachi couldn’t say. But Madara was at the center of it. If not the mastermind.

He knew how to guide Tajima exactly where he wanted him. And he was doing just that, laying out subtle cues for Kisame to follow. The soldier, no fool, took each one without hesitation.

A masterclass in teamwork.

“He’s doing well,” Izumi remarked.

She had joined Itachi out on the terrace.

While the others laughed near the patio, he had retreated to the railing. From a discreet distance, he watched Kisame, Madara, and Tajima still seated at the table.

He’d wanted to stay with them, but the head of the family had suggested he join the others. And Itachi knew all too well that when Tajima made a suggestion, it was just a command dressed up in polite language. Best to comply.

So now he stood here, casting side glances at the trio, straining to catch fragments of their conversation.

“I hope so,” he replied, forcing himself to look away.

“I’m sure of it. Kisame doesn’t seem like the type to be intimidated.”

“He’s not.”

Izumi gave him a sympathetic smile.

“You should go for a walk or something,” she said. “You look like a caged lion. That might start to irritate Tajima.”

Itachi glanced toward the table again. His grandfather was focused on whatever Kisame was saying—but fate made their eyes meet. A sharp, stern look.

Itachi swallowed hard.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “Kisame doesn’t need a defense attorney.”

He pushed off the railing and left the terrace without another word.

Back in his room, he grabbed his bag, pulled out the box of medication Glen had slipped him in secret, and stared at the capsules lined up inside.

He stood there, unmoving, eyes fixed on the clear plastic.

Then, with a sudden gesture, he popped the box open and swallowed three of them at once—no water.

What followed was a blur. He read a few pages of a book without really processing any of it, and then collapsed, exhausted, onto the bed.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I'm back with a new chapter. I hope you enjoyed the little bit with Carolina and Tajima. For those who were stressed, it wasn't worth it: everything seems to have gone well, doesn't it? ;)
This chapter was necessary to show Tajima's power over his family members, but also over other characters who have no connection with him (typically, Kisame).
Thank you all for your comments and kudos <3
See you next chapter with... Sakura and Obito.

Chapter 28: You know damn well

Summary:

Sakura and Obito are reckless.

The conversations continued under the patio.

Every now and then, a burst of laughter or a sharp voice pulled her back to reality—but never for long. Her gaze kept drifting back to Sasuke’s face, and with it, she sank again into the chaos of her thoughts.

How does he do it? she wondered as she watched him. How can he be so relaxed? So calm?

Lounging in an armchair, a glass of liquor in hand, the young man was chatting with Izuna. Occasionally, he’d smile at one of his cousin’s jokes, only to retreat behind that cold, unreadable mask. Sakura watched in silence.

Sasuke wasn’t attractive just because of his looks. He captivated with his elegance and detachment, that typically Uchiha way of staring at people without ever smiling—unless strictly necessary.

He wasn’t beautiful because of his flawless skin or his dark hair. He was beautiful because he embodied something more. A kind of quiet aristocracy. A subtle, yet weighty refinement.

Had Naruto fallen for that too? Was it that untouchable, almost divine quality that had pushed him to give in?

“Sakura,” Sasuke called.

She blinked. He and Izuna had stood up, ready to go inside.

“You coming? We’re the last ones up. Everyone else is already in bed.”

She glanced around. Most of the castle’s lights were out. A heavy silence filled the hallways. Even the staff seemed to have vanished.

“I’ll finish my drink and join you,” she said. “I like this view.”

The gardens stretched out before her, bathed in moonlight. The silhouettes of ancient trees stood out gracefully against the horizon.

“Here,” Sasuke said.

He slipped off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

Autumn was creeping in, but the night air was still gentle. She thanked him with a quiet smile.

“I’ll see you in a few minutes,” she said softly.

“Alright.”

He kissed her on the forehead and left the patio, Izuna trailing behind him.

Sakura picked up her glass and sipped slowly, down to the last drop. Then she sat motionless, wrapped in darkness, her eyes drifting unfocused into the distance.

Naruto and Sasuke’s faces blurred together in her mind. She frowned and turned toward the low table. The whiskey bottle was still there, its amber liquid catching the icy shimmer of the stars.

She poured herself another drink and knocked it back in one go. Then she stared at the empty glass, expressionless. It was a pathetic way to drink something that probably cost as much as a car. But she couldn’t have cared less.

Taking a deep breath, she fixed her gaze on the gardens. The leaves trembled softly in the moonlight, a quiet breeze stirring the branches in silence.

She turned, looking up at the castle rising into the night. She didn’t feel like sleeping. Not yet. She was... too angry. At the Uchihas. At Sasuke. At… Naruto.

Fuck them all, she thought.

She slipped off her heels and left them at the edge of the terrace, stepping barefoot into the grass, straying from the path.

Each step through the cool night air pulled her further from the weight of her thoughts. She felt… serene. Untouchable. As if the place understood her. As if it was listening.

“Insomnia?”

She jumped and spun around.

A figure leaned against a tree a few meters away, blending into the shadows. She hadn’t noticed him at all.

Squinting, she tried to make out his features. A flash from a lighter revealed them—the flame catching just as he lit a cigarette.

“Obito…” she said, bitter.

“Not the warmest welcome I’ve ever had.”

“I save my warmth for people who deserve it,” she shot back.

He answered with a nasty little smile.

She pulled Sasuke’s jacket tighter around her shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Same as you. Clearing my head.”

“Of what, exactly?”

“Unpleasant thoughts.”

Sakura looked up at him. His expression was blank. The embodiment of neutrality.

She sighed and leaned against the tree beside him, her hands clasped behind her back.

Silence fell between them—neutral, yet oddly calm.

“Do you ever forget?” she asked after a while.

He didn’t answer. Not right away.

Sakura turned to him. He was still staring out at the gardens, his eyes lost in thought.

A few more seconds passed. Then he stubbed out his cigarette on the ground.

“No,” he said at last.

Sakura swallowed hard.

“So we’re just… stuck with this forever?”

“I think so, yeah.”

She didn’t know why, but his answer filled her with dread… and sorrow.

She swallowed again, her throat tight, and turned her gaze back to the gardens. So calm. So peaceful. And yet her heart pounded violently against her chest.

For a split second, she’d hoped Obito would say there was a way out. That it would fade. That nothing was irreparably broken. That all it took was time.

But no.

The truth was, in situations like theirs, even the strongest people were doomed to carry this pain. Every day. Until their last breath.

“I can’t…” she began.

She forced herself to steady the tremor in her voice and took a deep breath.

“I can’t understand why he’d do something like that to me. What did I do to deserve this? Is it because…”

“There’s no explanation,” Obito cut in. “No answers. No logic. The sooner you understand that, the sooner you’ll realize you’re wasting your time asking questions that don’t matter.”

Sakura let out a bitter laugh. Her teeth were clenched so tightly, she felt like they might crack her jaw.

"It's not fair," she hissed, fists clenched. "He can't just fuck up my life like that and—"

"With who?" Obito asked, still staring off toward the horizon.

"What…?"

"Who did he do it with?"

Sakura stared at him. The images of the evening rushed back—Sasuke hitting Naruto. Naruto grabbing him by the collar. The fury in their eyes. Then… the kiss. As if nothing else existed.

She shut her eyes tight.

"I can't…" she whispered, throat tight, eyes glistening. "I can't say it…"

Saying it out loud would make it real. It would be admitting it. And she wasn't ready for that. Maybe she never would be.

Obito stayed silent. He took another drag from his cigarette, then held it out to her.

She followed the trail of smoke with her eyes, hesitating… then took it from his fingers.

She had quit. She knew that.

But right now, none of it mattered.

She closed her eyes, her body recalling the rush of nicotine.

"Now I know…" she murmured.

She handed the cigarette back.

"Know what?" he asked.

"I know how you feel. Or at least… part of it."

She turned toward him, resting her shoulder against the tree trunk.

"I don't want to let this slide."

Obito raised an eyebrow, still staring off at the horizon.

"So what are you going to do?"

"You know damn well."

He finally looked at her. She caught the sight of his scarred face, his lifeless white eye fixed on her without restraint.

She raised a hand, pulled the cigarette from his lips, and crushed it against the tree. He didn’t flinch. He just kept looking down at her, towering above her. His gaze made her feel small. And maybe she was. But it wasn’t enough to make her back down. She knew the gestures that got to him. The ones that made him lose control.

Slowly, she lifted her hand to his face. With the pad of her thumb, she traced the line of his cheek until her skin grazed his scarred lips. She shivered. First from disgust. Then from anticipation.

Obito’s breath, close now, was warm. Slow. Intent.

She slid her thumb gently between his lips, feeling the slick edge of his mouth, then drew it back, dragging slightly on his lower lip. She saw him swallow.

For two seconds, he didn’t move.

Then suddenly, he lunged forward and kissed her. Hard. Fierce.

A gasp slipped from her lips. She wrapped one arm around his neck, the other against his chest, as he slammed her back against the rough bark. His kisses deepened, grew hungrier, more urgent. And she wanted it. Her heart pounded wildly. Heat coiled low in her belly.

Obito ground his hips against hers. She gasped in surprise—but got the message. With a swift move, she hitched her dress up and wrapped one leg around his waist. He grabbed her thigh, lifting her higher, his other hand already working open his pants.

They both let out a raw, guttural breath as their bodies met, skin on skin.

He lifted her a little more and pushed inside.

Nothing like last time. Even if they'd rushed then, there had still been some care. Not now. This was rough. Fast. Unfiltered.

Sakura moaned as he entered her. Her head fell back, hitting the tree. She felt his mouth on her neck, his tongue tracing her skin. She slid a hand into his hair, pressing her cheek to his. He started moving—thrusting. She bit her lip, tension building in waves, fierce and irresistible.

"Make me forget," she begged, breathless. "Please…"

She felt Obito tense beneath her. He grabbed her other leg, lifting her fully off the ground.

Sakura exhaled sharply, tightening her hold around him.

He pressed his forehead against her temple. His movements turned rougher, faster. Sakura let herself get swept up in it, pulled into that punishing rhythm. The wave climbed—again, and again—each time closer, harder to resist… until it broke.

He came first. She followed, a second later. Their bodies trembled, still locked tightly together. Sakura could hear their ragged breathing merge, echoing in that strange kind of release that almost felt like salvation.

Her hands stayed tangled in his hair. Even when he gently lowered her back to the ground. Even when she felt him pull out. Even when there was no longer any reason to hold on.

Notes:

Hi everyone!
A new chapter, this time focusing on Obito and Sakura. They're both hurting, and they find comfort in their own way (if you can call it that). Their relationship is still superficial for now, but it’ll gain more depth later on—for better or worse, you’ll see. Just hang in there :)
Hope you enjoyed it! Thank you so much for the kudos and comments <3

Chapter 29: My first

Summary:

Kisame and Itachi speak another language.

A shiver ran through him. Itachi burrowed deeper under the covers, then cracked an eye open. The balcony door was slightly ajar, letting in a cool breeze that brushed his face. The faint smell of cigarette smoke hung in the room.

He slowly pushed himself up on his elbows, mind still foggy, and spotted a still figure standing at the railing, back turned to him.

"Kisame," he called, voice heavy with sleep.

The other man didn’t turn around. The balcony linked his room to Itachi’s. Kisame seemed to be staring at something beyond the balustrade.

"Kisame?" he repeated.

This time, the man startled. He spun around sharply, shoulders tense, as if ready to defend himself. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his lips. He looked dazed, stunned, like he'd just been hit with bad news.

Itachi narrowed his eyes.

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah. I just saw..."

He paused.

"A deer. Caught me off guard."

The full moon cast a harsh glow over the gardens and the park below.

Itachi slowly scanned the landscape but didn’t spot anything unusual. He glanced back at Kisame. The man was still frozen in place, eyes locked on the edge of the woods. A lingering tension was etched into his face.

"A deer..." Itachi murmured, skeptical. "There are a few around, that’s true."

A heavy silence settled between them. Kisame stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the railing.

"I’d rather keep it to myself," he finally admitted.

Itachi couldn’t help but smirk. At least the man had had the decency not to dig himself deeper into that lie — it was a start. The Unchiha hated being taken for a fool.

"We all have our secrets," he said, voice neutral.

Whatever Kisame had seen, he must have had his reasons for keeping it to himself. Some truths are better left unspoken. Itachi knew that all too well.

He let himself fall back onto the mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kisame’s shadow cross the threshold into the room.

"You’re not sleeping?" he asked, gently closing the balcony door behind him.

"I was," Itachi corrected.

"Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you."

He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees. Absentmindedly, he scratched the back of his head. His face looked worn out, his features pulled taut by a tension he wasn’t even trying to hide anymore.

A wave of unease washed over Itachi. He slowly leaned back against the headboard, body tense.

"How did it go with Tajima?" he asked.

Kisame shrugged.

"We talked. Too long, if you ask me. Guy could make a funeral feel like an interrogation."

"What do you mean?"

"Like wrestling a shark with a smile. Every word’s a trap. Had to think three moves ahead the whole time. Madara threw me a lifeline once or twice"

Itachi frowned.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did Madara help you?"

Kisame sighed.

"Because I beat him at shooting this morning."

Itachi narrowed his eyes.

"He’ll want something in return. Even if you won at his stupid game."

"Let him wait. I’m out of here tomorrow anyway."

He was right. Their stay was coming to an end. In just a few hours, Kisame would be heading home, and Itachi would be sent back to his clinic.

The thought made him tense. He didn’t want to leave Lochhaven. Or rather, he didn’t want to go back to the loneliness of the center. He wanted to stay here. With Kisame.

He liked having him around. There was a quiet simplicity to him, a way of easing things just by being there. And that was enough.

"You should sleep."

Itachi snapped out of his thoughts. He looked over at Kisame, still sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Thanks, but no thanks," Itachi shot back.

"Why not?"

"Because I’m not a child. And also because..."

He trailed off.

"Because what?" Kisame asked softly.

"Because I barely know you."

Kisame didn’t move.

From where he sat, Itachi could only see half of his face, dimly lit by the moonlight. Not enough to read his expression — and that irritated him. He was used to reading people down to the slightest twitch of an eyelid.

"What is it you want, exactly?" Kisame said. "Some midnight confession? You want me to spill my guts like it’s storytime?"

"Maybe," Itachi said calmly.

Kisame let out a short, dry laugh.

"I thought you weren’t a kid."

"Depends on the night."

That got a real chuckle out of the man — rough and genuine, the kind of sound that felt too rare these days.

Itachi shivered despite himself. It had been a while since he’d heard Kisame laugh like that. Peaceful. Unburdened. As if something in him had momentarily let go.

The Uchiha swallowed.

"You know everything about me," he said, trying to sound casual. "I’m an open book. And you..."

He hesitated.

"You’re still hiding behind all those shadows. If we were still playing our Q&A game, I’d have every right to grill you."

Kisame raised a brow.

"Is that so?"

There was the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

Itachi’s stomach tightened.

"Yeah," he confirmed, steady and sure.

Kisame exhaled, almost amused.

"It’s a long story. Not sure it’s worth the effort."

"I’ve got all night."

The man gave a brief snort.

"Fine."

He inhaled sharply, then nodded toward the bed.

"Shift a bit."

Itachi blinked, glanced at the space he was occupying, then moved aside.

Kisame lay down beside him, resting his right arm behind his head.

Itachi immediately felt tense. It had only been a day since the night they’d spent together, and yet it already felt distant — blurred, like a memory not quite anchored.

He lay back too, careful to keep a respectful distance between them.

"So. What do you want to know?" Kisame asked.

His face was turned to the ceiling, eyes closed. He looked at peace.

"Everything," Itachi said, a bit too quickly.

A faint smile touched the man’s lips. He barely moved, just enough to get more comfortable, then started to speak, his calm voice echoing through the room.

"I grew up in a slum," he explained. "Me, my sister, my mom and my dad. Don’t remember much of them, to be honest. Wear and tear, beatings, time... it eats away at memories."

He shrugged, like it didn’t matter anymore.

"It was a dump, yeah. Loud, filthy, dangerous. But it was home. My home."

A twisted smile briefly passes over his face, before abruptly vanishing.

"And then came the bombs. A cleanup operation no one asked for. When the smoke cleared, I was the only one left. Didn’t bother holding on to the details. No point."

He paused, eyes drifting to a corner of the ceiling.

"I ended up finding my aunt. She’d lost everything too. Just like me. No one left, nothing left. Not even a damn door to shut behind us. So we took off."

He scratched his temple with a grimace, as if recalling something he’d rather leave buried.

"The worst part wasn’t the running. It was the smugglers."

"Smugglers?"

"Guys who get you across the border if you pay enough," he said.  "No mercy. No empathy. No shame. You keep up, or you drop dead."

His jaw tightened.

"My aunt and I — we could keep up. We were young, healthy. No problem for them. So we survived. But the old, the sick? Left behind."

He remained silent for a few seconds.

Itachi said nothing, attentive.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was lower, more grounded:

"The sea crossing was the final leg," he said. "We paid some guy to get on a floating deathtrap. Then we set off."

"With the smuggler?"

Kisame gave a humorless smirk.

"No. Those bastards don’t come with you. Too risky. They hand you the boat and vanish. Whether you live or die is not their problem."

He breathed in slowl.

For a moment, Itachi thought he might stop there — like that was all he was willing to share. But the silence stretched, thick and heavy, and when he spoke again, it was with a detached tone that made things sound like he was talking about logistics, not loss. Not pain. Just a recounting of facts, stripped of emotion, but all the more jarring for it.

"The boat was... trash. Dented, overcrowded, too small. A floating coffin," he said. "Some people cried. Others closed their eyes, as if that would help. And some preferred to resign themselves. But my aunt... she sang. Weird things... like incantations. Her voice kept me awake. And then, as if by miracle, the lifeboats arrived," he sad in a low voice, as if the memory still hadn't sunk in, even after all these years. "At first, everyone applauded. We thought we were finally safe. Then we realized there wasn't enough room. So... children first. The rest... overboard."

His voice stayed steady, almost flat.

"My aunt didn’t get a spot. I still see the boat pulling away, coast guard racing toward land. I was safe. Relieved. Convinced they’d come back for the rest."

He gave a dry laugh.

"I was fucking stupid."

A chill crept up Itachi’s spine. His heartbeat quickened — just like the day Kisame had brought this up — but this time he kept his composure.

The soldier continued, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

He talked about the refugee camp. The filth, the chaos, surviving like an animal in a herd gone mad. Then the escape. A new center — quieter, less crowded. And how he’d met Konan, Nagato, and Yahiko — three other war-scarred kids.

They’d found each other. Clung to one another like shipwrecked survivors to a rotten plank. Swore they’d never let go.

He told it all with chilling neutrality. Like it was just facts. Events. As if even the worst of it was just part of the scenery. But in the middle of it, sometimes, a faint smile would flicker on his face — brief, subtle. A memory surfacing. And each time, Itachi couldn’t help but smile too. Because he liked seeing him like that, even if it only lasted a second.

"And the army?" Itachi asked. "Why’d you join?"

"Because no one else gave a damn. I was crap in school. And my face didn't exactly scream ‘welcome.’ The only jobs that’d take me paid in crumbs. So I figured I didn’t claw my way out of hell just to end up back in the same gutter."

He sighed. 

"The army didn’t care where I came from. Didn’t care how I looked. Long as I followed orders and kept my aim steady, I was fine."

His smile twisted, bitter.

"And... I wanted to go back. See what was left of my country. Dig through the ruins. Face the memories that had been stolen from me. Look those money-hungry bastards in the eye. Show them what I’d become."

Itachi tucked his elbow under his head.

"Did it work?"

"What?"

"Did you feel stronger?"

Kisame blinked slowly, still staring at the ceiling.

"No. Felt exactly the same. Nothing had changed. Still rubble. Still the same silence, same stares, same shit. And that knot in my gut — the one I thought was gone... Still there. Just waiting."

Itachi detailed the profile of his face in the darkness. The man gave nothing away.

"Were you scared?" he asked, his voice breaking the silence.

"Yeah," he said evenly. "But it was usefull: fear matters. It tells you when to run. When to stop. When to shut up. Or when to watch. If you know how to manage it, it can be your best ally."

Itachi watched him for a long moment.

"Were you afraid... last night?"

Kisame turned his head toward him.

"Yeah."

Itachi clenched his jaw.

His heart felt heavy — slow, painful, like it was dragging something it didn’t know how to carry anymore.

He swallowed hard, throat tight.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Kisame didn’t move at first. Then, without a word, he turned to face him.

"I wasn’t scared for me," he said. "I was scared for you. I didn’t want you to hurt yourself."

The pain inside Itachi eased, just slightly. He felt... better. Like he was exactly where he was meant to be. Like all of this had led to this moment — Kisame, here, with him, just looking at him.

"You’re perfect," the Uchiha breathed.

Kisame gave a dry, skeptical smile.

"You’ve got a fucked-up definition of perfect. You’re idealizing me. I’m not some good guy."

"You are to me."

Kisame’s smile softened. He scoffed quietly, but he didn’t argue this time.

Itachi felt his heart pound harder — a quiet warmth blooming inside him, like a candle lit in a dark room.

He wanted to touch him. To feel his skin. To tell him how good it felt to be here, with him. Because it was true. And because, with Kisame, he could say it.

"Do you..." he hesitated, "do you miss them? Your parents and your sister?"

He raised a tentative hand and gently laid it against Kisame’s temple. The man didn’t flinch. He let it happen, calm, his gaze locked on Itachi’s.

"Can't say I do. I barely remember them. And what I do remember... I’d rather forget."

Itachi frowned slightly, his hand pausing against the rough skin of Kisame’s cheek.

"Forget them?" he asked.

Kisame gave a small, dry exhale. Not quite a sigh. Not quite a laugh.

“Thinking about them hurts. I can’t remember their faces, their voices. Not even their names. But I remember the hole they left behind. That pain doesn’t go away. Not ever.”

He turned his head slightly, enough for his lips to brush the inside of Itachi’s wrist — not a kiss, not intentional — just a passing contact.

"I don’t hate them," he added, quieter. "But what’s left of them... it eats at me. If I could scrub it all out — even my damn name — I would."

"Your name?" Itachi asked. "Why?"

Kisame let out a slow breath, like the question tired him.

"Because it’s tied to all of it. Where I came from. What I lost. What I’d rather bury."

Itachi propped himself up, leaning toward him.

"Don’t. Don’t erase it."

Kisame raised an eyebrow. 

"Why not? It’s a shitty name. Never liked it. And anyway—"

"I said don’t," Itachi cut in, voice sharp.

His gaze locked onto Kisame’s with intensity.

"Your name is beautiful. I mean that. I really do."

Kisame blinked. His lips parted slightly, caught off guard. Then a low chuckle escaped him — soft, not mocking.

"You’re serious?" he asked. "You actually like it?"

Itachi parted his lips, uncertain. His heart was pounding. He tried to steady his breathing and swallowed hard.

“I like…” he began, then cleared his throat. “I like the way it sounds.”

Silence.

"The way it sounds?" Kisame echoed, skeptical.

Heat crept up Itachi’s neck. He avoided his eyes.

"Yeah."

"And?"

Panic gripped the Uchiha.

He gritted his teeth, stiff, then said softly:

"Because it has... ‘kiss’ and ‘me’ in it."

Silence answered him. So loud it drowned out everything else.

Itachi could hear his own heartbeat hammering inside his chest. Each pulse like a warning, a threat about to explode.

His gaze dropped to Kisame’s mouth. Lips slightly parted. Breath held.

He leaned in. Slowly. Carefully. Like he was crossing a forbidden line.

And kissed him.

The contact was light. Clumsy. Barely a brush. His lips trembled — hesitant. It wasn’t the first time he’d kissed someone. But it was the first time it felt like this: unsure, fragile, meaningful.

Kisame didn’t move at first, frozen like stone. Then, all at once, he responded. His mouth pressed back with more certainty, more heat. Less doubt. More presence.

Itachi melted into him, soft as wax. Their mouths met again — searching, finding, clinging with growing urgency.

The Uchiha shifted, lying halfway across him, when suddenly Kisame’s body tensed. The man broke the kiss, pushing up on his elbows, his muscles taut.

They stared at each other — surprised. Disoriented.

Then Kisame sat up fully, letting Itachi slide off to the side.

"Sorry," Itachi said at once, breathless.

But Kisame was already pushing himself up off the bed.

Panic crashed into the Uchiha’s chest. Without thinking, his hand shot out, gripping Kisame’s arm — not hard, but urgent.

"I don’t know what came over me," he said quickly.

His voice was cold. Commanding. He noticed it instantly—and cursed himself for it: just this once, he’d wanted it to sound softer. But some habits were too deeply ingrained: never lose face, always stay in control of his emotions—or at least keep up the illusion. He’d never imagined that calm, icy tone he took such pride in might one day turn against him.

“Please, I—”

“I did it too,” Kisame cut in.

He stared straight ahead, hands clenched in the bedsheets, his jaw so tight Itachi could see the muscles bulging beneath his skin.

He didn’t finish the sentence, but the Uchiha understood: I kissed you too. And yeah—it was a fucking mistake.

Neither of them moved. They were frozen. Only the harsh rhythm of their breathing broke the silence.

“Shit…” Kisame muttered under his breath.

He dropped his gaze, dragged a hand down his face.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Why?” Itachi asked.

The question slipped out before he could stop it. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud. But the need to know burned too hot inside him—even though he already knew the answer: Kisame had no reason to want anything with him. Not after getting stabbed by him the night before.

“Why?” Kisame repeated with a bitter laugh. “Fuck, Itachi… you really want me to explain why this is a bad idea? Why we shouldn’t…”

“I do.”

Kisame closed his eyes, inhaling slowly. He pressed his forehead into his palm, like he was trying to soothe a pounding headache.

Itachi struggled to stay upright. His breathing had grown shallow, ragged. He wasn’t even sure he could form another word. Still, he stepped closer and laid a hand on Kisame’s forearm.

The soldier’s eyes locked on him immediately—wary, almost feral. Like that simple touch might be poisoned.

“Please,” Itachi whispered. “I’ve never…”

Emotion clenched around his throat. He swallowed hard, then slid his hand up to Kisame’s bicep, craving something firmer to hold onto.

“I’ve never chosen anyone,” he choked out. “Just once. Just this once, I want to know what it feels like. To have a choice. To say yes and mean it. To decide.”

Kisame stared at him, speechless. Itachi couldn’t read his expression—but he saw one thing: the man wasn’t running. Not yet. He stood frozen, like he was trying to grasp something he didn’t want to hear.

Finally, frowning, he looked away and slowly shook his head.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he muttered. “You’re young, and—”

“I’m twenty-eight.”

Itachi stepped in closer, his face inches from Kisame’s. He could feel the man’s breath—shallow, tense—brush against his skin.

Their eyes met. A standoff. Like two swordsmen waiting for the first slip.

“Please,” Itachi repeated. “I want to know what it feels like.”

He already knew what sex felt like—he’d lost his virginity a long time ago. But this was different. He didn’t know what it felt like to choose. To want. To have nothing to trade, nothing to prove—just desire. Just him.

“Itachi…” Kisame growled. “Don't—”

“Be my first,” he interrupted, voice low. “I want it to be you. It has to be you.”

Kisame’s jaw flexed. His eyes darkened, unreadable, and for a long moment, he didn’t say a word.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and raw.

It wasn’t hesitation—it was something closer to resistance, like he was biting down on instinct.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost gruff.

“I’ve never done this—with a guy,” he said finally.

That could’ve been the end of it. A polite no. A line drawn.

But Itachi didn’t hear a line. He heard an opening. And he wasn’t about to let it close.

“Then it’ll be a first for both of us,” he murmured.

Kisame didn’t speak. His gaze dropped to Itachi’s lips—slowly, deliberately—then settled there like he was trying to decide something dangerous.

He stayed completely still. No hunger, no panic, no anger. Just that same unreadable calm that could mean anything—or nothing at all.

Then—finally—he moved. A barely-there shift, almost cautious. He leaned in and kissed him.

Itachi felt like his heart might burst. He tangled his fingers in the man’s hair and kissed him back—deeper, more eagerly than before. Kisame followed his lead, easing into the kiss with practiced grace, then slowly guided them down. Itachi let himself fall, lying back as the soldier hovered over him—calm, steady, far more in control than he was.

The Uchiha parted his legs to make room for him, and Kisame settled between them, careful not to press in too close. With surprising gentleness, he left Itachi’s lips and moved to his neck. The young man bit his tongue to stifle a sound. He arched subtly beneath the touch—just enough to feel Kisame’s body tense in response.

He swallowed hard, trying to keep himself together, trying not to look ridiculous—but Kisame’s lips were warm, skimming across his skin, tracing a line of fire from his collarbone to his throat. And it was too much. Too intense. Far beyond anything he’d known before—where pleasure was mechanical, empty, flavorless, painful.

He ran his hands down Kisame’s back, felt the firm muscles shift under his palms. Something tightened deep inside him, sharp and breathless. He arched again, pressing their bodies together—and felt it. Against his thigh. Hard. Alive.

He stifled a moan—too long, too honest. He bit his tongue again, refusing to fall apart just yet.

Then Kisame stopped.

Itachi froze.

Had he changed his mind? Was it the feel of his body—not a woman’s—that snapped him out of it? Did he find him disgusting now?

He looked up. Kisame was staring at him, forehead nearly touching his, they were so close.

“Can I touch you?” he asked.

Itachi blinked. He couldn’t answer. No one had ever asked him that before. He didn’t even know if that was normal. If it was part of some game. Or just the next step.

Kisame asked again, voice still calm, even, almost gentle:

“Can I touch you?”

Itachi swallowed, then nodded shakily.

“Yes…” he breathed.

He hesitated, then drew in a trembling breath.

“Can I… touch you too?”

Kisame leaned in to whisper in his ear.

"Yes."

His voice was so deep, Itachi could’ve sworn he felt the vibrations echo through the very core of his being. He closed his eyes, letting out a breath—light, hesitant, but real. He tightened his arms around the man above him, who this time left no space between their bodies. A warm hand slid over his hip, and fingers slowly pushed aside the fabric of his underwear. The soldier eased the garment down his thighs, and Itachi helped him remove it entirely.

When their eyes met, Itachi suddenly became fully aware of what they were doing. A rush of embarrassment hit him, but he pushed it back. He’d been in moments like this before. It wasn’t the first time he was naked in front of someone. But it was the first time it had ever felt like this—so intense, so good, so real.

He reached for Kisame’s shirt collar and began undoing the buttons with trembling hands. The soldier helped him, calm and attentive as ever. Itachi nearly cried from the gentleness of it. How could he be so patient? So composed? Itachi was falling apart. His mind was a mess. He wouldn’t have been able to write his own name if someone asked.

He swallowed and reached for his partner’s belt.

“Easy,” Kisame said softly. “We have time.”

His voice was calm. Reassuring.

“No…” Itachi whispered. “I don’t know if—”

He didn’t finish.

I don’t know if you’ll still want me in a few minutes, he thought.

Kisame leaned closer.

“We have time,” he repeated, firmer this time.

Itachi stared at his lips, heart pounding, then leaned up to kiss him gently. That seemed to be enough for Kisame, who took his hands to help him undo the belt. Their fingers fumbled, clumsy from the kisses that kept coming—softer, slower, deeper.

Itachi didn’t even realize Kisame was naked until he felt the man’s cock brush his leg. The surprise made him gasp, breath catching. Kisame answered with a deeper kiss.

Then his hand slid down Itachi’s stomach, over his hip, and brushed over his cock. Itachi flinched, a reflex—not because he didn’t want it. He knew it would feel good. But he was scared. Scared, without knowing why, even though part of him was certain there was no safer place than this.

Kisame tried again, slower this time. But his hand hesitated. And Itachi remembered: this must’ve been his first time… with another man.

So he pushed his hips forward, just a little.

In response, Kisame’s hand grew more confident, closing around him.

Itachi buried his face in the crook of Kisame’s neck. His palm was warm. His fingers, huge, wrapped around him completely. Itachi let himself sink into the sensation, giving in without meaning to. For the first time, he felt Kisame’s breath falter at his ear. The realization hit him so hard his legs wrapped tightly around the man in a reflexive spasm.

“Wait,” he gasped, suddenly pulling back.

Kisame stopped instantly, like he’d been burned. He pushed himself up.

“I don’t want to…” Itachi began, voice hoarse. “I don’t want to be the only one. Please, I need you to…”

Kisame understood without another word. He took Itachi’s hand and guided it down to his cock. It was bigger. Much bigger.

Itachi swallowed hard. His own suddenly felt insignificant by comparison. He forced the thought away, pushed the shame down, and did what was expected of him. He stroked him, slowly.

Kisame didn’t react at first. Not even a twitch. But Itachi saw the muscles in his abdomen tighten slightly. And that tiny detail was enough to bring his confidence back. He knew he was good at this. Everyone had said so. Every single one.

Kisame’s breath wavered. He leaned back down and resumed the slow strokes he’d paused. Itachi struggled to hold on at first, then gradually let go. Kisame’s fingers tightened around him, syncing with the rhythm of his breathing, reacting to every tension in his body.

Not wanting to be the only one caught up in it, Itachi ran his thumb over the head of Kisame’s cock. The effect was immediate: Kisame’s breath hitched, and his cock twitched violently. His hips responded with subtle, quicker thrusts. Itachi spread his legs wider to welcome the movement. Kisame pressed down into him. Their cocks slid against each other, their hands crossing, searching, movements growing faster, more desperate.

But Itachi wasn’t used to this. Not to this kind of intensity. Not to pleasure that dense. A wave was building inside him—stronger, harder to control.

Not now, he thought fiercely. No. No. No…

Too late.

A spasm overtook him. He thrust his hips forward, sliding fully against Kisame’s length. He tried to hold back, but the heat overwhelmed him. He came, body shaking, curling inward from the force. His thighs clamped around Kisame’s hips.

He waited for the high to subside, then pushed up on his elbows and saw the mess on his belly. He looked up at Kisame, horrified. The man was staring too, breath shallow. He hadn’t come.

Itachi opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. Shame swallowed him whole.

Mortified, he instinctively tried to close his legs, but Kisame stopped him. He grabbed his hips and pulled him back in, kissing him again.

Itachi let himself be pushed flat against the mattress, completely, without the slightest resistance.

Kisame began grinding against him, slow and deliberate. Itachi gasped, startled by the hardness of the soldier’s cock pressed against his own—especially since he hadn’t fully come down from his own orgasm yet.

A low growl was his only response. Kisame kept pushing their lengths together, slow but insistent, his breath syncing with the rhythm of his hips.

Itachi had never been this hard. Never felt this kind of tension. His fingers tangled in the man’s hair, and another growl followed. Kisame wanted to come. But he was holding back. Or rather—something was holding him back.

He wanted more. He needed more.

Itachi reached toward the nightstand, fumbled blindly through the drawer, and grabbed a bottle of lube. The liquid pooled in his palm. He slipped his hand between their bodies and stroked Kisame with it. The cold made him shiver—but the man liked it. Itachi knew instantly, from the sound he made, from the way his hand gripped his thigh to spread him wider, from the way his cock—until now sliding against his—shifted lower… trying to push between the curves of his ass.

Kisame lifted himself slightly. The pace slowed. His cock was still pressed to Itachi’s, but the base began to drag lower, brushing, exploring. He was hesitating. Waiting.

"Go on," Itachi whispered.

Kisame kissed him again, even more gently. His hand still held Itachi’s leg at the knee, thumb tracing slow circles against his skin.

He pulled his hips back, searching for the entrance.

Itachi arched as he felt him start to push in—slowly, inch by inch.

Kisame was big. In every way. And his cock was no exception. Itachi felt full. Invaded. It hurt, but it was good. Devastatingly good.

He raised a hand to caress the man’s face.

Kisame lowered his head and kissed his wrist. Softly. Patiently.

The man was hard as stone, but still in control.

Itachi pulled him down into a kiss. Their bodies stayed perfectly still, savoring the moment... before beginning to move, to find each other’s rhythm. Together. In unison.

This wasn’t just fucking. It was something else entirely. Something different. Fundamentally different. And Itachi felt it, completely.

Because his breathing was deeper.

Because his moans were more honest, less restrained.

Because he felt Kisame inside him—strong, steady, unwavering.

Because he could hear, once in a while, the catch in Kisame’s breath.

This is good, he thought.

And he didn’t know why he said it out loud. Or why he said it in Russian.

Kisame pulled back slightly, startled.

His hips slowed… almost to a halt.

“What…?” he asked, face just inches from his.

Itachi didn’t answer. He shifted his hips, trying to reclaim that contact, that pressure. But Kisame didn’t move.

“I said it was good,” the Uchiha finally gasped, voice strained with need, with the sudden emptiness that had become unbearable.

Kisame stared at him for a second, breathing heavily.

“Keep going,” he said. “I like how it sounds.”

Itachi hesitated, eyes wide in the dark. Then, seeing Kisame still unmoving, gave in. He slipped into the language that exposed him without betraying him, saying things he would never have dared voice otherwise.

It’s good, Kisame. It’s really good, he whispered.

Recognizing his name spoken that way, the soldier resumed his thrusts. Slow. Deep. Like a reward.

I knew you’d be good at this. I just knew.

I knew you’d be perfect in every way… mentally. Physically.

I knew you’d have a godlike body.

That your cock would be perfect—I knew all of it.

Kisame…

“Fuck…”

That raw curse didn’t sound like Kisame at all. Itachi closed his eyes, savoring it like a caress. The man pressed against him and thrust one final time—hard, all the way in. His cock throbbed before releasing deep inside him, hot and intense.

Itachi moaned. Shuddering with spasms, he clung to Kisame’s chest like it was the only solid thing in the world.

They stayed like that for a long while. Pressed together. Silent. Their breathing mingled. Their hearts beating in sync. Until finally, their bodies began to calm.

Silence settled. Thick. Warm.

Itachi didn’t move. He kept his eyes closed, forehead resting on Kisame’s shoulder, as if trying to soak in his presence, his warmth.

He felt drained… but profoundly present.

Raw, unable to speak, but vibrantly alive.

Anything he could have said felt clumsy, out of place.

So he simply breathed. Listened to the uneven beat of his heart, still shaken, still far from peace.

He felt Kisame shift, as if to look at him. He didn’t dare open his eyes.

“You okay?” came the man’s deep voice.

Itachi nodded slowly. He took a deep breath and exhaled.

“Yeah.”

Kisame pulled out gently.

Itachi shivered, surprised by how deeply that absence resonated. He heard the drawer open, the rustle of cloth. Kisame returned and cleaned him—slowly, carefully.

Itachi didn’t dare move. He let him.

Then the soldier lay down beside him again. Their damp skin met. The young man felt his chest at his back, their legs pressed together. And more than anything: his breath. Calm. Steady. So different from his own.

“Thank you,” Itachi whispered.

Kisame didn’t answer.

He just pulled him closer.

Then pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck.

Notes:

Hello everyone! ❤️

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! It was a tricky one for me to write—especially in English. I wasn’t sure if everything landed the way it should. I imagine there are still some mistakes here and there, but hopefully it all made enough sense for you to follow where I was trying to go.

Anyway, despite how much of a struggle it was, I’m really happy we’ve finally reached this point! I honestly wasn’t sure if anyone would stick around for so many chapters before the first kiss, but apparently you did—and I’m so grateful for that.

Now, I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is: the story is far from over. The bad news is: I’m almost out of pre-written chapters (only two or three left). So there’ll probably be a bit more time between updates (sorry!). That said, I always make it a point to finish the stories I post online—so don’t worry, you will get an ending. It just might take a little time sometimes.

On a different note: someone asked in the comments how rich Tajima Uchiha would be—like, if he was Naruto-world’s version of Bill Gates. I found the question super interesting, so I figured why not explore that a bit together with a ranking 😄

But first, some context: the Uchiha family has multiple business ventures (I haven’t decided exactly what yet, so I won’t make stuff up), but their wealth originally comes from inheritance—they’re aristocrats. So they live off old money and smart modern investments. That sets them apart from the Hyuuga, who are also an aristocratic family, but who invest less and rely more on old wealth (not that they’re poor, far from it). Let’s just say these two families have very different philosophies.

So, here’s the ranking:

1) The Uchiha family: Their net worth is estimated between $50 and $60 billion. For comparison, Jeff Bezos sits at $221 billion and Bernard Arnault at $144 billion. So while the Uchiha are among the ultra-rich, they’re still far from the top of the global list. They’d be in the top 30 worldwide.

2) The Senju family: Also estimated between $50 and $60 billion—neck and neck with the Uchiha, which adds a fun dynamic to the story. Unlike the Uchiha, the Senju are not nobles at all 😄 Their wealth was built from scratch by the family’s grandfather. The Uchiha love to call them uneducated hillbillies because of it, lol.

3) The Hyuuga family: The true definition of old money. I picture them around $20–30 billion. Unlike the Uchiha, who actively invest, the Hyuuga mostly live off generational wealth. That doesn’t mean they never invest (they’d be foolish not to if they want to preserve their fortune), but they’re less aggressive about it. They think chasing profit is unseemly. That’s partly why they’re not as wealthy.

4) The Yamanaka family: Estimated net worth is around $20 billion—slightly less than the Hyuuga. The Yamanaka are also aristocrats, but their wealth comes from the art world. They’re considered more altruistic than the other families and donate generously to charity… or at least that’s how it looks on the surface. 😉

That’s it! I hope you enjoyed this little ranking as much as I did. Nothing’s set in stone (I might change my mind later), but for now, feel free to use this as a reference.

Thank you again for all your comments and kudos ❤️

Chapter 30: Batshit insane

Summary:

Obito gets angry. Kisame too.

Kisame opened his eyes. Itachi was curled up against him, head tucked into the crook of his neck, arms wrapped around his chest, legs tangled with his. Nothing had changed since their first night together—except this time, they were naked.

He swallowed hard, then slipped a hand into the young man's long, dark hair. Itachi's breath was slow and steady, brushing softly against his carotid. He looked at peace. Serene. Innocent. Far from worry and care.

Kisame shouldn’t have liked this. The way he took in the scene. The way he admired the Uchiha’s sleeping body. The way his lips drifted absently over the top of the young man's forehead as he inhaled his scent.

Carefully, he eased himself up, laid Itachi back down onto the mattress, and stood. He looked at the sleeping man one last time, feeling the pull to stay.

But he didn’t.

He turned on his heel, took a quick shower, pulled on clean clothes, and headed to his own room, where he made a point of throwing the sheets wide open—to avoid raising Duncan’s suspicions again.

Then he returned to Itachi’s room and brushed the young man’s smooth cheek with the back of his hand. Itachi stirred at the touch but didn’t wake. He still looked so peaceful. With a discreet gesture, Kisame pulled the sheet up over his bare shoulder, then left the room.

He descended the stairs slowly, his mind foggy. When he stepped into the dining room, Madara and Sasuke were silently eating breakfast. The others weren’t up yet.

“Well, look who it is,” Madara said, not bothering to lift his eyes from his newspaper.

“Morning,” Kisame replied simply.

Madara offered a polite smile, but Sasuke made no effort to put him at ease. Those dark eyes fixed on him with the same smug superiority that seemed genetically hardwired into the Uchiha clan.

“Take a seat,” Madara offered. “The table’s big enough that Sasuke won’t be too offended, right?”

The younger Uchiha shot him a disapproving look but said nothing. Kisame sat down near Madara—a paradoxical choice, but necessary, given the hostile stare Sasuke was throwing his way.

“Rough night?” the elder Uchiha asked.

“Complicated,” Kisame answered curtly.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that both of them knew. That they suspected he’d slept with Itachi. And denying it too strongly would only risk kicking off a family scandal over breakfast.

“Would sir care for some coffee?”

He looked up and met Duncan’s sarcastic gaze.

“Yes, thank you.”

The butler nodded and poured him a steaming cup. Kisame drank in silence, biting into a croissant with little enthusiasm. Across from him, Sasuke kept staring, expression blank, unreadable.

Kisame held his gaze.

He was about to say something when, through the window, he spotted Obito leaving the terrace and heading into the gardens, dressed for a run.

Kisame froze. The croissant slipped from his fingers and landed softly on his plate.

“I’ll be right back,” he said suddenly.

He left his breakfast behind and hurried outside, taking the steps two at a time.

Outside, Obito was already striding toward the woods, his measured pace slicing through the morning stillness.

“Obito,” Kisame called out.

The man pulled out one earbud and slowed to a stop a few yards away. The mist of his breath rose in the cold air, forming a fleeting cloud.

“If you wanted to come with me, you should’ve dressed the part,” the Uchiha began.

Kisame glanced over his shoulder to make sure the castle was out of view. Then, without warning, he grabbed Obito by the collar and slammed him against a tree.

Caught off guard, Obito stared back at him, the scars on his face bunching with surprise.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Kisame hissed.

He rarely lost his temper. It took a lot for him to raise his voice—especially with someone he saw as family. But sometimes, it happened. And when it did, it meant the line had been crossed.

Obito seemed to understand that—or at least acted like he did. His expression softened. One eyebrow arched.

“I’ve had warmer greetings,” he muttered sarcastically. "You should kiss me."

Kisame wasn’t swayed. He tightened his grip on the fabric.

“Sakura and you. I saw you yesterday. From my bedroom balcony.”

Obito’s face shifted. The calm veneer cracked, revealing something darker. Colder. It wasn’t Itachi’s grace or Sasuke’s arrogance. It was something else. Something Madara. More precisely, something Tajima.

“She’s of age. And very willing.”

“She’s your cousin’s girlfriend,” Kisame breathed. “And Kakashi’s daughter. Your best friend’s daughter.”

Obito’s eyes widened, like he’d suddenly remembered he had nerves. He drove his elbow down hard on Kisame’s arm and broke free with a sharp twist.

Kisame didn’t stop him.

They stood face to face, breathing hard, tension sparking between them.

Obito cracked his neck, then fixed Kisame with a stare so sharp it bordered on madness.

“He’s not my best friend,” he snarled. “He never was.”

Kisame clenched his jaw. He shouldn’t have said that. It had been reflex—an old instinct. Like many others, he still couldn’t quite wrap his head around the insanity of the whole Rin and Kakashi story. On that point, he understood Obito’s rage.

But not this.

Not this.

“She’s twenty-five, Obito. What the fuck are you doing?”

“Mind your own business.”

“This is my business,” Kisame snapped. “What do you even want? To ruin her? Turn her into a fucked-up version of yourself? A trophy? Revenge?”

Obito let out a short laugh.

His pupils were blown, like he was fighting not to fall into something dark and bottomless.

“You think I’m forcing her?” he finally said. “You think she’s stupid? That she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing?”

“What I believe,” Kisame hissed, “is that she’s almost ten years younger than you, and that this is batshit insane. You’re screwing the daughter of your best—”

He caught himself just in time, then corrected:

“You’re screwing the daughter of the guy who’s sleeping with your ex-wife.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Kisame didn’t. He pressed on.

“That’s the real issue, isn’t it?” he said, voice low. “It’s not about Sakura. It’s not even about Kakashi.”

He paused.

“It’s about Rin.”

The name hit like a gunshot in the still morning air.

Obito’s face went rigid. His jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter. When he turned toward Kisame, his features were twisted with something close to rage.

“You don’t know what that feels like.”

“Don’t fucking tell me I don’t,” Kisame snapped, teeth gritted. “But I’m not the one fucking some kid from the family of the guy who banged my wife.”

Obito’s stare darkened.

“Spare me the self-righteous crap.”

“And on what fucking authority?”

“Authority?” Obito echoed, a bitter smirk curling his lips.

He let out a dry, lifeless laugh.

“You’re fucking Itachi.”

The words landed like a punch to the ribs.

Kisame flinched—just barely. But Obito saw it.

“What, you think no one noticed?” he went on. “The looks? The weird silences? The awkward smiles? IN THIS FUCKING CASTLE?”

He stepped closer, voice low and sharp as a knife.

“You’re lecturing me while you’re screwing a guy on meds, Kisame. A guy who can’t sleep, who zones out, who trembles when he’s alone for too long. A guy who’s so lost he doesn’t even know if he’s alive anymore. And just for fun—he’s your fucking colonel’s son.”

He spat that last line like it tasted rotten.

“He’s broken. Fragile. Exhausted. And you’re using him,” Obito said coldly. “If that’s not just as ‘batshit insane’ as what I’m doing, then what the hell is? Come on, tell me ! TELL ME !”

He took a breath, his chest heaving.

“I didn’t even know you were into guys.”

Kisame’s whole body was taut, but he didn’t flinch again. He knew this wasn’t just fury. It was more intimate. Personal. This was someone who gave a damn about Itachi—and hated that Kisame was playing with fire.

Obito drove it home.

“You say Rin’s my issue. But what about you, huh? What the fuck are you trying to fill?” he growled. “You find the first broken guy that crosses your path and try to play hero.”

He paused. Then, without pulling punches:

“You’re not a good man, Kisame. You’re just a fucking wreck latching onto another one so you don’t go under.”

He shoved his earbud back in, and adjusted his jacket.

“So let me say it again—go fuck yourself and your bullshit morals.”

He brushed past him and resumed his run.

Kisame barely turned his head, just enough to glimpse his silhouette disappearing into the trees. He stood there, jaw clenched. One minute. Two. Maybe more. Then, with a sigh, he shoved his hands into his pockets and headed into the woods himself.

He walked for a long time. Or at least long enough for the forest’s stillness to muffle the storm in his head.

Eventually, he reached a fountain. It sat in the middle of a neatly maintained clearing—almost too clean. A patch of forced peace in the middle of the chaos.

Kisame sat down on the stone bench, facing the still water. He didn’t move at first. Then he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one. Then another, before even finishing the first.

He wasn’t thinking. Not yet. He was processing. Cigarette after cigarette. Silence after silence. Because he knew he’d fucked up.

Obito was right: Itachi wasn’t in a place to know what was good or bad for him. He idolized Kisame. Looked at him like some kind of savior. And Kisame had taken advantage of that.

Yesterday, when the kid had leaned toward him—had begged with his eyes for him to be his “first time”—Kisame had had a choice. He could have said no. But the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

His selfishness had answered for him. He’d seen that perfect face, that body pressed up against him, those eager lips... and he’d caved. Like a fucking idiot. A goddamn moron thinking with his dick.

And now the situation was a mess. Itachi would just idealize him more. Because he was lost. Because he couldn’t see clearly. Because he was like a blank book, and Kisame had carved something into it that never should have been written.

It wasn’t fair. Itachi deserved to heal properly. Slowly. Gently. Not through escape into sex. Not in a toxic relationship with a guy who wouldn’t even stick around.

He was about to light a fourth cigarette when a faint crunch in the fallen leaves made him look up.

He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Itachi.

He recognized the walk—light, almost floating. And the silence he carried like a coat that was far too heavy.

Kisame didn’t move, cigarette hanging from his lips, gaze lost in the fountain’s reflection.

“I was looking for you,” the Uchiha said simply.

His voice was calm—but never empty. It never was.

Kisame didn’t answer right away. He flicked some ash to the ground, then finally looked up at him.

“I wanted to be alone.”

Itachi circled around the fountain without a word and sat at its edge, directly across from him.

“I know.”

He slowly dipped his hand into the cold water, watching his fingers disappear beneath the surface. Small fish brushed against them—seeking movement or invisible crumbs. Itachi let them drift through his fingers.

“You smoke too much,” he said after a while.

Kisame let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Trying to suffocate the shit in my head.”

He regretted it instantly. Too raw. Too real. Too unfiltered. And now, irreversible.

Itachi raised an eyebrow, still swirling his hand in the water.

“Am I the shit?”

“No.”

The tone was sharp. The gaze, unwavering.

“It’s not you. And it never will be.”

Itachi gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, still toying with the fish.

“So you regret it, then,” he murmured.

Kisame took another drag from his cigarette. Let a few seconds pass in silence, then exhaled.

“I wish it hadn’t happened.”

Not out of shame. Not out of anger. But because he knew where this road led. Because it wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t fair.

Itachi blinked slowly. His elegant fingers briefly curled around a blue fish, then gently released it.

“Because I’m a man?”

Kisame’s brow furrowed. He looked at him with that mix of disbelief and anger he didn’t always control well.

“No.”

Itachi’s eyes turned cold.

“If that’s a problem... I can pretend it never happened.”

Kisame’s jaw tightened.

“Stop it.”

He stared at him harder.

“I’m not ashamed I slept with a man,” he growled. “I don’t even get what you’re trying to imply.”

Itachi stroked the blue fish’s belly with the tip of his finger.

“Every man I’ve slept with called themselves straight,” he said. “The honest ones just admitted, half-heartedly, that they were probably into guys too.”

Kisame wasn’t surprised. There was nothing more hypocritical than a man terrified of losing validation from other men. But he wasn’t one of them. He’d never needed anyone’s approval. Just his own. And it pissed him off that Itachi might think otherwise.

“I already told you I’m not ashamed of having slept with a man,” he muttered. “So quit—”

“Madara told me you only liked women.”

Kisame froze for a second.

The scene came rushing back. The shooting range. Clay targets flying across the sky. Madara offering him a drink. And those words he’d tossed out just to shut the asshole up.

He’d said he wasn’t into men just to cut him off—not as some kind of confession. And that son of a bitch had gone and told Itachi. Of course he had.

“Madara doesn’t know a damn thing about my life,” he scoffed.

He picked up the cigarette butts at his feet and tucked them into his now-empty pack.

“I’ve never been in a relationship with a guy...”

He looked back up at Itachi.

“...but that doesn’t mean I’ve never been attracted to them.”

He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

“I’ve got zero problem with having slept with someone of the same sex, Itachi. Zero. Got it?”

“But you do have a problem with having slept with me,” the young man shot back immediately.

He’d stopped watching the water and was now looking at him with a thinly veiled sense of superiority. His long lashes framed his feline gaze, and his loose hair spilled down over his narrow shoulders.

Beautiful, Kisame thought.

And almost immediately regretted it.

The soldier took a deep breath. He rubbed his palms together, trying to shake off the tension in his fingers—this dull, persistent urge to touch him.

“Itachi…”

His voice was lower now. Rougher. Almost hoarse.

“What we did…”

He searched for the words, eyes lingering on the surface of the fountain.

“It can’t happen again.”

Silence. Then Itachi nodded slowly.

“Alright.”

Kisame looked at him. There was no anger in his eyes. No visible sadness. Just that quiet resignation. The kind you only see in people who’ve seen too much.

And maybe that was worse.

“It’s not what either of us needs right now,” Kisame added, like that made it better somehow.

“Of course,” Itachi replied, his tone indifferent.

His voice was cold. Probably sarcastic. But not quite enough for Kisame to be sure. Itachi was always too subtle to read clearly. Even for him.

“We should head back for breakfast,” the Uchiha said.

He pulled his hand from the water and stood. Kisame followed, watching his silhouette take the lead.

Together, they walked the path back through the woods. Bit by bit, the castle appeared between the trees—its elegant architecture piercing through the autumn leaves like something out of a fairy tale long forgotten.

More than once, Kisame felt his arm itch. That strange, irrational urge: to wrap it around the boy’s shoulders. To pull him in close. To press a kiss to his forehead—right there, between his brows—and whisper that everything would be okay.

But he didn’t.

Notes:

Hi everyone (and thank you for your patience! 😊) I know this chapter took a little longer than usual, but I’m trying to get ahead on future ones to keep things consistent for you. So yes, it’s taking more time—but I promise it’s for a good reason😉

Quick reminder: just because Kisame describes Itachi as “a kid” doesn’t mean he is one (no sex underage content—if there were, it would be tagged!). It’s just a flawed perception Kisame has of him (yep, my characters are messy).

On that note—you probably noticed how Kisame keeps harping on the fact that Sakura is 25 and ten years younger than Obito? That’s because he also sees her as a kid. And yeah, what Obito’s doing isn’t morally okay. But legally? He’s not in the wrong. Sakura is 25 and fully capable of making her own decisions—so Kisame infantilizing her isn’t exactly great either.

Fun fact: he’s judging that ten-year gap… while there’s a seven-year gap between him and Itachi (who’s also not in a healthy mental state). Talk about the pot calling the kettle black 🙃 But like I said: my characters are full of contradictions 💀

Thank you so so much for the comments and kudos, and an extra big hug to those who always leave a little note 🥺💗 You have no idea how much it motivates me! 💕

Chapter 31: You're not a monster

Summary:

Monsters aren't always who you think they are.

"And here… the grand fountain will be installed. Very modern and dramatic. It'll be magnificent."

The site manager gestured toward a gaping hole in the ground that tore through the earth.

Lilly Yamanaka, Ino’s mother, pinched her chin thoughtfully before turning to Sai.

"Your mother's sculpture will look absolutely stunning here."

"I'm sure it will," he replied.

Lilly gave him a satisfied smile, then turned back to the site manager to continue the tour. Ino and Sai were left alone amidst the clamor of machinery and scaffolding.

"What do you think?" the young woman asked, spinning in place with her eyes raised to the dizzying ceiling height.

"Hard to picture anything in this mess of sheet metal and dust."

He wasn’t wrong. The construction site for the future art gallery Lilly was planning to open was straight-up colossal. Ever since she’d announced the opening at her last society soirée, the patron had been living between site visits and interviews for art and architecture magazines.

"How’s your mother’s collection coming along?" Ino asked.

"The usual. She’ll paint ten canvases in a row, then burn them all right after... just because the cat meowed twice in front of them," he replied, face unreadable as always. "The only thing she’s actually making progress on is the sculpture for your mom."

"Good. Mom is insanely stressed about this project, so if yours could avoid triggering a hives outbreak, that’d be great."

"I’m not saying anything to her. She’d probably throw everything out the window."

Ino smirked despite herself, though Sai’s expression remained as neutral as ever.

"I’m sorry," she said suddenly.

"For what?"

She tilted her head and made a face.

"For the tea invitation."

Sai glanced over at her, but didn’t answer. He got the message. Ino’s tea invitations had never been about chamomile and scones. Most of the time, they talked about anything and everything… and ended up in her room doing things far more... energetic.

That had been the plan this time too—at least until her mother showed up earlier than expected. Thrilled to have them both on hand, Lilly had asked them to tag along for a site visit. Too polite to decline, neither of them had dared refuse.

"I’ll survive," he said coolly. "That said..."

He swept the area with his gaze before locking his dark eyes on hers.

"Nothing’s stopping us from finding a spot… here."

Ino raised an eyebrow, then burst out laughing.

"Between aluminum beams and a bulldozer? Hard pass."

"I didn’t know you were so delicate."

"And I didn’t know you were so desperate."

The idea maybe had its charm… but right now, she wasn’t in the mood.

"Anyway, I can’t hang around. I’ve got an appointment in an hour," she said, checking her watch.

"With your serial killer?"

Ino slowly raised her eyes to him.

"He’s never killed anyone."

Sai arched an eyebrow.

"Are we supposed to applaud that?"

"That was his father. Not him."

"My bad," he replied with a smile far too sweet to be sincere. "I forgot he was only charged with aggravated assault."

Ino closed her eyes for a second. She knew she should’ve never mentioned Juugo to him. Sai had strong opinions about what he called “societal scum,” and he never held back when it came to voicing them.

"You know what? Forget it," she sighed. "You’re not the one tutoring him anyway."

"You’re right," he replied. "I’ll let you handle your ticking time bomb."

"Perfect," she shot back, turning on her heel. "Tell my mom I left for my appointment."

She gave him one last look over her shoulder, stormed out of the site, and called a cab.

"National Library, please," she told the driver as she climbed in.

The man nodded and took off.

After what had happened during the last tutoring session, Ino had finally decided to meet at one of the coworking spaces inside the capital’s largest library. It was central—so in a calm, accessible neighborhood—free, and, best of all, perfectly equipped.

"Your name, please?" asked the librarian at the entrance.

"Ino Yamanaka."

The woman confirmed the reservation and handed her a magnetic pass.

"First floor, pod number 4."

"Thank you."

Ino climbed the wide staircase, unlocked the room, and settled in. She set down her things, lined up her pens, laid out the worksheets, then pulled a box of chocolates from her bag—one she’d bought that afternoon. She adjusted the silk ribbon, inspected the box to make sure it was perfect, then placed it carefully in front of Juugo’s chair.

She had gone out of her way to visit her favorite chocolatier and pick the prettiest box from the display. She’d selected each treat with care, steering clear of anything too out there just to be safe. She’d even asked for a special gift wrap. Inside, she’d slipped a small card, written in her neatest hand: Thank you.

It was her way of making amends—for how terribly she’d acted, but also for the courage Juugo had shown when he stepped in to defend her. Thanking him was the least she could do.

She smiled, thinking back to that dinner they’d shared at his place, to the barely-seasoned pasta, and then checked her watch. He was already ten minutes late.

She looked at her messages. Nothing concerning.

I hope he didn’t forget, she thought with a frown.

She grabbed a few graded papers he’d returned and began correcting them.

Time passed. When she finally looked up, fifty minutes had gone by.

She pulled out her phone and called Juugo. Straight to voicemail.

"Shit," she muttered through gritted teeth. He forgot.

"Excuse me?"

Ino looked up. A student had just opened the door to the pod.

"I booked this room for six."

"Go ahead, I'm done," she replied, standing up.

She gathered her things, picked up the box of chocolates, and left the space. On the way back, she tried calling Juugo again, but once more, it went straight to voicemail.

What if he gave up? she thought, anxiety tightening her chest.

Maybe he’d had enough. Maybe he was just done with her—her moods, her condescending tone.

Maybe he’d asked for another tutor.

Ino chewed at her thumbnail.

"We’re here, Miss," the cab driver informed her.

She thanked him and headed into the house, worried. Her father was in his office, making phone calls. When he saw her walk past, he lowered the receiver and cupped a hand over the mic.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he asked softly.

"Yeah, I’m fine."

He frowned, unconvinced, then gestured they’d talk about it later. She offered him a small smile, went up to her room, and dumped her things on the bed with a sigh. She was nervous. Stressed, even. If Juugo didn’t want to see her anymore, she could kiss the Aurea Mentis club goodbye.

She winced at the thought.

I need to clear my head, she told herself.

She went to the bathroom, undressed, and let the warm water run over her skin. By the time she stepped out, night had fallen. She wrapped herself in a towel, headed back to her room, and turned on the TV absentmindedly. The evening news buzzed in the background as she sat at her vanity to start her skincare routine.

She was just about to apply a face mask when she froze.

Her moisturizer slipped from her hands and thudded onto the vanity as her eyes locked on the TV’s reflection in the mirror. She leaned in, listening closely.

"...serial killer Arata Tanaka revealed the location of two additional victims early Monday afternoon. After several hours of interrogation, the criminal—already serving multiple life sentences—confessed to two more murders: two women, one of whom was a minor. The bodies were located thanks to his statements. Authorities say Arata Tanaka has promised further information in exchange for a meeting with his son, who is himself known to police for several minor offenses..."

Ino’s stomach twisted in a tight, painful knot.

"Holy shit," she whispered.

She stayed frozen for a moment, eyes fixed on the screen’s reflection. Then, suddenly, she jumped to her feet, wiped off her still-damp skin, and rushed to her closet.

She threw on a pair of pants and a long-sleeved tee, grabbed her handbag with Juugo’s things and the box of chocolates, then bolted down the stairs.

"Sweetheart?" her father called from the living room. "Where are you going? Dinner’s almost ready—Glorilla just finished, and your mother will be back in five—"

"Don’t wait for me!" she shouted back.

She grabbed the first set of car keys she saw and sped toward Juugo’s neighborhood. When she reached his building, she parked haphazardly out front and sprinted to the elevator, jabbing the button several times—only to see it was out of order.

"Goddamn it," she hissed.

Juugo lived on the top floor. She adjusted her bag strap and started climbing, stairs after stairs. Halfway up, she paused, breathless, cheeks flushed, then kept going.

On her way, she passed a man who stepped aside for her.

"Good luck," he muttered wearily.

"Thanks..." she panted, still climbing.

When she finally reached the top floor and pushed open the heavy door, she was completely drained.

She walked slowly down the hallway and knocked on Juugo’s door.

"Juugo..." she called, breathless. "It’s... me... Ino..."

No answer. She waited a few seconds to catch her breath, then knocked again, more firmly. Still nothing.

Her heart started pounding. Maybe he really didn’t want to see her anymore.

"Juugo, please, I—"

"Would you knock it off already? What’s all this damn noise?"

Ino jumped and turned. An old woman had stepped out into the hallway, hands on her hips, glaring at her with unfiltered rage.

Ino instinctively stepped back, clutching her bag to her chest.

"I’m sorry," she began. "I just—"

"Get lost, you leech!" the woman snapped.

Ino’s jaw dropped, stunned.

"Leech...?" she repeated, disgusted. "But I—"

"You heard me, you little bitch! Get out of here with your bullshit press badge! You’re pissing off the whole building with your dumbass interview requests!"

Ino blinked in shock.

"I’m not a journalist!" she protested.

Did she even look like one?

She glanced down at her outfit.

Then again... she thought.

Jeans, white t-shirt, damp hair... okay, maybe she did look like some kind of field reporter. Except for one detail: her handbag was a Chanel. No field reporter would be running around with a black Timeless bag, right?

"I don’t give a damn," the old woman barked. "Get the hell out of here before I call the boys from downstairs to toss you out!"

Ino’s heart skipped. If it was the same kind of “boys” who had attacked her last time, she definitely didn’t want to risk a repeat.

Digging through her bag, she approached the old woman and pulled out one of Juugo’s worksheets.

"I’m his tutor," she said, showing her the paper. "Juugo was supposed to have a lesson today and..."

She swallowed.

"And I’m worried," she added softly after a moment. "Especially after... what happened this morning."

The woman snatched the paper from her hand and put on her glasses for a better look. She frowned, then peered at Ino over the lenses.

"Yeah... I think he might’ve mentioned you once," she muttered, still suspicious.

The old woman handed the paper back to her, eyeing her up and down suspiciously.

"You’re not from around here, are you?" she growled.

"Uh… no," Ino replied.

The woman muttered something under her breath, shaking her head in disapproval. Then she sighed and pointed toward a ladder leading up to a rooftop hatch.

"He’s up there."

Ino blinked. "Up there?"

"Yeah. That’s where he goes when he needs some air. Now go check on him, and let this hallway breathe, will you?"

"I—"

"Good night."

The woman turned sharply and slammed her apartment door. Ino stood frozen, stunned, then slowly turned toward the ladder.

She swung her bag across her body and started climbing toward the rooftop hatch, which opened with little resistance.

The wind hit her immediately, whipping her hair into her face. She brushed the strands behind her ears and stepped out onto the gravel-covered rooftop, dotted with vents and rusted metal structures.

In the distance, she spotted Juugo, sitting on the edge of a low wall that divided the rooftop’s center from the mechanical areas. His shoulders were hunched, elbows resting on his knees, orange hair tousled by the wind.

"Juugo," she called softly.

He jolted upright and turned toward her with wide, startled eyes. She froze, caught off guard by his reaction, suddenly unsure of his next move.

He stared at her in disbelief before his features softened.

"Ino…?" he asked, bewildered.

She hesitated, then offered him a gentle smile. Slowly, she made her way across the rooftop until she reached the wall where he sat. He looked at her like she was a ghost—someone from a past life suddenly resurrected.

"What are you…"

His brows drew together.

"What are you doing here? How did you even—"

"Your neighbor’s a terrifying bouncer," she said, deadpan. "But she let me through, eventually."

Juugo blinked a few times, then glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting the woman to appear.

"She’s sweet, actually. Her name’s Chiyo."

‘Sweet’ wouldn’t be my first pick, Ino thought. But he’d said it with such unexpected warmth that she believed him. For now.

Juugo’s eyes returned to hers. Ino swallowed hard.

"Are you… okay?"

He looked away.

"I was eating," he said, sidestepping her.

A burger, a soda, and some fries were laid out neatly on the wall beside him.

Ino noticed he hadn’t actually answered her question. Maybe he didn’t want to talk about it. She could understand that.

"Can I join you?" she asked.

Juugo paused. His red eyes scanned her face, as if searching for a hidden motive.

"Yeah," he said at last. "Of course."

He moved the burger, fries, and soda to make space for her. She sat beside him, murmured a quiet thank-you, and turned to look out over the city.

Her eyes widened.

From where they were, the view was breathtaking: the glowing city center with its flashing billboards, the upscale suburbs sprawling across wooded hills, and in the distance, the coastline bathed in artificial light. It looked like a living postcard.

"It’s beautiful," she whispered, more to herself than to him.

"People say these are the shittiest apartments around… but with the best views," Juugo replied.

"Honestly… I can see that."

She thought her father’s business partners would probably agree. Their favorite pastime was buying up forgotten neighborhoods like this one to build luxury condos.

"You want some?" Juugo asked, nodding to his burger and fries.

"I’m good, thanks."

He watched her for a second, red eyes narrowing slightly, then smirked. Without saying a word, he picked up the burger, split it in half, and handed one piece to her.

"Last time you said that, your stomach started growling," he reminded her.

Heat crept up her cheeks. He wasn’t wrong. And truthfully, she was hungry.

She made a sheepish face, a little embarrassed that it was Juugo—who clearly didn’t have much—sharing his food with her.

Clearing her throat, she took the burger half and bit into it.

"Well?" he asked.

He was watching her like a food critic, waiting for her verdict.

"It’s pretty good," she admitted, nodding.

And it was. Not exactly part of her strict wellness routine, but… it felt nice, sometimes, to let go.

Juugo seemed pleased by her answer. He smiled and took another bite of his burger.

Silence fell over them—comfortable, quiet. The distant hum of the city was the only sound in the air. They ate, watching the horizon, until Ino wiped her mouth discreetly.

"I got you something," she said, rummaging through her handbag.

She pulled out the box of chocolates and offered it to him. Juugo froze. He stared at her, frowning slightly, then took the box, unsure.

"Why…?"

"It’s a thank you," she cut in. "For the other day."

He gave her a skeptical look.

"You didn’t have to—"

"I know. But I wanted to. I really did."

Juugo fell silent, like he was weighing her words. Ino didn’t mind. After everything, she knew she’d been unfair to him. She needed to make things right.

He set the box down on the ledge, then opened it carefully. When he saw the neat arrangement of chocolates, his eyes widened. He looked up at her, unsure.

"Go on," she encouraged softly. "Try one."

"Which one?"

She leaned slightly over the box and pointed to one.

"That one’s my favorite. Salted caramel."

He nodded, picked it up, and popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, then paused, eyebrows raised.

Ino tensed.

"Is it okay?" she asked, a little worried.

Juugo nodded. His eyes lit up.

"This is the best chocolate I’ve ever had in my life," he said, mouth full.

Ino froze for a second, surprised—then burst out laughing. Juugo’s face was glowing, almost childlike. He stared at the box with such awe she wondered if it had awakened flavors he didn’t even know existed.

"Thank you," he said, pulling her out of her thoughts.

"No—thank you," she replied.

He gave her a smile and offered her some of the chocolates. She politely declined, saying it was his gift—and she had to watch her diet. He insisted, holding out a pistachio-flavored one—one of her favorites—but she held firm. He eventually shrugged and helped himself, with unapologetic delight.

They let a few light minutes pass—moments where Juugo seemed to forget whatever was weighing on him—before Ino cleared her throat.

"Juugo..." she began, hesitant. "I saw the news."

His eyes immediately lost their brightness.

She looked away, uncomfortable.

"Is that why you didn’t come to our session today?"

He stayed silent for a moment, then slowly closed the box. His face was blank. His whole body, tense. He clenched his jaw and stared into the distance without saying a word.

Say something, she pleaded inwardly, throat tight. Say something.

"You know," she began, "I—"

"I’m gonna end up like him, aren’t I?" Juugo cut in.

She turned sharply to look at him. His piercing eyes stayed on the horizon, but they weren’t really seeing anything. His hands gripped the ledge tightly.

Ino swallowed hard. Her heart was racing. She’d never been good at comforting people. She didn’t have Hinata’s softness, or Temari’s blunt honesty, or Sakura’s courage… not even Tenten’s infectious joy. She wasn’t any of that.

"No," she whispered. "Of course not."

Juugo’s jaw tensed again. She knew he didn’t believe her. He took a long, labored breath, like he was trying to hold back something furious and raw inside him.

"Maybe..." he muttered. "Maybe that woman at the museum was right."

Ino frowned, remembering the woman who’d attacked them at the museum. She didn’t understand where he was going with that.

"What do you mean?" she asked, still watching him.

He swallowed.

"Maybe it’s in my blood," he said flatly. "Maybe I’m a dog, just like him. And maybe I’m meant to end up—"

"No," Ino cut in.

She swung her leg over the ledge so she could face him fully.

"You’re not like him," she said.

Her own voice surprised her—how firm it was. So did the pounding of her heart. She wasn’t sure why it felt so hard to say it this way. Maybe because deep down, she knew he was hurting. And she hated seeing people in pain like that.

Not like this. Not judging themselves by their parents' crimes.

Juugo turned to her. He stared at her for a moment, unmoving, then gave a faint, bitter smile. He sniffed, a dry sound—half sarcastic, half broken.

"You don’t know who I am. No one does. Not even me."

"Maybe," she said. "But I know what you’re not."

She inched a little closer.

"You saved me from three guys," she murmured. "After I was awful to you. You didn’t have to stay."

She paused, searching for the right words.

"You’re not like him. His DNA might run through your veins, but that’s it. Cruelty isn’t genetic, Juugo. Not ever."

He didn’t answer. His face was still unreadable, but his eyes... they gave him away. That quiet, deep sadness clinging to his gaze. And those irises... Ino recognized them. They looked so much like her father’s. That same haunted look that sometimes sent chills down her spine.

"How can you be so sure?" he whispered.

Her heart thudded louder.

"I just know," she said softly.

But it wasn’t enough. Not for Juugo.

She took a breath and clenched her jaw.

"I know because I have monsters in my family, too."

Her throat tightened. Her whole body tensed. What she was about to say wasn’t something she was proud of.

She inhaled, nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"My family’s fortune came from diamond mines," she said. "For centuries, my ancestors enslaved hundreds of thousands of people."

A lump rose in her chest. She paused, lowering her eyes to her perfectly manicured hands resting on the dirty rooftop ledge. She could feel Juugo watching her—silent, heavy, almost oppressive.

She cleared her throat.

"I used to think all of that was ancient history. That their crimes were too old to touch me. But recently, I found out that…"

She closed her eyes. Breathed in. Opened them again.

"I found out that my great-grandparents’ art collection wasn’t the result of clever deals."

She looked up at him.

"They stole it during World War II," she said. "They reported Jews, then took their belongings. And when the tide turned, they switched sides and played heroes."

Juugo stared at her, frozen. His gaze unreadable.

Ino gently placed a hand on his forearm, holding her breath, praying he wouldn’t pull away.

He didn’t move.

"My entire legacy is disgusting," she whispered. "All the money I have was born out of blood and betrayal. My DNA is soaked in it. But I’ve never—not for one second—believed I’d become like them. I refuse to, Juugo. I’m not a monster. Even if they were. And neither are you."

Her fingers tightened around his arm. She wanted to let go, but her body wouldn’t allow it. Juugo felt like the only solid thing in this storm she was weathering—right here, right now.

"Every time you say you’re a monster…" she murmured, "that makes me one too."

"No."

He leaned in. She could feel his breath brush against her lips.

"You’re anything but a monster," he whispered.

He was still looking at her, but his eyes held something new. Something softer. Something human.

A rare warmth, as if what he said was beyond question.

Ino’s heart clenched.

"Then you’re not one either."

He didn’t reply right away, as if he still needed to weigh every word.

"I’m not one either," he said at last, like a truth he was finally willing to believe.

She nodded slowly, then slid her hand to the back of his neck.

"We’re gonna be okay," she whispered.

He nodded, lowered his head.

She gave him a faint smile, then gently brushed his cheek with her fingers.

He looked up at her, his gaze soft through his lashes.

"Thank you."

 

Notes:

God, I loved writing this chapter! 🥹 Or well—rereading it, to be honest. Writing it wasn’t easy. You know how it is—when your characters are going through emotionally intense moments, it’s hard to capture their feelings without sounding repetitive (or at least, it is for me!). But I’m really happy with how it turned out! 😄 I just love this pairing and all their differences. I seriously think they’re adorable together. 🧡

Someone left a comment a while back saying: “Juugo and Ino are the only healthy couple in this whole story.” And honestly? I think this person was right 😆

As always, thank you so much to everyone who takes the time to leave a comment—it really motivates me to keep going! 💖

P.S. Updates have been a little slower lately (sorry about that! 🙈). I’m trying my best to keep up and make it worth the wait, but it’s not always easy 💪

Chapter 32: Brutalism

Summary:

Sakura learns what is brutalism.

"Do you see what I see, Sakura?"

Tsunade stood in front of her computer screen, hands clasped in front of her mouth, focused. Sakura rolled her chair over and sat beside her. Obito's name appeared in the corner of the open file.

She leaned over the desk and read the latest results from the lab. Her face froze, eyebrows knitting together.

"This is bad," she murmured.

"Very bad," Tsunade confirmed.

The doctor leaned back in her chair and fixed her stern gaze on Sakura.

"What do you think we should do?"

Sakura shivered. She was used to Tsunade's direct questions, but this one carried extra weight. Because this was serious. And because it was about Obito—someone she knew, someone she had treated, someone she hadn't forgotten.

"We schedule emergency surgical debridement to remove all the necrosis," she said firmly. "Then we follow up with autologous skin grafts on the deep-tissue areas: chest, flanks, abdomen."

"And?"

She swallowed.

"Broad-spectrum antibiotics. And daily dressing changes, even if that means doing them without anesthesia."

Tsunade stayed silent for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"We don’t have another option," she sighed. "I wish..."

She trailed off, jaw clenched.

"I wish we could’ve done things differently for this patient. He’s already been through so many heavy, painful procedures. And now we have to tell him he’s in for one more."

She switched off the computer and downed the rest of her coffee in one go.

"Anyway," she sighed. "That’s it for today. I’m leaving it all behind tonight. Got any plans?"

Sakura pressed her lips together.

"Nothing special. I just have to check on two patients, then I’ll head home to finish my zucchini gratin."

"Thrilling," Tsunade mocked. "I’m going out for drinks with some old friends."

"I envy you."

Tsunade took off her white coat and hung it in the closet.

"You should go out more. At your age, I was doing anything but eating a zucchini gratin on a Friday night."

Sakura raised an eyebrow.

"Noted, professor."

Tsunade grabbed her car keys, gave her a brief wave, and left the office.

Sakura stretched, then got back to work.

She finished her report an hour later, threw on her coat, and went to visit her patients, just like she said she would. On the way, her phone buzzed—an incoming call from Sasuke. She ignored it. Two messages followed. She didn’t open them.

She frowned, annoyed.

Ever since she had—unintentionally—witnessed what he had done with Naruto, she’d kept her distance. And strangely enough, Sasuke had never been so persistent.

The old Sakura would’ve been thrilled he was trying so hard to reach her. But the Sakura of today... she wasn’t sure anymore. Her desire wavered, her thoughts drifted.

Everything was blurry.

But her emotions—those were crystal clear. Raw. Exposed.

"Sakura?"

She looked up from her coffee. A brunette woman stood before her, vaguely familiar. Sakura stared at her a moment, unsure, until she caught sight of the second woman beside her—tall, blonde, willowy.

The memories hit her all at once: Diane and Solveig Von Stakelberg, Obito’s aunts.

She swallowed the last sip of her coffee and stepped closer, surprised to see them here.

Diane, the brunette, extended her hand warmly.

"So, you work here?" she asked with a smile.

Her enthusiasm took Sakura aback. Usually, noble families she’d encountered barely even acknowledged her.

"Yes, I’m a resident in this department," she replied, pointing to her badge.

"Pretty and brilliant," Solveig commented. "Impressive."

She made a little pout, her eyes scanning Sakura from head to toe.

Sakura felt heat rise to her cheeks. Compliments weren’t something she was used to. She cleared her throat to regain composure.

"And you—what brings you here?"

Diane sighed in exasperation.

"Solveig’s been complaining about wrist pain for three days. She fell off her horse. I told her to go to the hospital right away, but—of course—she did things her way. Result: her wrist turned blue and tripled in size. Luckily, the doctor said it’s nothing serious."

"I would’ve been just fine without the hospital," Solveig said. "Diane worries over nothing."

Her wife shot her a glare before turning to Sakura.

"Obito gets his stubbornness from her. They’re the same—hate hospitals, wait until the last possible second to show up."

"I have no idea what you’re talking about."

Solveig gave her a wicked smile, and Sakura was struck by how much it resembled Obito’s. The aunt had nothing in common with him—she was blonde, he was dark-haired; her eyes were light, his were deep—but that smirk, that defiant little gesture, was exactly the same. It suited him so well.

"We were just about to go see him," she said, turning to Sakura.

"Who?" she asked, shaken from her thoughts.

"Obito. We’re having dinner with him tonight. Would you like to join us?"

Sakura’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened in surprise, then she let out a nervous laugh.

"Well, I—" she chuckled awkwardly. "I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Obito might not be..."

"Obito would be happy to see you, I’m sure of it," Diane said. "And a bit of company wouldn’t hurt. He’s been isolating more than usual lately."

Solveig nodded.

"Diane’s right. Socializing would do him good."

Panic welled up in Sakura. She looked between the two women, her face growing paler by the second.

She didn’t want to go to Obito’s place. Or at least, not like this. Not after learning he was about to go through another round of horrific procedures. Not when their relationship had dwindled to a few nights with no strings attached. Not when, honestly, there was no reason they should see each other again.

And especially not for a family dinner.

"I... I can’t, sorry. I’ve got other plans, and..."

Diane interrupted her by grabbing her hand. Sakura raised her eyebrows, surprised.

"Listen..." the woman said softly. "I’m worried about my nephew. He’s always been a loner, but it’s gotten worse lately. He barely talks to anyone. So seeing someone outside of the family... it might do him good."

There was sadness in her eyes.

"He spoke well of you after the Yamanaka's reception. So I thought maybe..."

Solveig cut her off with a sigh and a shake of her head.

"Diane wants Obito to see other faces than ours because we’re leaving for Sweden soon. And she’s worried. If you came, maybe she’d sleep a little better."

"Solveig...!" Diane scolded, shooting her a dark look.

The blonde ignored her and gave Sakura a tired glance.

"You don’t have to say yes, sweetheart. We don’t want to make you uncomfortable."

Sakura opened her mouth but couldn’t find the words.

Two things unsettled her. First: she wasn’t sure this was a good idea. Second: Obito had said nice things about her to his aunts. That wasn’t like him. It was strange enough to raise suspicion. But another part of her, buried deeper, was curious. Curious to know what he’d actually said.

"I don’t know," she mumbled.

Solveig and Diane had no idea who she really was. They probably didn’t know she was the daughter of Obito’s former best friend—the one who had betrayed him to shack up with his ex-wife.

"You had other plans?" Diane asked, her tone laced with gentle disappointment.

A zucchini gratin waiting in the fridge, Sakura thought.

She swallowed, then slowly shook her head.

"I can cancel, just this once," she lied.

Diane responded with a radiant smile.

"Wonderful! Then let’s go!"

She turned on her heel, her enthusiasm quickening her steps. Solveig winked at Sakura, who offered a shy smile before following them.

They left the hospital and headed for the car. The vehicle matched their lifestyle: luxurious, imposing, gleaming in the hospital parking lot. Solveig took the wheel.

During the drive, she explained that she and Diane traveled often for work.

Diane was an author. She’d published several international bestsellers, including the well-known "Bad Mother, Free Woman", "The Consent Empire", and "God is an Algorithm."

Solveig, for her part, was an angel investor. She used her own money to fund start-ups and innovative projects in exchange for equity. Chat-GPT was one of her biggest successes. Right now, she had several other ventures in the works, which kept her constantly on the move. Her stay in the capital was just a temporary stop.

"We’re here," Diane suddenly announced.

Solveig slowed down and parked in front of a modern house.

Sakura stepped out first, turning around to take in the neighborhood.

They were far from the city’s historic heart, where old buildings imposed their refined, singular charm on the capital. Here, the hills were crowned with sleek, modern homes. Obito’s house—or rather, his villa—was brutalist in style.

Green vines climbed the concrete walls. A path of gray stone slabs, overgrown with moss, led to an immense smooth wooden door, seamlessly integrated into the structure’s clean lines. The whole thing was elegant, minimalist, futuristic... and nothing like what Sakura would’ve imagined as an Uchiha’s home.

"It’s a bit austere, isn’t it?" Diane whispered as she stepped closer. "He bought it on a whim, recently. I don’t know what he sees in it, but..."

"It’s brutalism," Solveig cut in. "More precisely, biobrutalism. Personally, I love it."

She walked ahead confidently, her heels clicking on the damp stone.

Diane leaned toward Sakura and murmured:

"She’s always had that rigid little... bourgeois streak."

It drew a smile from Sakura—one she hadn’t expected.

They climbed the wide steps to the entrance and rang the intercom. Obito opened the door a few seconds later.

His face was expressionless as he greeted his aunts. But when he saw Sakura, his features froze, shifting into a quiet, confused stare.

She felt embarrassment surge over her like a black wave. She immediately wanted to turn around—something she probably would’ve done, had Solveig not been standing so close, a calm, silent barrier.

"How are you?" Diane asked.

She stepped forward and kissed his cheek with natural tenderness. The simple, warm gesture surprised Sakura. Obito always seemed so bitter that she’d imagined his inner circle to be just as harsh, just as cold. She never would’ve expected anyone to greet him so gently.

"We brought a bottle of wine," Solveig said lightly.

She patted his shoulder, walked past him without ceremony, and entered the house. The two women dropped their things on the back of a light-colored couch, took a quick look around the room, and—still in mid-conversation—headed toward the terrace.

Sakura watched them go, a little lost, then slowly turned her head. Obito was still looking at her, eyes cold, unmoving, still tinged with disbelief.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his tone neutral.

She immediately felt the tension beneath his words—slow, sharp, like a creeping blade. And she couldn’t blame him. If he had shown up unannounced at her door, she probably would’ve slammed it in his face.

"I ran into Diane and Solveig at the hospital," she said by way of explanation. "They invited me."

Obito didn’t respond. He didn’t move at all, so still that she thought he might be frozen, practically petrified.

She swallowed hard and started fidgeting with her hands, unable to figure out where to look.

"I had a choice between a zucchini gratin or a dinner paired with a 2016 Cavalier Blanc, carefully selected by Solveig," she said. "I went with the second option."

Obito stared at her a moment longer, then raised an eyebrow, glancing over his shoulder. Diane had just set the bottle on the table, where three place settings were arranged.

He looked back at Sakura.

"Fair enough," he said simply.

He stepped aside to let her in.

"Come in."

She obeyed, murmuring a barely audible thank you, all too aware of his gaze on her back.

"Sorry, I didn’t bring anything and—"

"It’s fine," he cut in at once.

He walked past her without waiting and headed toward the far end of the room.

Sakura stood there for a second, watching him go, then took in her surroundings.

The house was vast... and empty. Or at least, it felt that way.

It was a massive, open space with no partitions, except for an upper floor accessible by a staircase made of raw stone. A dark wooden table stood at the center, near a single armchair facing a low table crafted from fine wood. The kitchen—minimalist and severe—almost disappeared into the shadows cast by the matte black cabinetry against the walls.

Everything was concrete, mineral, silence.

But one thing shattered the monotony: a massive glass wall opening the space to the outside. A towering pane, several meters high and wide, revealed a breathtaking view of the city.

On the terrace, framed by sleek glass railings, Solveig and Diane were already chatting, seated in modern garden chairs around a round, dark metal fire pit—perfectly minimalist.

Sakura stepped outside to join them, still marveling.

Below the railing, the ground sloped downward into a neglected garden, descending toward a pool with anthracite tiles. The property stretched on for dozens of meters before abruptly ending in a cliff’s drop, suspended above the city below.

Far in the distance, skyscrapers pierced the skyline like needles, standing as silent sentinels facing the ocean.

Sakura stood there, mouth slightly open, mesmerized. She had never seen a view like this.

If this was what brutalism looked like… she could live with it year-round.

"A drink, sweetheart?" Solveig asked, offering her a glass of something that had appeared out of nowhere.

"Gladly," Sakura said, reaching for it.

She sipped just as Obito stepped onto the terrace, two beer bottles in hand. He handed one to Diane and kept the other for himself. Then he placed down a few small bowls filled with snacks, and turned on the fire pit with a quick, practiced motion, pressing a hidden button on the side.

The metal circle flared to life with a controlled elegance that felt almost choreographed, and Sakura had the odd sensation of being inside a design catalog.

She watched Obito from the corner of her eye as he sat down next to Diane, responding to one of her questions. He wore a simple white T-shirt and loose, dark linen pants. Barefoot.

There was something disorienting about seeing him like this—so relaxed, in a setting so deliberately curated. A setting that pretended to be austere but didn’t fool a keen eye.

The more she looked around, the more details stood out: a finely carved statuette on a console table; a modern painting, brash and colorful, deliberately clashing with the pristine wall it hung on; here and there, creeping plants carefully placed to give the impression of a building slowly reclaimed by nature.

This wasn’t the style she would’ve associated with Obito. Not at all.

With his distant demeanor, she had expected something messy, maybe even a little dirty.

But not this.

Not a place straight out of an architecture magazine.

"Sakura?"

She startled and turned toward Solveig.

"Want some?" the blonde asked, pointing to a bowl filled with snacks.

"Yes, thank you," she replied, leaning in to grab a handful.

"So, admiring the place?" Diane followed up.

"Uh... yeah," she admitted, nervously brushing a hand over her neck. "It’s beautiful."

She glanced at Obito as she said it. He returned a blank, neutral look—but she knew that was about as expressive as he got.

"Thanks," he said anyway, taking a sip of his beer.

"I didn’t know you had a talent for..." She searched for the word. "Interior design."

"It’s one of his many hidden talents," Solveig beamed. "I’ve been asking him for years to help us with our place in Sweden, but Diane won’t hear of it."

"Brutalism really isn’t my cup of tea," Diane said, wrinkling her nose.

"And what is your cup of tea, then?" Solveig teased.

Diane answered confidently, naming an architectural style. She immediately turned to Sakura for her opinion.

"I... I don’t really know what that looks like," she confessed.

The two women pulled out their phones to show her photos, diving into a mock-argument that was playful and warm, laced with familiar jabs and knowing smiles.

Sakura couldn’t help smiling along. She felt relaxed, slowly slipping into an unexpected bubble of ease.

Every so often, her eyes met Obito’s, still a little removed from the conversation. He listened in silence.

And now and then, he smiled.

Real smiles. Not the bitter smirks or arrogant half-masks she was used to. No. Genuine smiles. Calm. Almost soft. And every time she caught one, she held his gaze a little longer—until he noticed... and stared back.

Then she’d clear her throat, look away, and dive back into the conversation like nothing had happened. But she could still feel his gaze on her, heavy with unspoken things. And that was enough to send a shiver down her spine.

It stayed that way throughout dinner. And strangely, she never once felt uncomfortable. Diane and Solveig were lovely—sparkling, light-hearted. And Obito… when he wasn’t watching her, he let himself drop the occasional sarcastic comment, with that dry, razor-sharp delivery that was so uniquely his.

Sometimes, their arms brushed. And when it happened, neither of them moved away. Why would they?

They’d done worse. Much worse.

And every time that thought crossed her mind, Sakura would glance at him out of the corner of her eye—his profile, the dead eye, the scarred face, slashed with reminders of the past.

And then, Tsunade’s diagnosis would come back to her. Relentless. Sharp. Painful.

"That was delicious," Diane said as she slipped on her coat.

"Thanks," Obito replied, standing in the doorway.

Outside, Solveig lit a cigarette. She looked up at the starry sky, then turned to Sakura.

"Sweetheart, are you sure you don’t want us to give you a ride?"

"Oh, no thanks. I live on the other side of town. Better I wait for my taxi—it should be here soon."

The app showed it was already on the way. She could’ve accepted the ride, but she didn’t want to impose: their hotel was downtown, while her apartment was out west, over forty minutes away. Asking them to make that detour would’ve been ridiculous. And she didn’t want to seem rude.

"All right, if you’re sure," Solveig said.

Diane finished buttoning her coat and stepped out of the house.

"See you soon," she said, kissing them both on the cheek. "It was a lovely evening."

She winked at them, then joined her wife. The two got into the car, which started with a quiet purr before disappearing down the avenue. Soon, only the hush of night remained.

Sakura turned around. Obito was already inside, clearing the table. She stepped off the porch and closed the door gently behind her.

"Thanks for dinner," she said.

"No problem," he replied, opening the dishwasher.

They moved side by side in a silence that was surprisingly comfortable. Obito handled the silverware while she washed a few greasy pans by hand. After a while, she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

"What?" he asked, wiping down the kitchen island with a clean sponge.

"Nothing," she replied a bit too fast, a little too defensive.

He gave a bitter smile.

"You looked at me like that all night."

"No," she protested, frowning.

"Yeah."

He tossed the sponge into the sink with a flick of his wrist.

"You’re a terrible liar, Haruno. Really awful. Absolute shit."

"I’m not lying," she growled.

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, and leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

"Go on. Explain."

"Explain what? I—"

"What’s the issue? Solveig? Diane? Sasuke?"

He listed the names one by one, watching her face intently.

"No, I—" Sakura began, trying to explain, but he cut her off again.

"Kakashi?"

He squinted, his features tensing.

"Me?"

Sakura must’ve flinched, because he raised an eyebrow.

"You came here on your own, remember," he said flatly.

"I didn’t say otherwise."

"Then what?"

Sakura played dumb.

"Nothing..." she said with a shrug.

He stared at her silently, his eyes like a predator’s.

"You know something I don’t."

"No," she said too quickly.

She shut her eyes, cursing herself. Obito was right—she couldn’t lie. At least, not to him. She sucked at it. He made her too uneasy for her brain to work properly.

She clenched her jaw, lowered her eyes to the pan in her hands, and focused on scrubbing it clean.

"How bad is it?" he asked suddenly.

"What?"

She frowned, not following, her knuckles whitening around the metal.

"When is it? The part where I get sliced open on an operating table?"

Sakura froze. She blinked, then looked up. He was staring at her with that weary expression, but his one good eye cut into her like a blade.

She swallowed hard. Her heart pounded.

She could lie. It wasn’t her responsibility to break the news. She wasn’t even on duty.

But she didn’t.

"Soon," she said quietly.

Obito didn’t move. A dry, bitter laugh escaped him. His hands tensed against the counter.

"Why?"

Sakura gently set the pan down.

"The last graft... it didn’t take. We have to do it again."

His eye widened—just for a moment—then returned to its usual calm. A heavy silence fell. He inhaled slowly, lifted his chin, and stared at her.

"I’m not doing it," he said.

Sakura frowned.

"Obito... you don’t have a choice, it’s not—"

"I’m not doing it."

His voice was glacial. Cold. Bitter.

She stood still, unable to look away.

It wasn’t anger.

It was fear.

She took a breath and slowly stepped toward him.

"You have to," she said gently. "It’s necessary. There’s no other option."

He glared at her, jaw tight. She saw his throat bob as he swallowed.

"I’ve already had to do it twice," he murmured.

"I know."

"Every fucking time, it felt like I was burning alive."

His jaw trembled, clenched so tightly his teeth could’ve cracked.

Sakura stepped closer. Slowly. One step. Then another.

"I know," she repeated again, almost in a whisper. "I know your file by heart."

"Then you know what kind of hell is coming."

She nodded.

Yes. She knew. Of course she knew.

She knew the pain, the slowness, the flesh forced to heal through unbearable agony.

She knew the muffled screams, the sleepless nights, the fear that it still might not take.

But there was no other choice.

And that thought shattered her heart.

She reached out and gently laid her fingers over his hand, still gripping the edge of the counter. His skin was hot, tight as if it might snap.

"You’re strong," she murmured. "You’ve done it twice already. You can do it again."

He didn’t answer. He didn’t move.

His gaze stayed hard, locked on her, as if weighing every word, every silence, everything she wasn’t saying.

She pulled her hand back. Slowly. Then, after a suspended moment, she brought her fingers to his cheek.

His skin was rough. Marked. Warped by scars.

"I know you’ll get through it," she said. "I’m sure of it. You win every battle you fight."

And she meant it. Deep down, she truly did.

Obito was a survivor. A miracle.

He’d lived through an explosion. Endured the pain of shredded limbs. Accepted the blindness in one eye. Survived the betrayal of his wife—of his best friend.

And still, he was standing.

"Are you going to be there?" he asked.

He hadn’t moved. His gaze stayed locked on hers—hard, almost hostile. Like he was testing her. Waiting for her to flinch.

She nodded slowly.

"If Dr. Tsunade Senju agrees to it."

"Then make sure she does," he ordered.

Sakura brushed her thumb along his cheek.

"I will," she murmured.

He said nothing. Didn’t move.

Then suddenly, he leaned in and kissed her.

She melted into him, wrapped an arm around his neck, lost herself in his mouth.

The kiss deepened, lengthened, devouring the seconds.

Sakura gave in without hesitation, surrendering to the raw heat of it, to the physical urgency that left no room for control.

Her fingers slid into his hair, down his neck, exploring that damaged skin she thought she knew—yet which now felt charged with something else, something new.

He pulled her closer, tighter, until there was no space left between their bodies, until their hips aligned perfectly, as if made for each other.

His mouth was already tracing down her jaw, sliding to her neck, when a sudden vibration on the counter sliced through the moment.

The phone.

Sakura turned her head, breath caught. She recognized the notification before even reading it. Her taxi was here.

She didn’t move right away, heart pounding against Obito’s chest, arms still around him, torn between impulse and reality.

In a slow motion, she flipped the phone face down on the counter, then turned back to him, kissing him where they’d left off.

Obito let her, his hand slipping beneath her shirt.

"Come with me," he said against her lips.

He stepped back and took her hand, leading her toward the stairs.

Sakura followed, watching the movement of his body as he guided her.

They passed through a corridor as cold and spare as the rest of the house, then entered a bedroom. The large bed faced a wide glass window that offered the same sweeping view as the garden. Night had fallen, and the scattered lights of distant buildings gave the room a futuristic glow.

She didn’t have time to linger. Obito cupped her chin and kissed her.

The kisses grew quickly, rapidly uncontrollable.

Sakura backed up, pushed by the heat of his body, until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed. She let herself fall onto it, and he followed immediately, his kisses just as hungry.

Their breaths tangled, fast and heavy, as her hands moved across his chest through the fabric.

He unbuttoned her blouse; she helped him pull his T-shirt over his head.

The rest of their clothes followed, without delay.

When the room’s warm air brushed her bare skin, Sakura opened her eyes slightly.

The darkness blurred the details, but the moonlight mixed with the city’s glow was enough for Obito to see the curves of her body.

It was the first time she was fully naked in front of him.

Until now, there had always been some barrier—clothes that stayed on, remnants of modesty, or perhaps distance.

But when his mouth touched the base of her neck, she felt exposed.

His kisses became firmer, and her legs instinctively closed around him, his body already aligned between hers.

"What?" he asked, their momentum halting.

His face hovered just above hers, lips still brushing her own.

"Nothing," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

She leaned up to kiss him again, but he didn’t respond. His eyes were searching hers, trying to read her like a book.

"You’re a terrible liar. I already told you that," he murmured.

She wanted to reply, but no words came.

She didn’t know what to say. Not really.

Quick sex in a kitchen or up against a tree—that was one thing.

Doing it in a bed, fully naked, was something else entirely.

It was stupid—because the end result was the same—but something inside her resisted. Like her body was screaming, “This time, you’re crossing a line. You’re owning it. You won’t be able to pretend it was just a spur-of-the-moment thing, a drunk mistake.”

"Do you trust me?" Obito asked.

She blinked, yanked out of her thoughts.

"No," she answered.

He paused, then a mocking smile curled at his lips.

"Good," he said. "You shouldn’t. Except for this."

"This?" Sakura echoed, uncertain.

He nodded, his mouth brushing against hers again.

"Sex," he said. "You’re not in any danger."

Sakura swallowed.

She wanted to answer with something equally sarcastic, but nothing came. She wasn’t as sure of herself as usual.

Probably because she was in a vulnerable position—in a space that was equally so. And facing a man who wasn’t vulnerable at all.

That changed everything.

The game wasn’t the same anymore, that much was clear. But still, she wanted to play. Or rather—her body did. She liked the weight of Obito on her, the feeling of being at his mercy, that unreadable gaze he cast down on her skin. But most of all, she liked the fact that they were crossing a line. Again.

"I’ve been thinking about you a lot," he said suddenly.

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kissed her.

"About what I’d do to you," he murmured against her lips.

Another kiss.

"About the sounds you’d make."

And another.

Obito’s breath already warmed her skin, and Sakura felt her body flush under every touch.

"You’ve got quite the imagination," she whispered, her hands lingering at his neck.

He pulled back just enough to grin.

"Way too much."

She opened her mouth, ready to toss something back—a tease, a jab, anything—but he didn’t give her the chance.

Lowering himself slowly, he brushed his lips along her neck, skimmed over her shoulder, then paused at her chest.

Sakura closed her eyes and inhaled sharply, trembling under the heat of his tongue and breath. Her hands slid from his nape to grip the mattress, fingers spread and tense, like her body was trying to anchor itself.

She felt his smirk against her skin.

He placed one last kiss on her left breast, then slowly continued downward: her stomach, her hip... until he reached her pelvis, where he lingered, lips brushing her skin with almost painful hesitation.

Then he looked up at her—calm, collected—as if what they were doing was perfectly reasonable. Then he sat back.

With fluid ease, he pulled her toward him on the mattress, then knelt at the foot of the bed and parted her legs with quiet confidence.

Sakura propped herself up on her elbows to see him better.

The anticipation rooted her in place, but the position made her stiff, vulnerable—exposed. And despite her desire, a thought sliced through her, absurd and sharp: she was about to sleep—again—with her boyfriend’s cousin. And her father’s sworn enemy.

Obito, for his part, wasn’t weighed down by anything of the sort. His eyes were locked on her, attentive to every twitch, and he tightened his grip on her thighs with a hungry gleam.

"I want you to say my name," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of her leg.

Sakura shivered. She swallowed and raised an eyebrow, trying to keep her cool.

"I’m not really the talkative type," she replied, as casually as she could manage.

He smiled against her skin—a slow, feline smile, full of calm, predatory intent.

"I can teach you."

Sakura’s heart skipped. She let out a nervous little laugh, which she masked with a defiant note.

"Then go ahead. Show me."

He answered with another kiss to her thigh, then slid his hands over her hips to steady her.

Sakura swallowed hard as he leaned in toward her center.

At the first touch of his tongue, her head fell back. Her eyes closed instinctively. Her breath caught in her throat.

Obito waited, patient, until she found it again. Then he resumed—without pause this time.

He licked her slowly, dragging his tongue up and down her vulva, lingering where she reacted most, never quite pushing her over the edge. Just enough to stoke the fire higher.

Sakura clenched her teeth. Her breathing grew ragged, uneven. Obito kissed her again, then pressed his tongue to her clit. A tremor ran through her; her hips lifted before she could stop them.

He tightened his grip on her thighs, holding her still with precise control.

Sakura gripped the sheets.

He was teasing her. Driving her to the brink but not letting her fall. He was savoring every reaction—every twitch, every ragged breath.

His tongue slid along her slit one last time... and then stopped.

Pinned to the mattress, her back arched from pleasure, Sakura struggled to push herself up onto one elbow. She needed to see why he’d stopped.

She regretted it the moment their eyes met. His gaze burned with intensity—a sharp, electric determination that hit her like a current.

"I want you to come saying my name," he said.

Sakura stared at him, panting, between her own rising and falling breasts.

"Then give me a real reason to say it," she shot back, just as defiant.

She spread her legs a little wider.

His mouth returned to her—precise, scorching.

The first stroke sent a violent shiver through her, so sharp it furrowed her brow.

As he explored, his touch grew heavier, more intense. Every time he came back to her most sensitive spots, she hovered between tension and surrender.

The first times they’d had sex, everything had been so chaotic, so rushed, she’d never really known if she was enjoying it. She came, sure—but was that because of his skill, or just the raw violence of the moment?

She hadn’t known.

But now she did. Obito knew exactly what he was doing. And he wielded that knowledge with almost cruel precision.

She was so deep in a trance that every flick of his tongue was preceded by sharp, aching tension.

Her body braced, held, begged. Her hips moved to his rhythm, her fingers tangled in his dark hair.

"Say my name," he murmured against her skin, just as the tension crested.

And when his tongue pressed fully against her clit, the pleasure ripped through her like a jolt of electricity—sudden, unrestrained.

A sharp moan escaped her lips.

This time, she gave in.

The Uchiha’s name tore from her throat in a breathless cry, raw and almost sacred.

She arched hard, grabbed the sheets in both hands, clutching them so tightly they bunched under her.

Her legs trembled violently. Then she collapsed, panting, back flat on the mattress, breath broken, mind submerged in a thick, heated haze.

She felt him sit up. A kiss brushed her knee.

Drawing from her last reserves, she propped herself up on her elbows to look at him.

He was still wearing his pants—though the tautness of the fabric left no room for doubt about the tension building in him.

"Take your clothes off," she ordered, still breathless.

He undid his belt with a slow, almost theatrical motion. The pants slid to the floor.

"All the way," she added when she saw he still had his boxers on.

A mocking smirk tugged at his lips, but he didn’t hesitate. He removed the last piece without shame, without flinching.

When he stood straight again, facing her, a tightness clenched deep between her thighs.

Seeing him like this, fully naked before her, was... disarming. Not because he disappointed—far from it. He was exactly as she had imagined: lean, athletic, that perfect V-shape, beautiful despite the scars and marks that traced his skin.

His shoulders were broad, muscles sharply defined. Even his legs—long, powerful—carried the same unnerving balance, almost too perfect to be real.

And then there was his cock—erect, exposed, unmistakable.

Not too much, not too little. Just there. Ready.

Hard for her.

Perfect.

And despite all that, he stood completely calm at the edge of the bed, naked, unapologetic, as if none of this were remarkable.

"Come here," she said, nodding to the space beside her.

He followed her gaze, then obeyed—surprisingly docile.

He lay on his back.

She climbed on top of him before he could think twice, straddling his hips with confidence.

From above, she met his gaze.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Good, she thought. A sarcastic Obito meant he wasn’t taking anything seriously.

"You’re soaked," he said flatly.

His voice was neutral. Just an observation.

"And you’re hard as a rock," she shot back in the same tone. "Like what you see?"

He glanced down at her body.

Despite everything they’d already done, she felt a familiar flicker of self-consciousness. But she shoved it down.

"Yeah, I do," he answered.

"Good."

She rolled her hips slowly—and watched him tense immediately.

That one twitch echoed through her. Desire surged all over again.

She inhaled softly, guided her hand between her thighs, and rose just enough to align them.

In one slow, deliberate motion, she sank down onto his cock, inch by inch, never breaking eye contact.

Obito watched the connection happen, eyes locked on where their bodies met, like he didn’t want to miss a second of what he was feeling.

When she took him in fully, he shut his eyes and let out a long breath—quiet, almost reverent.

He was savoring her. Only her.

Sakura felt her own body tremble in response, shaken by that fleeting vulnerability she caught in him.

Seeing him give in, even a little, rattled her. Thrilled her.

He started to sit up, but she pressed a firm hand to his chest and pushed him back down.

He let her. No protest. Just a grimace—maybe from the sensitivity of his scarred skin under her palm.

"Don’t move," she ordered.

He gave her a smug little smile.

She erased it instantly by grinding her hips. His expression went neutral, then tightened with the faintest furrow of his brow. His eyes flicked down to their hips, focused on the rhythm.

He swallowed hard, savoring the sensation, and slid his hands to her hips to follow the movement.

Sakura stopped cold.

He froze, startled by the sudden halt, and looked up at her.

"I said don’t move," she said calmly.

This time, he didn’t smile.

She felt his fingers tense on her hips—but he didn’t move. Not an inch.

"Good," she said, savoring the power she now held.

She braced herself and started moving again.

He inhaled sharply, quick and ragged.

She did it again. Slow. Deliberate. Sinful.

Obito was holding himself back. Every movement of her hips triggered a spasm, a clenched breath.

She wanted to pretend none of this affected her, that the pleasure was all his. But that wasn’t true. The heat was rising in her, fast.

She was melting into him.

Melting for him.

She looked up at his face. He was panting, eyes locked on hers, body so taut he looked ready to snap.

Her hand slid over his chest, up to his throat. Under her palm, she felt his Adam’s apple contract.

His dark eyes locked onto hers, hard—

But it was a mask. She knew it.

Because he was still there, motionless. Too motionless for someone who was angry.

She stopped moving.

His entire body tensed even more.

"Ask me," she whispered.

Obito’s jaw clenched.

He stared at her from under lowered lashes, muscles tight, whole body coiled like a spring.

Normally, that kind of tension would’ve scared her. He was a head taller, nearly twice her weight, trained to neutralize a threat in under three seconds. One move and he could pin her, silence her, dominate her completely.

But not here.

Not now.

Because she held the reins.

He said nothing, still taut as a bowstring. She rolled her hips slowly.

He shut his eyes, frowned. His fingers gripped her skin—hard enough that she knew she’d wear the marks. But still, he didn’t move. He held on.

So she kept going. Slower. Deeper.

She watched his breathing quicken, his chest rising in sharp, uneven breaths, his jaw twitching with every motion.

When she stopped again, he broke.

"Keep going…" he breathed. "Please…"

His voice was unlike anything she’d ever heard from him. Lower. Rougher. And maybe that was what tipped her over the edge, too.

She moved her hips faster, harder, as if to fill the void that had devoured them.

Their breaths collided—harsh, ragged, almost painful.

Obito’s hands clutched her waist, guiding her now with a new urgency, demanding the pace he needed.

Their bodies crashed together in fevered rhythm—

He came first, suddenly, clutching her to him.

But she didn’t stop.

Her fingers clung to the hand still gripping her hip, and she let herself fall into the spiral that had been winding tighter with each second.

The orgasm hit her like lightning—violent, raw. Her body arched, tensed, then gave out completely.

A wave tore through her, so overwhelming she lost her breath.

Her head fell back, eyes shut, gasping, surrendering to the flood of pleasure.

It was stronger than anything. Stronger than anything she had ever felt, touched, tasted.

A thick silence fell between them, made of shallow breaths and pounding hearts.

She stayed still, head tilted back, then slowly leaned forward and collapsed against him, resting her cheek on his shoulder.

One of his hands slid into the small of her back.

They lay like that for what felt like an eternity, until sleep pulled her under.

When Sakura opened her eyes, bright daylight flooded the room.

She inhaled deeply and rolled over.

The space next to her was empty.

The room was cold.

Deserted.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, pulled the sheets over her chest, and listened.

Nothing.

Silence.

The house felt empty. Abandoned.

And she knew it instantly: she was alone.

She rubbed her forehead and winced.

Fuck..., she thought.

Sleeping with Obito had never been on her end-of-year bingo card. And yet... she didn’t quite know what she felt. Somewhere between shame and satisfaction.

Shame, because she’d cheated on her boyfriend. With his cousin.

Satisfaction, because... fuck, she’d come. Harder than she ever had.

She let out a long sigh and buried her face in her hands.

"I’m a slut... a goddamn slut..."

Did Sasuke feel the same?

And Naruto?

Were they, too, torn between guilt and pleasure?

That thought triggered an image she hadn’t wanted: Sasuke and Naruto kissing.

She grimaced and turned her head sharply.

Her gaze drifted to the sun-drenched window, then settled on the nightstand.

A note was there, scribbled hastily: "Lock the door on your way out."

She smirked.

That was all she’d expected from Obito.

Honestly, it was better that way.

Waking up next to him would’ve been... fucking weird.

She ran a hand over her still-sleepy face, threw on her clothes in a hurry, and went to grab her phone.

It was still there, right where she’d left it the night before—on the kitchen counter.

She picked it up, checked her calendar, and realized the medical conference she’d been planning to attend started in two hours.

"Just enough time to get home, shower, and change," she murmured, grabbing her purse.

She was about to leave when something caught her eye.

A small white box, placed in plain sight on the island.

Right next to her phone.

She squinted and picked it up.

Morning-after pill.

Unless Obito was secretly a woman—which she seriously doubted—the message was crystal clear:"Take your contraception. Neither of us wants to be a parent."

She should have found that reasonable. Maybe even... thoughtful: A man taking that kind of initiative? Still rare. The patriarchy wasn’t dead.

But no.

All she felt was a wave of shame.

She shoved the feeling aside, swallowed the pill without thinking, and left the empty box on the counter.

At least Obito would sleep easy. And so would she.

Sakura made sure to slam the door behind her as she left the house.

Back at her apartment, she jumped in the shower, got dressed, put on her makeup, and gathered her things.

And of course, she was already late for the conference.

She burst out of the metro and raced up the escalators two steps at a time. By the time she reached the building, the doors to the amphitheater were already closed. She reached for the handle, but a hostess stopped her with an apologetic smile.

"The venue’s packed. If you don’t have an invitation, I can’t let you in. Open seating is closed."

Sakura’s eyes widened. She didn’t have an invitation—she’d been counting on open seating.

"Look, I’m barely ten minutes late. This conference is really important to me, and—"

"I really can’t let you in. It’s a safety issue."

"But I’m alone," Sakura insisted. "And it’s for my thesis. Listening to experts and asking questions would be so valuable for—"

"I’m sorry. I have to follow the rules."

Sakura was about to pull the pity card when a voice cut in:

"I think we can make an exception this time. I’m late myself."

Mito Senju had just entered the main hall, her heels clicking on the marble floor. Her driver followed behind—tall, dark-haired, the same man as last time.

"Madam Senju," the hostess greeted her. "It’s an honor to have you here."

"Are you planning to deny me entry as well?" Mito asked. "That would be unfortunate. My name is on the list of this university’s top donors. It’s even engraved above this amphitheater."

Sakura glanced up toward the top of the doors.

It was true.

The hostess flushed, visibly flustered.

"No, of course not..." she stammered.

"Then if you have no objection to me entering, I assume you won’t object to this young doctor joining me. Her expertise is far more important than mine."

Her voice was endlessly gentle, but her tone remained firm. An iron hand in a velvet glove.

Sakura shivered.

"Yes, of course... Please, go right in," the hostess said quickly, rushing to open the doors for them.

Mito thanked her with a polite smile, and Sakura followed in her shadow, unsure how to react. It was the first time she’d ever received such an obvious pass.

"Thank you," she whispered to Mito.

She was about to head for the crowded seats—probably to find a spot off to the side—when Mito gestured toward the upper balconies.

Sakura obeyed and entered a reserved area of the amphitheater. Several people were already seated, including the university dean, who gave Mito a discreet handshake, careful not to disturb the room.

Mito settled into a seat that was much more comfortable than the rest, and motioned for Sakura to sit beside her. She complied and pulled out her laptop.

The rest of the hour flew by. She took notes, listened to the speakers, and watched the slides projected on the central screen.

When the conference ended and applause filled the air, she leaned back in her chair.

"How was it?" Mito asked.

She smiled at her, arm resting on the armrest.

"Really interesting. Fascinating, actually," Sakura replied, returning her smile. "And thank you for... well, for getting me in."

Mito gave a soft laugh and waved it off like it was nothing.

"I have many privileges. Might as well share them with my peers."

"That’s very kind of you. It’s the second time you’ve... well, helped me."

She tucked her laptop into her bag, a bit embarrassed. She hadn’t forgotten the time Mito had kept her company during one of the worst nights of her life. Nor had she forgotten the strange, paradoxical shame that came with it.

"I don’t know how to thank you," she added.

Mito shrugged.

"You don’t have to do anything. Your thanks are enough."

She stood, grabbed her handbag.

"Unless..." she added, frowning slightly.

She glanced absentmindedly at her watch.

"I was supposed to have lunch with a friend, but she canceled. Would you like to join me? The table’s still reserved."

Sakura raised her eyebrows, surprised. She hadn’t expected such an offer.

"Why not?" she said.

And she didn’t really know why she agreed.

Maybe because Mito had seen her in one of her most vulnerable moments. And after that… what was there left to fear?

They left the amphitheater chatting casually, then walked off-campus to a quaint but unpretentious café. It surprised Sakura—she’d expected something uptight and formal, the kind of place Ino liked to drag her to.

But not here.

Still, they received special treatment: the staff led them straight to the best seats.

Mito offered Sakura the spot on the bench, which she accepted. They each ordered a coffee and began to chat.

"So?" Mito asked, gently tapping her spoon against her cup. "Have you made your decision?"

"My decision?" Sakura echoed.

She thought she knew where Mito was going with this, but she wanted to be sure. Just in case. To avoid saying something stupid.

"Have you decided to stay?" Mito said. "Or leave?"

A wave of discomfort crept over Sakura.

She could’ve dodged the question, made it clear she didn’t want to talk about it. But part of her refused to. Maybe because Mito, too, seemed to know the mechanics of such things all too well.

"Neither," she said at last. "I think..."

She hadn’t broken up with Sasuke. But she hadn’t forgiven his betrayal either. And she’d just slept with his cousin. Last night. And loved it.

"You’re in a gray zone," Mito said quietly. "I was too. For a long time. Until I finally chose to get out."

She stared at her coffee cup, and Sakura couldn’t tell if her expression was serene... or laced with regret.

"How did you do it?" she asked. "How did you learn to accept it?"

Mito gave a small, crooked smile. She raised her dark eyes to meet Sakura’s.

"I punished him," she said. "For the rest of his life."

Notes:

Hello everyone!

Wow, now that was a wild chapter 😄🔥 It wasn’t easy to write (and I really hope my English is pleasant to read — I’m doing my best 💪). If you spot any typos or inconsistencies, feel free to let me know!

Anyway, all that to say... Sakura and Obito are seriously going at it. Let’s be honest — they’re completely insane. And we love that for them.

If you're curious what Obito’s house looks like, here’s few links:
🏠 Exterior vibes: here
🪟 Interior vibes: here

As you can see — very austere. But I think it reflects his current state of mind perfectly.

I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! 💖

Once again, thank you to everyone who takes the time to comment. You are genuinely wonderful, and I can’t thank you enough for it 🥹💕 Special thanks to @kbqb, who always takes the time to write amazing comments — I love reading them, so thank you so much 💗💗💗

Chapter 33: Monsters don’t wake up nauseous

Summary:

Juugo and Shizune have a conversation.

Dr. Shizune Kato’s office was elegant and welcoming. There was her desk—a sleek glass table—a bookshelf overflowing with hundreds of books, artwork, children's drawings (no doubt gifts from her younger patients), and at the center of the room, two large armchairs facing each other.

Juugo had rarely sat on furniture this comfortable. He’d mentioned it during their very first session, which had made the psychiatrist smile. She’d thanked him gently.

After that, they talked about everything and nothing. And over the course of their sessions, a bond had formed between them—solid, reassuring—until it became, for Juugo, a real lifeline.

But not today.

He hadn’t slept in three days, despite his medication. He hadn’t been able to study properly either, which bothered him deeply.

But there was worse. Much worse.

And that was precisely why he’d come to the office.

“Are you worried?” Shizune asked.

She was watching him, legs crossed in her chair. The recorder was running—she always made sure to keep a copy of their sessions.

“Yeah,” he said, gripping the armrests with his large hands.

The police had contacted him. His father wanted to see him—at the visitation room. That was his condition for revealing the locations of new bodies, helping bring some closure to families who had lived with uncertainty far too long to begin grieving properly.

At first, Juugo had refused. He didn’t want to see that man. Not up close, not from a distance—he was just beginning to shake off his night terrors and feared they would come rushing back. But the police had known just what to say. They talked to him about the families. About the relief he could bring them. About the chance to atone—just a little—for his father’s sins. About how people would see him, the man he was becoming. And ever since… he hadn’t slept. Because he was scared. Scared that seeing his father might shatter his world. Scared it would break his mind.

“You don’t have to accept the police’s offer, Juugo,” Shizune said calmly. “You know that, don’t you? The law is on your side.”

No one had ever told him that before.

“I have to do it,” he murmured, more softly than he meant to.

Shizune took a deep breath, then sat up straighter in her chair.

“Do you feel like you owe them something?”

“Yes.”

She gave him a gentle look.

“You’re not responsible for what your father did. And you never will be. He alone is accountable for his actions.”

“But the families…”

“Their loved ones aren’t coming back, Juugo. They’re gone.”

Juugo frowned. His heart pounded harder. His knuckles ached from gripping the armrests so tightly.

“What am I supposed to do?”

Dr. Shizune stood, fetched two cups, and filled them at the coffee machine.

“Before asking that, you need to understand the why,” she said, handing him a cup.

Juugo took it and stared down at the dark liquid.

“The why?” he echoed, lost.

She nodded.

“Why do you want to see your father, even though he terrifies you?” she asked. “Do you want to help the police with their investigation? Or are you hoping to change the way people see you?”

Juugo didn’t answer. Not right away. But he didn’t feel rushed. Dr. Shizune wasn’t like the others. With her, he never had to hurry. He could take his time.

“Both, I guess…”

Shizune shrugged.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to help grieving families. But… you also have to ask yourself: if their view of you doesn’t change, can you live with that?”

Juugo shivered. That wasn’t something he’d really considered.

He knew isolation well. Karin and Suigetsu were the last two pillars he had left. In his neighborhood, people were starting to get used to him. But the rest of society... That was another story. Every time he went downtown, curious stares quickly turned hostile. The moment people realized who he was, they either shunned him or snapped photos without asking. And almost inevitably, the death threats would flood social media. In the end, his rough neighborhood was the only place where people still tolerated him. No one cared what happened to folks in those poor, crime-ridden areas. One more criminal didn’t make much difference.

“I think I can,” he said, setting the cup aside.

He hadn’t touched it yet.

“Are you sure?”

He sighed.

“Even if I’m wrong about myself, even if it still hurts afterward… at least those families might finally find peace.”

Shizune was quiet for a moment, then offered a faint smile.

“That’s a very wise answer,” she said, lifting her cup. “But seeing your father—it’s not just helping the victims’ families. It’s also reopening a wound you’ve been trying so hard to heal.”

She folded her hands neatly in her lap.

“I don’t doubt your desire to help, Juugo. But I want you to understand—what you’re about to do isn’t a small sacrifice. It’s not something you just take and move on from.”

“I know.”

“Good. Then promise me one thing. When you come back… don’t pretend you’re okay. You’ll come here. And you’ll tell me what you felt—even if it’s ugly, even if it’s messy, even if you’re ashamed. Deal?”

Juugo inhaled deeply, jaw clenched.

He wasn’t sure he could really promise that. In situations like this, he always needed time to process things on his own, to sort through his thoughts. But Dr. Shizune clearly wasn’t going to let him run away this time.

“Okay,” he said after a moment.

Shizune looked satisfied. She checked the time, then glanced down at her still-full cup.

“You’re not drinking?” she asked.

“No. I don’t really feel like coffee.”

“Really? But I made it exactly the way you like it.”

She genuinely seemed to care.

Juugo couldn’t help but smile a little. Dr. Shizune was probably the kindest person he knew. He regretted that they couldn’t be friends outside of this office—she must be an incredible person to have in your life.

He sincerely hoped her husband took good care of her.

“No, really. I just don’t feel like coffee.”

Shizune studied him for a moment in silence, then tilted her head slightly.

“Juugo,” she said, “is there something else you want to tell me?”

His smile vanished. He stared at her, incredulous, and felt every muscle in his body tighten. Unpleasant images flashed through his mind, and his heart raced until he felt hot all over.

“I… I think maybe there is,” he said hesitantly.

He didn’t understand why it was always so hard. Shizune had proven, time and again, that he could trust her. And yet… something still jammed up inside him.

“It’s about that girl, isn’t it?” the psychiatrist asked, as if she could read his thoughts. “What’s her name again…? Ah, right—Ino,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Things going okay with her? Classes and all that?”

Juugo gave a hesitant nod.

“Yeah, it’s going fine. It’s just that…”

He cleared his throat. His palms were suddenly damp.

“I’ve been having nightmares lately.”

“About her?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of nightmares?”

Shame surged to his face. He scratched his temple, nervous, then leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees. Eyes glued to the hardwood floor, he didn’t dare meet hers. His head throbbed. His foot bounced uncontrollably.

“I dream that…” he murmured. “I dream that I…”

“That you kiss her?” Shizune suggested.

He flinched. But didn’t look up. He only nodded, barely.

“Is she consenting?” she asked.

“Yes,” he blurted.

Too fast. Too forcefully. Like it was a matter of life and death. And to him, it was. Shizune needed to know. Because never—never—could he…

He shut his eyes abruptly, nauseated. Then slowly lifted his head, ashamed.

But she didn’t look shocked. Not even surprised.

“It’s normal to dream about someone you care for,” she said calmly.

Juugo shook his head.

“I don’t want to.”

He swallowed hard, then ran a trembling hand through his hair.

“I can’t do that,” he muttered. “If she ever found out that I… that I…”

He tried to find a polite way to say he’d had erotic dreams with her at the center, but couldn’t.

A deep discomfort settled in his gut.

“You don’t have to share your dreams with her. What happens inside your mind is yours. We all have private spaces—thoughts, images—that belong to us alone. Just because she appears in a fantasy doesn’t mean—”

“No,” he cut her off. “I can’t have those kinds of dreams, it’s…”

He buried his face in his hands.

“It’s disrespectful to her. It makes me… it makes me sick knowing I dream of her like that. Every time I wake up, I feel nauseous. Because… because…”

He gritted his teeth, trying to hold himself together.

“I can’t do that to her. I can’t think those kinds of things. It’s too dangerous. If I start having the same thoughts as my father… I’ll never be able to forgive myself.”

Shizune listened without interrupting, then said firmly:

“What you’re describing isn’t depravity, Juugo. It’s fear.”

She looked him directly in the eyes.

“You didn’t dream about hurting her. You didn’t do anything to her. That dream wasn’t an action—it was a reflection. A mirror of your unconscious, full of emotions, desires, tensions… and above all, guilt.”

She paused.

“But let me say it again: you are not your father. You don’t carry his crimes.”

A sigh escaped her lips.

“You can be shaken, ashamed even… But that pain you feel when you wake up, that nausea… Those aren’t the symptoms of a monster. They’re the reactions of a boy who’s terrified of loving wrong.”

Juugo wanted so badly to believe her. To throw himself into her words like a lifeline.

But he couldn’t.

He was too afraid she was wrong. That she’d misjudged him. That she didn’t see what he really was.

Shizune must have sensed it, because she gave him that gentle smile—the one she wore when she could guess what he was thinking.

“Juugo… having a dream, even an erotic one, isn’t a crime. It’s not a conscious decision. It’s not an act. It’s not abuse.”

She paused again, her gaze steady on his.

“What sets you apart from your father is exactly that: the boundary. He ignored the boundaries of others. You—just imagining crossing them is enough to make you sick. You respect this girl. You haven’t forced anything on her—not in your dreams, not in reality. And you never will. Because you know what’s on the other side.”

She took a sip of her coffee, dabbed her mouth with a paper napkin.

“You didn’t inherit your father’s violence, Juugo. What you inherited was the fear of becoming like him. You know how I can tell?”

He shook his head slowly.

“Monsters don’t wake up feeling sick. Monsters don’t say, ‘I can’t do that to her.’”

She drew a breath.

“You’re not turning into your father. You’re fighting to stay yourself.”

A long silence followed.

It took Juugo a while to digest her words. But he liked the way they made him feel. He felt a little lighter, even if, deep down, the guilt still gnawed at him.

He stared pensively at his coffee cup, then took a sip. Dr. Shizune seemed pleased.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” he said.

She shrugged.

“Go ahead. I’ll see if I can answer.”

“Do you… do you ever have dreams like that too?”

She gave a slight, knowing smile.

“Yes, I do. I have an unconscious mind too, you know.”

The answer surprised him. He’d always assumed someone as composed and principled as Shizune Kato couldn’t possibly have dreams like that.

“With your husband?” he asked next.

“That kind of detail belongs to my private world. Just like yours belongs to you.”

He nodded, almost shyly, and sank a little deeper into his seat.

A few peaceful seconds passed in silence.

“He must be a good person,” Juugo said, gazing thoughtfully out the window.

“Who?”

“Your husband.”

Shizune let out a soft laugh—not mocking, not conspiratorial. Just… human.

“Maybe.”

Then, in a more professional tone, she added:

“You know… sometimes what we imagine about others says more about us than about them.”

She was gently steering the conversation back into professional territory. But Juugo wasn’t quite ready to go there.

“Is he a psychiatrist too?”

She looked at him for a moment without answering, as if weighing her response, then shook her head.

“No. He’s a lawyer.”

Juugo raised his eyebrows, genuinely surprised.

“So he’s just as brilliant as you,” he said with a hint of admiration.

She blinked, almost taken aback, then let out a quiet laugh.

“I think so, yes.”

Something in Juugo loosened. His back sank deeper into the chair.

A timid smile played on his lips.

“I’m glad. It would’ve made me sad to think you weren’t with someone good.”

Shizune fell silent for a moment.

She seemed to be reflecting on what he’d just said.

Then she replied, gently but firmly:

“That’s very kind of you, Juugo. Thank you.”

She paused briefly.

“I think you have more kindness in you than you’re willing to admit.”

That sentence froze him for a second, and then a flush crept up his cheeks. He dropped his head to avoid her gaze, waiting for the warmth in his face to subside.

 

Notes:

Hi everyone!
Just a small chapter today (but hey, at least I’m trying to give you something every ten days 😅).

This chapter is important because it helps establish Juugo’s state of mind—not just in relation to his father, but also to Ino, and to himself. Shizune has been his psychiatrist for a loooong time. She’s very well-known (which is why the court appointed her to treat Juugo in the first place).

Speaking of which, just so you know—Juugo doesn’t pay for her sessions. Her work is funded by the government, as part of a rehabilitation program for both victims and offenders. There’s no way Juugo could afford her expertise otherwise.
Shizune works closely with the State so she can meet all kinds of people. As a psychiatrist, she’s also a licensed medical doctor—she can prescribe meds and have people admitted if she deems it necessary. She’s the real deal 🩺
Juugo sees her regularly. He shares a lot with her (though not everything, because he still likes keeping some things to himself).

Sorry I didn’t reply to the last comment—I’ll get to it tonight or tomorrow! I’m in a rush right now, so I’m sending this off quickly before heading to an appointment 😄

Hope you enjoyed it!

And once again, thank you SO much to everyone who takes the time to leave comments 💖

Chapter 34: Mediocre man

Summary:

Itachi and Kisame are back to square one.

The support group session had started ten minutes ago, but Itachi was nowhere to be seen. That worried Kisame more than he cared to admit—and made him feel stupid. Annoyance followed soon after. Since their split, neither of them had reached out. No messages. No sign of life. Looking back, it shouldn’t have been so surprising—they’d never really communicated through text. The one time Kisame had taken the initiative, it had been to apologize—and Itachi had ignored him. And yet, something had happened back there, in that castle. Something that deserved more than calculated silence.

"Okay," Iruka called out. "Time to pair up!"

Everyone stood, Kisame included.

Iruka approached him.

"I’ll call the clinic to see if Itachi’s been discharged. In the meantime, you can—"

He didn’t get to finish. The gym door opened, and Itachi walked in.

His eyes met Kisame’s. Just a glance. No hostility, no warmth. Then he moved on, heading straight to Iruka.

"Sorry, the bus was late," he said simply.

"No problem, it happens," the mediator replied, clearly relieved. "But I thought you were gonna skip the session," he added with a teasing smile. "That’d be a shame, especially since Kisame doesn’t have many left."

He turned toward him, still smiling.

"Almost done, huh?"

"You’re the one who decides that," Kisame answered neutrally.

Iruka chuckled softly, then addressed Itachi again.

"Fifteen minutes in pairs, then we’ll regroup. That work for you?"

Itachi nodded and walked to the back of the gym, settling against the wall like always. Kisame grabbed a chair and sat across from him.

It felt strange, seeing him here again. That low ponytail. The oversized hoodie. Those ridiculously long lashes. That too-pale skin. And that blank expression—even more unreadable than the last time, the night they’d shared together.

Kisame’s gaze dropped to his neck and caught a mark. A faint, oval-shaped redness—the imprint of a mouth that wasn’t his.

His eyes narrowed slightly. Itachi noticed, and immediately pulled up his hoodie, hiding the mark beneath the fabric.

"Not very talkative today," the soldier said, his tone a little harsher than intended.

"Neither are you," Itachi replied.

His gaze was cold. Distant.

Silence settled between them, heavy and unrelenting.

Kisame couldn’t shake the feeling that they were right back where they’d started. And it pissed him off. Every second of silence was a reminder that something was wrong between them. When really—there shouldn’t have been. They’d slept together, then mutually agreed not to do it again. No big deal. But somehow, it felt like it was. And that didn’t make sense. They weren’t teenagers anymore. They should’ve been able to handle this like adults.

Kisame crossed his arms.

"You mad at me?" he asked.

Itachi looked at him through his lashes. That catlike, accusatory stare.

"No."

Kisame held back a bitter smile. He was lying. It was obvious. His stubborn silence was his way of punishing him. Kisame knew him well enough by now to recognize it.

"Do I need to bring back the Q&A game?" he asked.

"If that’s what you want."

He wanted to sigh, to lean back in his chair, but he didn’t—because he knew he was being watched. Itachi, when hurt, had a way of striking right where it hurt most. So it was in his best interest not to treat this whole thing lightly.

"Do I start, or do you?" he offered, playing fair.

"I'll start," Itachi replied immediately.

That confirmed it—he was definitely angry. A calm Itachi would’ve taken his time. This one sounded like he had sniper rounds loaded for days.

"You finishing your group therapy sessions soon?" he asked.

Kisame blinked. He’d been expecting something way sharper.

"Yeah. I’ve completed the number mandated by the court. But Iruka has veto power. If he thinks I still need it, he can make me keep coming."

Itachi didn’t react. Then, without warning:

"When it’s over, you gonna go crawling back to your wife? Like a dog?"

There it was. One of his sniper rounds. The first question had been bait—classic manipulation technique to hit harder right after.

Kisame forced himself not to flinch.

"You just asked two questions," he said evenly.

"That wasn’t a question. It was an observation," Itachi snapped back.

Second bullet in under a minute.

Kisame almost fired back that he’d heard two questions—whether Itachi called it an observation or not—but held back. That kind of argument would be childish. And in the mood Itachi was in, he wouldn’t admit anything anyway. He wasn’t looking for truth. He just wanted a reaction.

Little shit, Kisame thought.

His patience had limits. And with Itachi, he had a habit of pushing them further than usual.

"Who’d you sleep with?" he asked, nodding toward the mark on Itachi’s neck.

"Why do you want to know?"

"I’m asking a question. You answer."

His tone dropped—low, firm, commanding.

He caught a flicker in Itachi’s eyes.

A twitch.

"I don’t want to answer," the Uchiha said.

"Then I get a pass."

That clearly annoyed him.

"Someone from the clinic," he admitted after a few seconds.

Kisame forced himself to stay completely still, despite the surprise.

Who the hell could this kid be hooking up with? He’d never once mentioned the other patients. Not a single time. It was like they didn’t exist. Kisame had figured he just kept to himself, didn’t connect with anyone. But looking back, that was naïve. People clung to each other in distress. And Itachi was way too gorgeous to go unnoticed. One of the patients must’ve made a move eventually.

A flicker of irritation sparked in him.

"Guy or girl?" he asked, voice sharp again.

"That’s two questions in a row too. Jealous?"

"You wish I were," Kisame shot back.

Another flicker lit up in Itachi’s eyes.

He tried to hide the sharp inhale he took, but failed.

"Who was your first time with?" he asked after a few seconds.

Kisame frowned slightly. This one was quite evident.

"With you," he replied.

Itachi blinked, clearly caught off guard. He looked surprised for a split second before putting his icy mask back on.

"I meant with a girl," he clarified.

Kisame gave him a wary look. The question sounded innocent enough, but Itachi had asked it with that cold, deliberate seriousness—so it mattered. On another day, he might’ve asked why. But with the mood he was in? No point.

He inhaled slowly and glanced up at the gym ceiling, trying to remember.

"A girl from the refugeecenter," he finally said. "Can’t even remember her name. We must’ve been... I don’t know... maybe fourteen? Could’ve been thriteen."

Itachi narrowed his eyes.

"Thirteen...?" he repeated.

"Yeah."

"That’s young."

Kisame shrugged.

"We had to grow up faster than most."

Itachi stared at him for a long moment, then lowered his gaze to the floor, looking lost in thought.

"And you?" Kisame asked. "When was your first time?"

"Ten days ago," he said plainly. "With you."

"No, I mean—" Kisame paused. "With a girl."

Itachi didn’t move. His voice came flat:

"I’ve never slept with a girl."

Kisame frowned.

"You’ve never slept with a girl?"

And he realized his mistake the moment the words left his mouth.

Itachi had never been with a girl because he’d never had the chance. And his experiences with men… hadn’t been real experiences. They’d been violence. Coercion. Pain.

So that’s what he meant when he’d said, "You were my first time."

Kisame had naively assumed that at least he’d had something normal with women before being assaulted by men. Because when it happened, he must’ve been at least twenty-five—and most adults had lost their virginity well before that.

But he’d been wrong.

Itachi’s first sexual encounter had been nothing but cruelty. Brutal. Unforgivable. And that was terrifying.

Kisame wished it had been different. That Itachi had known something tender, something real. Like normal teenagers did. But that wasn’t his story.

"I’m sorry," he said quietly. "I thought—"

"It’s fine," Itachi cut him off.

He’d looked away.

"What was it like?" Itachi asked. "With the girl?"

Kisame held back a sigh.

The idea of not answering crossed his mind—it was the kind of thing he considered private. But he let it go, hoping to defuse the tension.

"Not great," he said. "But at the time, you think it’s the best thing you’ve ever done. Then you live through other things. And you realize your first time was just a dull preview of what you can really feel later."

Itachi was watching him closely. As if he were absorbing every word. Which wouldn’t be surprising, given the kind of person he was.

"And you?" Kisame asked. "How was your first time?"

He meant the night they’d spent together. Itachi’s only first time.

The younger man met his eyes, expression unreadable.

"Passable."

He didn’t move, didn’t smile—but Kisame saw it: the slight tension in his jaw. The lie was too obvious. Or else Itachi was a hell of an actor—because Kisame hadn’t felt like he’d been mediocre.

He remembered Itachi’s closed eyelids, his muffled moans, the way his body trembled with each wave of pleasure like it was the last.

He’d never seen him like that. So eager. So tender. So alive.

"You didn’t look like you thought it was 'passable'," he said.

"It was. I just gave you the confidence of a mediocre man."

And he gave Kisame the most condescending look he had in his arsenal.

It was deliberate. Meant to wound. To humiliate. And Kisame had seen it coming a mile away. But he walked straight into it anyway—because he was done playing nice with someone who never returned the favor.

"You gonna tell me your time with the other men was a fucking joyride?" he snapped coldly.

Itachi’s eyes widened. His whole body stiffened. He stared at him, stunned, like the ground had just dropped out from under him. Then, suddenly, he got up and walked off toward the bathroom.

Kisame let him pass without a word. He waited a moment, trying to steady himself, then stood and followed.

He crossed the gym, pushed open the door Itachi had taken, and stepped into the hallway leading to the restrooms. He stopped at the second door and opened it.

Itachi was hunched over the sink, head down. When he saw him, he straightened instantly, his eyes sharp with hostility.

"You gonna hold my hand while I piss?" he snapped, the aggression completely out of character.

Kisame ignored the venom in his tone and walked closer.

"Don’t come any closer," Itachi warned, backing up a step.

He didn’t stop.

"What did I do to deserve your anger?" he asked, still advancing.

Itachi must’ve taken his defiance as a threat, because he grabbed something from the sink. Kisame saw the movement—though he didn’t catch what it was. On instinct, and out of caution—because he had been attacked by him before—he grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him back against the wall, catching his wrists. He forced him to drop the object and pinned his arms above his head.

Itachi struggled a little, but his strength was nothing compared to the man holding him. Kisame was too close for him to move, and far too solid for any hope of escape.

The memory of their first altercation at the castle flashed in his mind. They were in the exact same position. It felt like a copy-paste of what had happened ten days ago.

"I’ll scream," the Uchiha threatened through clenched teeth.

"Do it," Kisame replied.

He knew he was bluffing. Itachi would rather endure the unbearable than ask for help.

Kisame lowered his gaze, searching for the object Itachi had grabbed. He spotted it shattered on the tiled floor: a simple liquid soap dispenser, busted open.

"You were gonna take me down with that?" he asked, looking down at him.

Itachi kept his head lowered. His hair had come loose from its ponytail, falling across his face. His breathing was rapid, ragged. He was seething.

Kisame didn’t know what he would do if he let go, so he stayed still.

He remained like that, unmoving, for a minute or two, until the tension in Itachi’s arms began to fade. His hands, once stretched stiffly toward the ceiling, dropped limply—still pinned by Kisame’s grip.

"Tell me what I did to you," he said softly.

He never, ever should’ve brought up Steve and the others. He’d lost his temper, taken the easy shot, and he regretted it. But he also knew Itachi’s anger didn’t stem from that alone.

Below him, the boy stayed silent, head down, like a dead bird nailed by its wings to the door of a church.

"Is it because I said I didn’t want to sleep with you again?" he asked.

It was childish, and he knew it. But it needed to be said.

Itachi let out a joyless laugh.

"You think too highly of yourself," he muttered, still not lifting his head.

"If it’s not that, then tell me what it is."

He didn’t respond. Head bowed, face unreadable. Was he sad? Anxious? Still furious?

Kisame tried to decipher something, anything—but from where he stood, all he could see was the reddened trace of a hickey someone else had left.

"Did something happen?" he asked.

And he couldn’t look away from that harmless mark that, to him, felt like it defiled the young man’s body.

"Let me go," Itachi said.

"Tell me what happened," Kisame insisted.

Itachi shifted again, clearly signaling that his arms hurt, that he really wanted to be released.

"Nothing happened," he hissed. "You’re imagining things."

"Why won’t you tell me?"

"You’re hurting me. Let me—"

"I’ve told you before I’m on your side. I’m saying it again. Talk to me."

"Stop."

"Talk to me."

Itachi moved again, then let out a long sigh. Of exhaustion. Frustration. Maybe sadness. But Kisame couldn’t know. He still couldn’t see his face.

"Kisame..." Itachi whispered. "You're touching me. Holding me against my will. Just like the others."

Kisame’s eyes narrowed. He swallowed hard—and let go immediately.

Itachi rolled his shoulders and rubbed his wrists. He stepped around him, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small box. Two pills.

Diazerol, Kisame read. The same medication he'd been given by injection.

Itachi placed the pills in his mouth, turned on the tap, and drank a few gulps of water.

Kisame stepped forward slowly.

"I shouldn’t have said what I did earlier," he admitted. "I’m sorry."

"Don’t speak to me again."

Itachi tucked the box back into his pocket and left the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Kisame stood there alone for a while, unmoving, before stepping out too.

Back in the gym, no one seemed to have noticed their absence. When he spotted Itachi, Iruka was already announcing the end of the paired discussions and calling everyone to gather in a circle.

The rest of the session was just one long stretch of frustration.

Itachi had seated himself on the far side of the group and never once met his gaze. He answered in monosyllables, kept his hands buried deep in his pockets. Kisame was starting to realize—he might’ve left more of a mark than he thought.

Iruka ended the session with a burst of enthusiasm that only grated on his nerves. And to top it off, he reminded everyone about the mandatory group outing planned for the upcoming weekend.

Kisame tried to listen, to focus, but his mind kept circling back to Itachi, who seemed determined to erase him from his field of view. Not a word. Not a gesture. Not a glance.

When they were finally dismissed, Itachi was the first to leave. He didn’t wait in the parking lot. He headed straight for the bus stop—just as the bus was pulling in.

He climbed aboard without turning around, without a word, without a pause. Kisame didn’t even have time to catch up before he was gone.

He let out a breath, put on his motorcycle helmet, and took off in the opposite direction.

When he arrived at the beach, he spotted Pakura immediately. She was sitting on the hood of her car, cigarette in hand. Pencil skirt and high heels—she’d come straight from work.

Kisame parked next to her and removed his helmet.

She stubbed out her cigarette under the tip of her heel and walked over.

"For a second, I thought you weren’t coming."

"I thought about it," he admitted, swinging off the bike.

Pakura raised an eyebrow.

"Trouble?"

"Support group."

"Ah."

She offered him a cigarette. He took it without a word, thanked her with a nod. They smoked in silence for a bit, standing side by side, before heading toward Ichiraku Ramen. The autumn wind was too sharp for drinks outdoors.

They settled inside, and Ayame came to take their order.

"So?" Kisame asked. "How’s work?"

He didn’t feel like talking about himself, even though he knew that was kind of the point of their meeting. They used to see each other often. But after his divorce from Miru, they’d drifted apart. Not out of resentment—Kisame had just chosen to isolate himself. Which wasn’t exactly fair to Pakura, his closest friend.

"It’s going well," she said. "I got promoted last month."

Kisame stared at her.

"Last month?" he repeated.

She nodded.

"Shit, Pakura! That’s the one you were gunning for, right? You worked yourself into the ground for it!"

She nodded again, looking barely satisfied—but he knew her well enough to see the pride behind the restraint.

"Congratulations!"

Ayame returned with their drinks, and Kisame quickly added one more for her.

Pakura was an aerospace safety engineer. Of their whole group, she was the most ambitious. Probably the smartest, too. Her job was to ensure every new aircraft met all the safety and airworthiness standards before getting cleared to fly. A massive responsibility that kept her working late most nights—but it was exactly what she’d always wanted.

"And you? How’s work?" she asked.

Kisame sighed.

"Same old. Living with Gai’s going fine. But you know him... sometimes he’s just way too upbeat," he said with a dry laugh. "But I won’t complain. He found me a job that more or less suits me, so..."

He shrugged.

"You thinking of doing something else?" Pakura asked.

"If it were up to me, I’d be back on a mission tomorrow. But the army kicked me out, so I’m stuck with this job for now."

Pakura frowned.

"You’d actually go back? After everything Obito and you went through?"

"You wouldn’t?"

"Of course not. Have you seen the state you two came back in? I’d rather die than watch either of you set foot in that hell again."

Kisame took a sip of his beer.

"Obito’s a special case. And me—I came back just fine."

"You’re joking, right? Obito came back disfigured. He lost ten percent of his physical abilities, lives with chronic pain, and he’s completely paranoid. And you? Your marriage blew up and you nearly killed someone."

She gave him a hard look.

"And how did the army thank you two? Obito got a fat paycheck—like he even needs it with his family’s money—and you, they threw out like trash. Sorry to say it, but no one wants to see you back in that mess. Special forces treated you like garbage. What you needed was real psychological support—not their bullshit formalities."

"We had appointments with the shrinks," he sighed.

"Not enough," she snapped.

She leaned toward him, pressing the tip of her manicured finger against the table.

"Kisame, you tried to kill someone," she said in a low voice. "You’ve always been a fighter, sure. But trying to kill a guy when your life wasn’t even in danger? That’s not you. That’s not who you are."

He shook his head slowly.

"I’ve always been that way," he said. "Ever since I had to leave my village in ruins."

"Because your life was in danger. Not because you caught your wife’s lover in your house," she shot back, leaning against her chair. "That kind of violence doesn’t just come out of nowhere."

"So what, you think the support groups aren’t enough?"

She sighed, weary.

"I think you and Obito saw horrors that can’t be fixed with three state-funded shrink sessions and ten court-mandated group meetings."

She folded her arms.

"You should ask Shizune for a referral. One of her colleagues, maybe. It could really help you. Miru did it."

Kisame looked up at her.

"Miru’s seeing a therapist?"

He should’ve been indifferent. But he wasn’t. He still loved her. Still wanted to know how she was doing.

"So I’ve heard," Pakura said with a sigh. "You know we don’t really talk anymore."

They’d been best friends in high school. But as they got older, their lives drifted in different directions. Over time, the connection faded.

Whenever Pakura visited Kisame, Miru always found an excuse to be somewhere else. And vice versa.

Kisame had asked what happened between them. Both women had given the same answer: their friendship had simply faded, life took them different ways. Time did its work.

"Shizune’s putting together a girls’ night soon," Pakura said. "I’ll get a chance to talk to her. Been forever since we caught up."

She stirred the straw in her drink absentmindedly.

"And you? How’s it going with her?"

Kisame leaned on the table.

"The divorce is moving forward," he muttered. "But she’s being a pain on one or two points."

"Oh yeah?"

He nodded.

"I gave in on everything, thinking she’d at least let me keep the apartment. But now she’s pushing to take it too."

"Did she say why?"

"No. We only talk through the lawyers, which makes everything more complicated. I think if I could just see her, I’d get her to change her mind. But that’s not happening, so I’m letting Nagato handle it."

He looked up from his drink and caught Pakura’s disapproving gaze.

He gave her a bitter smile.

"I know what you’re gonna say. And Nagato already said it. He keeps telling me I give in too easily. But honestly? I don’t care. I just want all this fucking paperwork to be over."

Pakura sighed, then clasped her hands under her chin.

"You know, you still have this reflex to protect her from wounds she inflicted on herself. Maybe instead of fixating on that, you should start healing your own."

Images of Itachi flashed through his mind. Moments from weeks ago, at the gym. Back then, the Uchiha had told him almost the exact same thing. Different words, same meaning: Take care of yourself before trying to take care of her.

"Funny," he said. "Someone else told me the same thing."

Pakura gave a slight smile.

"Then they’re a good friend," she replied.

 

Notes:

Hi everyone! 👋 I hope you're all doing well.

We're moving forward in the story with a new chapter centered on Kisame and Itachi. As you can see, communication is not their strong suit 😅 Kisame made the mistake of turning Itachi’s traumatic past against him (clearly a low blow), but his patience had run out in that exact moment. To be fair, Itachi isn’t exactly easy to read, and honestly, Kisame has been incredibly patient so far🧘‍♂️

As for Pakura — I’m glad you’re getting to know her! She’ll definitely have a role in the story. I like giving her that “sexy boss lady” vibe 💅👠. She’s super smart, super gorgeous, super cool… basically, super everything.
What she tells Kisame is important: a lot of soldiers come back with minimal psychological follow-up, and that often leads to complications. Kisame and Obito are perfect examples of that (though Obito carries the added trauma of being disfigured).
I really like that Pakura calls it out and says things bluntly to Kisame. You’ll soon find out how they met and what kind of relationship they really have 😉.

As always, thank you to everyone who takes the time to comment 💖💖💖. I honestly think I would’ve slowed down a lot if it weren’t for you all!

Chapter 35: Diazerol

Summary:

Kisame finally realizes what Diazerol really is.

Shizune dropped her car keys into the bowl by the door and headed for the dining room. Kisame and Nagato, both buried in a pile of legal documents, didn’t immediately notice her arrival. She cleared her throat politely. The two men looked up, surprised.

“Oh hey, babe. There you are,” Nagato said distractedly, handing a file to Kisame.

He got up to kiss her. Kisame waited patiently until their little reunion was over before greeting her in turn.

“Wow,” Shizune muttered, frowning. “What the hell is all this mess?”

“The kind of crap you deal with when adultery ends in a bloodbath,” Kisame replied dryly.

Nagato shot him a look.

“Good thing I defended you properly. Because that kind of comment wasn’t gonna win the judge over.”

Then he turned to Shizune with a slightly softer smile.

“I’ve got a ton of paperwork for him to sign. Didn’t have time to cook.”

Shizune let out a long sigh and tilted her head back. She didn’t have the energy—or the slightest desire—to cook. Honestly, she was a disaster in the kitchen. Even the most basic meals ended in chaos. There was still a leftover portion of her vegetarian lasagna from last night in the fridge, but just thinking about it made her nauseous. It had been inedible. Nagato had only finished his plate out of pure kindness.

She slowly raised her head and stared at the two men still standing there, folders in hand.

“Pizza sound good to you guys?”

Their expressions relaxed just a bit, and she could tell they were relieved.

“Perfect,” said Nagato.

“You sure? You seemed pretty thrilled about my veggie lasagna yesterday.”

Nagato looked to Kisame for backup.

Kisame raised an eyebrow like, not getting in the middle of that, but then reconsidered after glancing at the mountain of paperwork.

“I’m allergic to vegetables,” he declared with a shrug.

Shizune let out a short, bitter laugh.

“Fuck you both,” she said flatly.

The line made them grin.

She left the room to call the Italian place around the corner.

Minutes later, they were all seated at the table. The conversation flowed easily, and Kisame seemed more relaxed than during their last few get-togethers. His usual cynicism was still there—those smirks full of snide undertones—but the bitterness he usually carried around with him was gone. The same bitterness Obito still wore like a second skin.

“We could watch Saturday’s match here on the TV,” Nagato suggested.

The conversation had drifted toward the Champions League, which inevitably sparked a heated debate about PSG’s chances against Real Madrid.

Shizune immediately raised a hand in protest.

“Nope, not Saturday,” she said firmly.

Nagato raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because I’m hosting a girls’ night. No boys allowed, all night long.”

Nagato turned to Kisame.

“We can do it at your place?”

He shook his head. “I’ve got the support group trip. Whole weekend thing.”

“A trip? Like a school field trip?” Shizune snorted. “That’s cute.”

“Be my guest and take my spot anytime, Shizune.”

Nagato turned back to his wife. “So where am I supposed to go?”

“Wherever you want. Just not here. The house will be a boy-free zone.”

Nagato pouted.

“My wife’s kicking me out of my own house,” he sighed, turning to his friend.

“At least you’re not getting served divorce papers with it,” he replied, deadpan.

The comment drew a smile from both Nagato and Shizune. Maybe in a few years, they’d be able to laugh about it. But not today. Not yet. Kisame could probably handle a smile—but not a full-on laugh.

Nagato’s watch beeped.

“Crap,” he muttered. “Forgot to take my meds.”

He turned to Shizune.

“Sweetheart, do you remember where I put the—”

“Right-hand drawer in the bathroom,” she cut in.

“Thanks.”

He got up and left the dining room.

A comfortable silence settled.

Kisame took a sip of his beer, then turned to her.

“How’s he doing?”

Shizune gave a faint smile.

Nagato didn’t tell his family anything. Not out of mistrust, but because he didn’t want anyone worrying.

It was ridiculous, of course. That silence only made his loved ones more anxious, always bracing themselves for the news of a relapse. But he never brought it up. Ever. So it fell to her to share what needed sharing, the way she saw fit. A quiet understanding between her and everyone else. A way to cushion the blow—just in case...

Just in case Nagato ever had to tell them the disease was back.

“For now, things are going well,” she said. “The scans look good. The doctors are optimistic. So we’re enjoying the moment. And hoping it doesn’t come back.”

Kisame crossed his arms and nodded slowly.

He was scared. She knew it. But he kept everything under control, as always. Especially in front of her.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said softly.

He looked at her.

“I know,” he replied, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And she didn’t know why, but hearing him sound so sure of it made her feel just a little more at ease.

She gave him a smile and took a sip of her wine, feeling a little lighter.

“Still working on the baby project?” he asked after a moment.

“We’re giving artificial insemination one last try. If it doesn’t work, we’ll move on to adoption,” she said, stretching. “My mom keeps begging us to try again and again with the doctors’ help, but honestly... I don’t want to spend my life in a hospital just to get pregnant. If we can’t do it biologically, we’ll do it another way. It’s not that important for our kid to have our genes.”

“You two set a deadline?”

“One year, max, before we turn to adoption. We’ll see how it goes.”

She lazily bit into a slice of pizza, then turned her head toward him, curious.

“And you? How are things going?”

“Ups and downs.”

He stared at his plate, thoughtful, and Shizune watched him silently.

Alerted by the quiet, Kisame looked up and met her gaze.

“Don’t do your creepy shrink tricks on me, alright?”

Shizune burst out laughing.

“My sessions aren’t free, Mr. Hoshigaki. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

She gave him a playful elbow and leaned on the table.

“So, how’s everything going?”

“The support group’s not as useless as I thought it’d be.”

“Met some decent people?”

“Some, yeah.”

Shizune didn’t push. Kisame wasn’t the type to open up. He used to have someone for that—Miru. But now that she was gone, the psychiatrist worried he’d end up like Obito: walling himself off in silence.

“I’ve got a question,” he said suddenly.

He grabbed his beer and took a swig straight from the bottle.

“You mess around in people’s heads, so you must know a thing or two about meds, right?”

She gave him a puzzled look.

“Depends on which ones. I’m a doctor, not a walking pharma database. What are you thinking about?”

“Diazerol. Ring a bell?”

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Uh… yeah. Why?”

“I just want to know what it is. Chill.”

She frowned, thrown by the question.

“Well, it’s…” she hesitated. “It’s a selective modulator of neuro-inhibitory receptors. In capsule form, it has a slow-release mechanism. But if it’s injected intramuscularly, the absorption is almost instant, which leads to a rapid sedative effect from a huge plasma spike.”

“And in human language?”

“It’s a heavy-duty antidepressant. In capsules, it smooths everything out, calms you down. But in injection form... it hits hard. Like, full shutdown.”

Kisame’s eyebrows drew together.

“Meaning?”

“The person goes totally numb,” Shizune said flatly. “Everything feels distant, passive... weirdly peaceful. They’re in a dissociative state.”

She sighed.

“It’s a mess of a drug. It was originally meant for extreme cases—severe, untreatable patients. But over time, it got prescribed to a much broader range. Way less critical cases. So, of course, what did we get? Tons of patients turn into complete zombies. The walking dead.”

“Zombies?” Kisame echoed.

“Yeah. That shit’s insanely addictive. One shot, and you’re on a downward spiral,” she muttered. “Officially, Diazerol is still legal. But the European Medicines Agency issued a pharmacovigilance alert. They’re reassessing its classification. Since then, it’s been strictly regulated: only certain certified doctors—usually in psych wards—can administer it.”

She wiped her mouth with a napkin and glanced at Kisame.

He was staring at a spot on the table, eyes unreadable.

Frozen.

“You okay?” she asked, uneasy.

He blinked out of it.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

Something in her tone must have sounded off, because he looked at her right away.

“There’s…”

He hesitated.

“There’s a guy in the support group. He’s on it.”

“He in a psych hospital?”

“For now, yeah.”

Shizune shrugged.

“Then yeah, that’s possible. As long as a doctor’s administering it, it’s within the rules. Even if, personally, I—”

“It has to be a doctor who gives the injection?” Kisame interrupted.

He was looking at her with a sharpness that made her uneasy.

“Yes. Of course. The injection has to be done by a practitioner, with immediate medical supervision. It’s an extremely powerful drug.”

A knot tightened in her stomach.

“Kisame…” she said, her voice lower. “Promise me it wasn’t you who—”

“No,” he cut in sharply, like the idea itself was offensive.

She went still.

“But I saw someone inject it.”

“And…” she whispered. “Were they okay? After?”

He clenched his jaw. Angry now.

“He seemed normal. A little out of it. But normal.”

His eyes had drifted away again, lost in some mental replay.

“It depends on how used to it they are,” Shizune said. “The more someone takes it, the more... normal they seem.”

Kisame stayed frozen for a moment, then slowly nodded.

A long silence settled in. Then he suddenly leaned on the table and ran a hand down his face.

“Fucking hell...,” he muttered under his breath.

Shizune watched him, worried.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked gently.

“No.”

Too quick. Too sharp.

“I’m fine. I’ve got it under control,” he said coldly.

“You think that—”

“I’m back,” Nagato said as he walked into the room.

He stopped short when he saw their tense faces.

“Everything okay?”

Shizune opened her mouth, but Kisame beat her to it.

“Yeah, all good,” he said.

The psychiatrist shot him a side glance but stayed quiet.

“Okay,” Nagato said, not fooled but too polite to push.

He turned to his wife.

“Any tiramisu for dessert?”

She set her worry aside and forced a smile.

“Yeah. I ordered some.”

And she got up to open the fridge.

Notes:

Hi everyone, I hope you're all doing well <3
The posting schedule is still a little slow (sorry!), but progress is being made :)
Longer chapters are coming soon—just a little more patience!

Just a heads-up: Diazerol isn’t a real drug, I made up the name.
Kisame knew it was a strong medication, but not how strong—and that’s what really shocks him.
There are two ways to take it: orally or by injection. Itachi uses both, but he saves the injections for more extreme cases.
He’s been on the medication since he was admitted to the psych hospital (though he had already tried it before).

Hope you enjoyed the chapter!
Thanks again for all the kudos and comments <3
Next part coming in a few days :)

Chapter 36: I can come with you

Summary:

Juugo visits Ino.

"You should’ve told me sooner, Ino!" snapped Inoichi.

"But I did tell you!" she protested.

Inoichi shook his head, pacing his office furiously.

"No, no, no..." he muttered. "You told me you were helping some struggling kid get a diploma. You didn’t mention that this so-called kid is six-foot-three, has a police record for assault, and—cherry on top—is the son of the country’s most wanted criminal!"

Ino pressed her lips together. Okay, maybe she’d left out a few details.

Inoichi glared at her, fuming. She winced.

"Sorry," she said quietly.

"You should be!" he barked. "I was just sitting at my desk, having a nice, quiet morning, when my communications advisor calls me in a panic because a journalist wants to know what the hell my darling daughter is doing hanging out with a fucking delinquent?!"

She flinched at his outburst. Her father almost never cursed—so when he did, she knew he was really pissed. At times like this, there was nothing to do but wait for the storm to pass, and then come back at him with her softest, sweetest eyes.

A throat cleared, slicing through the tension.

"Excuse me," came a voice.

They both turned toward Inoichi’s phone, still on speaker.

"I'm still here," Samui said in a flat, almost robotic tone.

"I know, Sam," Inoichi growled.

Ino narrowed her eyes.

Samui had been his communications advisor for just over two years.

Her role had taken on a whole new dimension ever since Inoichi threw his hat into the political ring, openly aiming to become Prime Minister. The elections were still a ways off—which gave him time to refine his image for the public—but the work on his profile had started months ago and demanded constant upkeep. Interviews, press commentary, official meetings—it never stopped.

As his communications advisor, Samui was naturally part of the team responsible for reviewing his speeches, guiding his messaging, and planning his appearances. But recently, she’d carved out a much more influential position. Her status had skyrocketed after she pulled off the near-impossible feat of winning over the 18-to-25 demographic to Inoichi Yamanaka’s political party. Thanks to her, his approval ratings had soared, which only pushed him further toward his Prime Ministerial ambitions.

"Why didn’t you warn me?" Inoichi growled again, turning his attention back to Ino. "I’ve already told you—now that we’re in this, we can’t afford to keep secrets from each other. Everything has to go through Samui so she can investigate and make sure we’re not blindsided by a ticking time bomb."

"The candidates for Prime Minister haven’t even been announced yet," Ino defended herself.

"We still need to be extremely cautious," Samui interjected from the phone. "The period before the official announcements is always volatile. People already start scrutinizing appearances at this stage."

Ino rolled her eyes.

Stay out of this, stupid big-boobs blondie, she thought, annoyed.

Samui struck her as the type of woman who wouldn’t hesitate to crawl under a desk to get ahead. It was an awful, sexist thought, and she knew it—but she couldn’t help it. Especially when her father called her “Sam” instead of “Samui,” like any professional boss should with an employee.

"Sorry," she repeated, trying to calm her father, who was still glaring at her.

She gave him a soft look—the only thing that ever seemed to bring him back down to earth.

He let out a sigh, then leaned toward the phone still sitting on his desk.

"Alright," he said coldly. "What’s the plan, Sam?"

Ino resisted the urge to roll her eyes again at the nickname.

"We can spin this in our favor. But considering how much media attention the kid’s father gets, I’ll be honest—it’ll be like walking on eggshells."

"Got a strategy in mind?"

"We lean hard into the redemption narrative," she replied. "I looked at the latest polling. The public mostly sees you as a compassionate guy, but they’re still unsure about your sincerity. Except people under twenty-five, of course," she added, clearly pleased with herself.

She paused before continuing:

"Instead of trying to hide what Ino's doing, we highlight it. Your daughter isn’t cozying up to a dangerous criminal—she’s dedicating her time, skills, and money to help a delinquent build a better future. You’ll tell the journalists that you admire her altruism, and that you’re proud to see her so involved in supporting the most vulnerable. It fits perfectly with the socialist ideal that everyone deserves a second chance… and all that bullshit."

She let out a short, humorless laugh.

"You’re definitely going to piss off the more conservative politicians. But in exchange, you’ll score serious points in popularity. It’d be like backing up your words with actions."

Inoichi stroked his chin, deep in thought.

"What do you think, Ino?"

He liked including her in decisions like this. Ino saw it as a sign of total trust—and it made her proud, especially when he chose her opinion over that of his advisors.

"I think it’s a great idea. Especially since he’s coming over this afternoon."

Silence fell, like both Inoichi and Samui needed a moment to process what she’d just said. Then Inoichi exploded again, shouting that it was insane, that she should’ve asked for permission, because—last he checked—she still lived under his roof, and the least she could’ve done was give him a heads-up.

Ino waited patiently for him to get it out of his system, then replied in the calmest voice she could muster:

"If you prefer, I can tell him not to come. But that wouldn’t be very polite. And more importantly... it wouldn’t really match the image you’re trying to project."

Inoichi narrowed his eyes. He knew damn well she was right. Samui too. 

"What time is he getting here?" he asked.

"Any minute now."

Inoichi sighed and shook his head.

"Do as you like. Just keep him out of my office."

"We weren’t planning on stopping by," she said dryly.

"Perfect."

He waved her off with exaggerated exasperation. Ino responded with a smile before leaving the office. As she shut the door behind her, she let out a long breath.

She had invited Juugo over to study at her place—for the very first time. And, contrary to what she’d imagined, he hadn’t seemed all that excited.

She’d explained that they’d be way more comfortable here: more space, they could talk freely—unlike in a library—, and they’d have everything they needed. But despite her arguments, the guy hadn’t looked convinced.

After endless back-and-forth, he’d finally admitted he wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of running into her parents… or any other member of her family.

She’d sworn he had nothing to worry about, that everyone was lovely—but it hadn’t helped. He’d only agreed to come to please her.

If someone had told me I’d be the one begging him to come over, she thought as she walked down the hall.

She headed toward the stairs and spotted her mother leaning over the glass railing. Ino joined her and leaned against the banister too.

In the large entryway, several feet below, a small team was measuring and inspecting a large painting on the wall.

It was a piece by Zhuang Hong-yi, a Chinese artist.

"What are they doing?" she asked, resting her elbows on the railing.

"Appraising it," Lilly replied.

"Why?"

"A possible sale."

Ino’s eyes widened, and she turned to her mother, startled.

"Sell it?" she repeated, stunned. "But you love that piece. You’ve had it for years."

Lilly gave her a proud smile.

"I got a very nice offer."

Ino frowned, clearly confused.

"But… you always said you’d never sell that painting! That it calms you, that it’s the most beautiful thing in the house..."

She wasn’t raising her voice out of anger—just total disbelief. Her mother often rotated the art around the house, but this one had never been on the list of things to let go. It was her favorite. And maybe Ino’s too. She loved how the colors shifted with the light, its huge size—three meters by four—and the delicate way the tiny paper petals were curled and layered together. It made the entryway, and she couldn’t imagine any other artwork giving as much presence to that massive, spotless wall across from the stairs.

"I changed my mind, Ino," Lilly said simply. "A little change never hurt anyone, right?"

Ino opened her mouth, but didn’t get a chance to respond.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," het mother said, turning to face her. "We’re spending Christmas at the chalet in Megève. Magdalena and Sai will probably be joining us."

Ino blinked several times. She didn’t see how that had anything to do with the painting—which only confirmed one thing: Lilly had made up her mind. The piece was as good as gone, no matter how her daughter felt about it.

"Ino?" her mother prompted.

She snapped out of it.

"Okay…" she replied quietly.

Lilly raised an eyebrow and put her hands on her hips.

"Okay? That’s all? You beg us every year to spend Christmas at the chalet. I expected a little more excitement."

Ino just shrugged. She was still too shaken by the idea of that wall standing bare. Not even the holiday spirit—or the presence of Saï and his mother—could cover up the bitter aftertaste.

"We’re not celebrating with the rest of the family?" she asked, glancing back toward the appraisers clustered around the frame.

"Not this year. I wanted something smaller," Lilly said with a smile. "A more intimate Christmas. Cozy... simple."

Ino gave a short laugh.

"Simple? With Magda?"

Saï’s mother was anything but simple. A well-known artist, she was just as famous for her work as she was for her episodes of total madness.

Ino’s father often said that if she hadn’t been so talented, her own family would’ve locked her up a long time ago. And Ino didn’t exactly disagree. She’d known the woman since childhood, and not once—not once—had she thought, Wow, she’s really got it together.

Far from it.

There were so many examples of her outrageous behavior that Ino didn’t even know where to start.

But a few of them still stood out.

Like the time Saï told her his mom had imported three tons of Saharan sand to dump in their backyard—just because she didn’t feel like going to the beach.

Or the day she set her own studio on fire, claiming she wanted to "draw inspiration from chaos."

Then there was the time she hired an actor to live with them for three weeks just so she could "observe an outsider in immersion."

Oh, and let’s not forget the gallery opening where she showed up completely naked under a feather coat, saying she refused to let fabric "interfere with the energy of her work." That was the night Inoichi muttered that someone should run a psych eval on her—“Just in case, because... that’s seriously worrying, right?”

"I called her to check in on the sculpture I commissioned for the new museum—you know, the one that’s going at the entrance?" Lilly said. "And I figured I’d invite her to join us for the holidays. Liven things up a little, you know? I thought you’d be happy. You and Saï get along so well."

Ino replied with a polite smile.

It was good news—meant she’d have plenty of time to hook up with him.

She was about to respond, but the intercom buzzed.

Juugo, she thought immediately.

"Were you expecting someone?" her mother asked, surprised.

"Ask Dad, he’ll fill you in," Ino shot back, already darting down the stairs.

She rushed down as fast as she could, flew past the workers still inspecting the painting, and made a beeline for the front door before the housekeeper could beat her to it.

The woman raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"I got it," Ino said, flashing a tight smile.

The housekeeper nodded and returned to her tasks.

Ino waited until she was out of sight, quickly fixed her hair, then opened the door.

Juugo was standing there, stiff as a board, cap pulled low over his head and a surgical mask hiding most of his face.

Ino let out a quiet sigh of relief—she’d really feared he might bail—and leaned casually against the doorframe, smiling.

"Did you find it okay?" she asked, looking up at him.

He was so tall she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze.

"Yeah, but… I had to really insist at the neighborhood security gate," he said awkwardly. "The guard didn’t want to let me in. He had to make a couple calls just to… well, finally open the gate."

She had, in fact, heard the housekeeper talking on the intercom. That must’ve been to confirm Juugo was on the approved guest list.

"Doesn’t matter," she said brightly. "What counts is that you’re here."

She stepped aside to let him in.

As he walked past her, his eyes immediately lifted to the high ceilings, then froze on the massive painting. She saw his eyes widen slightly in surprise before they moved to take in the rest of the grand entryway.

"Want the tour?" she offered.

He stopped looking around and focused back on her.

"Up to you," he replied—which, in his language, politely meant I don’t want to be a bother.

"Then let’s do it," she said.

She smiled and led him into the house. His tall frame hunched slightly, clearly uneasy, but as they moved from room to room, she saw him slowly relax—probably because he realized there was little chance of running into her parents.

Ino had never thought of her house as anything special, or even particularly big. But she’d learned to appreciate its size after visiting other people’s places.

It started with Sakura—who, according to her, lived in a shoebox—then Tenten, then Temari. She thought she’d seen it all in terms of tiny apartments, but Juugo’s place had truly shocked her: her walk-in closet was literally twice the size of his bedroom.

She would’ve guessed that was what would impress him most—but she was wrong. Every time he widened his eyes in awe, it was when he discovered a new painting or sculpture displayed on the walls or shelves.

Ino took time to explain each one, though she could tell it wasn’t the meaning behind the art that intrigued him—it was the detail. He squinted to study the brushstrokes or materials used.

Ino smiled every time she saw him do it.

After spending a few minutes admiring the large entryway piece—the one that was soon to be sold—she invited him upstairs so they could study in peace.

"Make yourself comfortable," she said, gesturing toward the desk in her bedroom.

Juugo stepped in… and froze.

"What?" she asked, suddenly worried she’d left something lying around.

"I’ve never seen a bedroom this big," he said in a low voice.

Ino glanced at the room, then back at him.

"Well, I hope you like it, because this is where we’ll be working for the next two hours."

He didn’t respond, but she caught the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. That alone gave her a strange sense of victory.

She helped him pull his things out of his bag, laid them out across the desk—which was large enough for two people without needing to squeeze—and sat beside him, inviting him to focus.

Ino was relieved to see that Juugo’s progress was slow but steady. Mei Terumi would be proud of the work she’d done with him. Of course, nothing was certain yet—there was still a long way to go before finals—but they were making progress, bit by bit… at least on the days Juugo didn’t cancel on her.

"Can you reread this passage for me, please?" she asked.

She was leaning on the desk, watching him try to focus.

He had to start over several times. His eyes squinted, and the growing tension in his posture gave away his fatigue.

Ino checked the time. It was time to stop.

She let him finish the sentence, listening patiently while her mind drifted to the next texts she’d have him read. Then she leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs.

He finished the paragraph and turned toward her, waiting for her next instruction.

"What made you want to get your diploma?" she asked.

He looked caught off guard, almost surprised by the question, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right. After a few seconds of silence, he placed his papers down on the desk.

"Survival," he said simply.

He shrugged.

"I don’t have a choice if I don’t want to end up in shit. And if I don’t want to become like him."

He didn’t have to explain who him was. They both knew perfectly well.

A chill ran down Ino’s spine.

Since the last time they’d talked on that rooftop, they hadn’t brought up anything they’d confessed to each other. She’d kept an eye on the news from a distance—police still searching for more victims of Arata Tanaka—but she didn’t know if Juugo had followed through on his father’s request to visit him in prison.

She cleared her throat.

"Did you… did you end up seeing him?"

He froze, eyes locked on the desk. For a moment, he looked like he’d turned to stone. Then she saw his jaw clench, his breathing slow.

"No," he said.

Ino carefully tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Are you going to do it?"

She didn’t know why she was asking so many questions. It wasn’t morbid curiosity. More like... compassion? Empathy? Maybe... concern?

The thought embarrassed her. She nervously clasped her hands together.

"Do you think I should?" he asked.

She looked up at him. He was still staring at the desk. His left hand absentmindedly twirled a pencil between his long fingers.

"I don’t know," she replied.

He sighed.

"If I don’t go, I’m just a fucking bastard, right?"

Ino frowned.

"No," she said firmly. "Of course not. You’re not—"

"But that’s what people will think," he interrupted. "And my face will be all over the media again. I’ll be hated all over again."

"Don’t say that."

"But it’s the truth."

He paused, then added in a lower voice, his jaw clenched:

"Every time things start to calm down, every time he senses the world beginning to forget me… or to forget him… he does this kind of shit. He lives for it."

Their voices had naturally softened, as if they were afraid of being overheard—even though they were alone in the room.

A silence fell.

"You don’t want to play his game, is that it?" Ino asked softly.

He stayed thoughtful for a moment, then took a deep breath.

"No. But I don’t have a choice. If I don’t go, he’ll never reveal where the bodies are."

He clenched his teeth.

"It’s time those families got to grieve," he said. "I want them to be able to."

Ino studied him closely.

She had never truly tried to understand what he was going through. She’d imagined it must be hard living in a country where everyone associated you with a serial killer. But she’d never realized that he, too, might feel the weight of the victims on his shoulders. A massive burden—undeniably too heavy—but one he was forced to carry, because his father refused to let him step away from it.

It had to be exhausting. Draining. But he had no choice but to keep going. Because no one else was going to pull him forward.

"Whatever you decide," she said, "none of this is your fault. He’s the only one to blame."

The young man didn’t react, and Ino had the distinct feeling he’d been told that line a hundred times before.

He kept playing with the pencil, rolling it effortlessly from one finger to the next.

She swallowed.

"I could come with you, if you want."

He froze. The pencil slipped from his fingers, hit the edge of the desk with a sharp tap, and dropped to the floor.

His eyes turned to her, ignoring the fallen object entirely.

"Come with me where?" he asked.

"To the meeting with your fath— with him."

He blinked.

"It’s a prison, Ino."

"I figure they allow visitors to come along… up to a certain point."

He looked at her like she’d just insulted him. His face froze between confusion and anger, though she didn’t quite understand why he seemed so upset.

"No," he said, voice cold.

It was so sharp, so final, it made her feel almost ashamed for even suggesting it. But she didn’t give up.

"If you’re going to do it, let me come with you. It’s going to be hard. You deserve—"

"I said no."

"Why?"

"Because you have no business being in a prison."

And this time, the confusion in his face gave way to anger.

Now it was Ino’s turn to stare.

"Juugo, I’m not going there to check out the real estate. I’m going because I want to help you."

He shook his head and closed his eyes.

She grabbed his arm.

"You’ve been through enough on your own. So why not try, just this once, not doing it alone?"

He didn’t answer right away.

His shoulders had gone rigid. His face stayed tense, eyes downcast. He didn’t look at her—not even out of the corner of his eye—but she could see the turmoil in him, as if he were trying to silence a storm of thoughts.

Ino tugged gently on his arm, trying to draw his attention back to her.

"I want to go with you," she said. "Not because I pity you. But because I want to be with you."

A silence fell.

Heavy. Suspended.

He stared at her. For a moment, he didn’t even seem to breathe.

Then he swallowed—slowly.

"Alright," he said at last. "But only this once."

She drew a breath.

Relieved.

Content.

And for some reason she couldn’t explain, her heart felt strangely light.

"Ino?" a voice called suddenly.

She jumped and instantly let go of Juugo’s arm.

"Yeah?" she replied.

The door slowly creaked open, revealing Lilly’s face in the doorway.

"I come in peace," she said, stepping into the room. "With a plate of cookies, no less."

She entered at a calm, measured pace. Ino watched her in silence.

This wasn’t like her. When she wanted to please a guest, she sent Gloria. She never came herself. First, because she didn’t need to—the staff handled that. Second, because she knew everyone who walked through her front door. Which, in this case—exceptionally—was not true. Ino saw it in the slightly-too-polite smile her mother gave Juugo, and the way she studied him.

"Aren’t you going to introduce us?" Lilly asked, glancing at her daughter.

Ino cleared her throat.

"Mom, this is Juugo, my student. Juugo, my mother—Lilly."

Juugo stood and politely shook her hand.

He seemed a little nervous, but less than Ino had expected.

Lilly appeared satisfied with this first impression—her expression softened.

She asked what they were working on, how long they’d been at it, and what their goals were for the end of the year.

Juugo answered calmly, and she listened attentively, occasionally tilting her head, as if assessing him.

After a few minutes, she handed them the plate of cookies, and the conversation shifted to the Outro Museum.

Neither Ino nor Juugo brought up the incident that had happened during their one and only visit there.

"I’m glad you liked it, Juugo," Lilly said. "You should go again during the Christmas holidays—they’re putting on a special exhibit for the occasion."

Ino raised an eyebrow.

"Oh yeah? What kind?"

"The Nativity Through the Ages." There’ll be Byzantine icons, medieval illuminations, and a few Flemish Renaissance paintings."

"I would’ve liked to see that," Ino said with a small grimace. "Too bad we won’t be around."

She turned to Juugo.

"Do you have any plans for Christmas?"

He looked surprised by the question.

"Uh… no. Karin’s volunteering, and Suigetsu’s going to his brother’s place, so…"

Ino remembered them—a redhead and a boy with silver hair. She’d seen their photo stuck to the corner of his mirror.

"You’re spending the holidays alone?" Lilly asked.

Her brows had drawn together—signaling some level of disapproval.

Juugo swallowed.

"Yeah," he said simply.

"You should come with us," Ino offered.

The words had slipped out—like a gunshot fired too soon. She froze, startled by her own boldness. It wasn’t the idea that shocked her, but the way she’d just thrown it out there without thinking, without checking with anyone—not her mother, not her father, and certainly not Juugo. She knew him now—or at least, she was starting to. Invitations like that, even phrased gently, could make him deeply uncomfortable.

Ino shot a glance at her mother, who was watching her calmly, one brow slightly raised—but said nothing. Which, coming from Lilly, wasn’t necessarily a bad sign—but didn’t guarantee she approved, either.

"No, thank you," Juugo said. "I don’t want to be a bother."

He’d gone pale.

Seeing this, Lilly sighed and rolled her eyes, unimpressed.

"The chalet is far too big for just five people," she said with a shrug. "We can easily host and feed a sixth."

Ino wanted to say she didn’t care either way, but she felt her heart leap in her chest.

She’d expected a polite refusal—or worse, one of those pointed looks her mother had mastered. But no. She wasn’t against it. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t that surprising—Lilly had always been open to all sorts of company. A rare quality in their social circle.

That probably explained her unlikely friendship with Magdalena: Sai’s mother might be immensely wealthy, but to most of the people they knew, she was still a total anomaly. Even Fugaku Uchiha, not exactly easy to shock, once said she was completely nuts.

"No, really. I can’t," Juugo said, snapping Ino out of her thoughts.

"You can’t refuse," Ino replied at once. "You’ve got no excuse."

Lilly played along, the faintest smirk on her lips.

"The lady of the house would take it as a personal offense."

Juugo blanched even more.

He hesitated, then finally gave in.

"Alright," he said.

And Ino knew she was probably about to have the most unexpected Christmas of her entire life.

Notes:

Hi everyone! 😊

Sorry it took me a while to post this chapter, but I do have a good excuse (actually, two of them): 1) I was on vacation ; 2) I’ve been working on a very loooong chapter — the longest one I’ve written for this story so far! You’ll get to read it in two chapters 😄 The next update should come soon (I’m doing my best not to keep you waiting too long!) ❤️

About this chapter: I hope all the Juugo & Ino fans are happy 😌 There’s going to be a full arc focused on those two (just like we had with Kisame and Itachi)! I haven’t written it yet, but I’m planning to get started soon.

Curious what our dear princess’s house looks like? Check it out HERE and HERE.

The artwork in the big entrance hall — the one Ino talks about — is this one: HERE. It’s the very first piece shown in the video (in much bigger). I discovered the artist at an exhibition and absolutely loved his work. I thought it’d be a nice way to include it while continuing the story. 😊

As for the chalet in Megève: for those of you who aren’t from France, Megève is a very exclusive ski resort in France and Europe — kind of like Saint-Moritz, but with more of an "old money" vibe (so it’s a bit more discreet). You can check out some photos here: HERE.

That’s it for now — I hope you enjoyed the chapter! The next one’s coming very soon, I promise! 💫

Chapter 37: Itachi's gift

Summary:

Fugaku and Tajima have an intresting discussion. Kakuzu observes. And listen.

Fugaku stepped out of the elevator.

Before him, the living room stretched into the darkness. The space was vast, impeccably arranged, cloaked in shadow save for a few scattered lights that glowed faintly across the floor.

A massive bay window occupied the entire far wall, opening onto an outdoor terrace. Outside, an infinity pool carved into the very edge of the terrace seemed to hang over the void. Its blue lights, still on despite the hour, reflected the skyline of distant skyscrapers and cast liquid patterns over the walls and floor of the living room.

He turned his head.

Kakuzu stood in a corner of the room, half-hidden in shadow. His green gaze, sharp and unreadable, was already fixed on him.

"Where is he?" Fugaku asked simply.

The other didn’t answer. He straightened slowly, then began to walk.

Fugaku followed without a word. They crossed a marble hallway, silent and almost unreal. When they reached a half-open door, the bodygard stepped aside.

Fugaku knocked twice, then entered.

Tajima was seated at his desk. An open folder lay before him. The soft lamplight cast sharp shadows across his face. He looked up briefly at his son, studied him for a moment, then returned to his reading.

"I expected to see you sooner," he said calmly, without warmth.

"I’ve been occupied these past few weeks," Fugaku replied.

Kakuzu entered as well, settling into one of the office chairs. He pulled out his phone with a slow gesture, leaned back, one leg crossed over the other. A strand of his long hair slipped over his right eye.

"I need to talk to you," Fugaku said.

He glanced at Kakuzu.

"Alone."

Neither Tajima nor the bodyguard reacted.

"He can stay," the patriarch answered simply.

"What I have to say doesn’t concern him."

Tajima set the folder aside, leaned back slowly in his chair, and folded his hands on the desk. He met his son’s gaze, unblinking.

"What do you think, Kakuzu?"

"I'm paid to be a shadow, not an ear," the man replied, eyes still on his screen.

Tajima gave the barest hint of a smile before turning back to his son.

"You have your answer."

Fugaku cast a cold look at the bodyguard but said nothing. He eventually sat down across from the desk, every movement controlled.

He knew which battles were worth fighting — and which ones weren’t. Arguing with his father here and now wasn’t one of them.

"How’s your son?" Tajima asked.

He picked up a fountain pen and signed the document he'd just read. The stroke was thin and sharp. Commanding. Fugaku wouldn’t have wanted to be the one on the receiving end of that letter.

"Which one?" the colonel asked.

"The one you're here to ask about."

The head of the family adjusted his glasses and picked up another file. He immediately returned to his reading, as if nothing else merited his attention.

"You didn’t tell me what happened in Lochhaven," Fugaku said. "I heard it from a staff member. After everyone else."

Tajima narrowed his eyes at a sentence, scratched out a few words with his pen.

"If I didn’t tell you, it’s because I decided you didn’t need to know."

Fugaku felt anger rise in his throat like acid. He inhaled slowly, fingers tightening on the armrests.

"Itachi’s going through a rough patch. But he’ll come back from it. I know him."

Silence.

Tajima kept reading.

Kakuzu, to his left, scrolled through his phone, unbothered.

Fugaku stared at his father.

"Don’t strike him off your list of successors. Give him time. You know what he’s capable of. He can still do this."

"His message seemed quite clear to me."

"What message?"

Tajima didn’t respond right away.

He slowly looked up, one eyebrow barely raised.

"Taking the liberty of inviting a man into our ancestral home, without telling me. A man you've had a dispute with. And a man he sleeps with."

"He didn’t sleep with him."

A faint snort came from the back of the room. Fugaku didn’t need to look to know it was Kakuzu.

He turned his attention back to his father. The man hadn’t moved an inch. His gaze was cold, unnervingly still — too still to be anything but angry.

"Don’t insult me," the patriarch said. "You know how that ends for people who try."

Fugaku didn’t reply.

They stared at each other in silence. Then Tajima returned to his folder, as if the entire exchange had been nothing more than a passing distraction.

"Your son doesn’t want to be the heir you’ve imagined," he said. "And he wants everyone to know it. What he did was a fucking billboard saying: I don’t want this empire. I won’t have an heir, because I’m fucking a man my own father cast out. Keep trying to box me in, and I’ll find a way to shock you even more."

He paused. His eyes were hard as glass.

"That wasn’t a misstep. It was a warning. And I hope you understood it as clearly as I did, Fugaku. Because if you didn’t, I’ll have to start seriously questioning your mental capacity. And honestly, I’ve got better shit to do than verify whether my own children still have all their damn cognitive functions."

Fugaku felt the venom of anger creeping into his veins. He had to summon every ounce of control not to lash out in a way he’d regret. He chose silence, letting the storm inside him settle. Tajima had gone back to reading — a few precious seconds of respite.

Itachi had played this well. Because he was brilliant. And determined.

His defiance hadn’t been a spur-of-the-moment act — it was strategy: cold, calculated. He’d weighed the risks, considered the consequences, and realized that even after his breakdown that landed him in a psychiatric clinic, the only way to be permanently struck from the list of designated heirs was to invoke the most blatant form of disgrace.

But not with just anyone.

Hoshigaki was a masterstroke. Subversive, provocative, impossible to ignore. And most importantly — a man.

Fugaku had, unintentionally, delivered him to Itachi on a silver platter.

It was self-sabotage at the highest level. Perfectly executed. He had to give him that.

"Have you made your choice yet?" he finally asked to his father.

"No," Tajima replied. "Your sister asked me the same thing just a few hours ago."

He scribbled a few notes on the paper he was reading, then looked up.

"Do you have suggestions?"

Fugaku let out a short, joyless laugh.

"If Itachi’s no longer suitable... Sasuke is still a viable option."

"As long as the eldest doesn’t sabotage the youngest," Tajima shot back. "You know how attached he is to his little brother. And you know how creative he gets when it comes to protecting him. He won’t let this happen without a fight."

"I can handle that."

"Like you handled Itachi? No. You've done enough already. I'd rather not see a second grandson end up in a psych ward, if you don’t mind."

Fugaku took the hit without flinching.

It was harsh — but fair. He had failed.

He no longer knew exactly when things had started slipping out of his hands. But he’d lost. And now, the others — his brothers, his sisters — were probably rubbing their hands together, eager to put their own children in front of Tajima. But it wasn’t over yet.

"I’m sorry," he said after a moment.

"For what?"

"For letting a stranger into Lochhaven. I’ll make sure he doesn’t come near our family again — not now, not ever."

"No," Tajima said sharply.

He set down his pen and removed his glasses.

"You’ll do nothing. You've done enough."

Fugaku felt his jaw tighten. He didn’t like where this conversation was going. This was bad. He couldn’t let Tajima regain the upper hand — not when it came to Hoshigaki. Boundaries needed to be drawn. Now.

"Hoshigaki isn’t a threat," he explained. "There’s no need to focus on him. I can handle it."

A short, cold laugh escaped Tajima’s lips.

"Don’t worry. Right now, Kakuzu has more pressing matters than disposing of a corpse," he said, voice dry as gravel. "I choose my targets carefully. And that immigrant mutt isn’t even worth entering my sights."

He paused, letting the mockery fade as his cold mask returned.

"Let Itachi see him. As much as he wants. He’s useful."

Fugaku frowned.

"Useful? In what way?"

"This Hoshigaki is putting the pieces back together. He’s helping your son slot things back into place — the things he lost. And he’s doing it well. Or at least well enough that Itachi’s starting to regain confidence and scheme again."

He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a bottle of whisky and a glass.

"You saw in your son self-sabotage. I saw a man finally waking up from his stupor thanks to a fucking immigrant. So let them see each other for as long as it takes."

Fugaku didn’t agree. But he knew he had no say. Not here. Not now.

"And afterward?" he asked.

"After what?"

"When you decide Hoshigaki’s served his purpose... what do you plan to do with him?"

Tajima poured himself a glass.

"You care what happens to him, hm?"

"He’s got his flaws," Fugaku replied. "But he has his strengths too. He doesn’t deserve to be wiped off the map."

Tajima swirled the whisky in his glass, took in its scent, then drank a sip.

A silence settled between them.

He closed his eyes briefly, as if assessing the quality of the drink, then nodded, visibly satisfied. Studying the label with a distant expression, he returned the bottle to a glass-lit cabinet with a warm orange glow.

"You’re Itachi’s father, but you don’t know him," he said as he came back.

His icy eyes locked onto Fugaku’s.

"No one will need to deal with Hoshigaki," he said. "Itachi will do it himself. He has a habit of methodically destroying every bond he forms."

He handed him the full glass, inviting him to drink.

"Your son has a natural gift for hurting the people he loves."

Notes:

Hello everyone! 😊 I hope you're all doing well. We're back with a pretty interesting chapter (well, in my opinion 😄) featuring Fugaku and Tajima. As you’ve probably noticed by now, Fugaku is a strict man — but definitely not as strict as his father.

Kakuzu is obviously in the picture too, since he’s the patriarch’s bodyguard. He’s present for almost everything (and gets paid very well for it). He practically knows everyone’s secrets (or at least the ones Tajima allows him to hear).

Tajima is incredibly intelligent and can tell in a split second whether a conversation should stay completely private or be open. He’s extremely observant and also highly manipulative: every decision he makes is calculated and never left to chance. His grandchildren have all inherited that intelligence, though some stand out more than others (like Itachi, or Shisui, for example 🧠)

Welcome to the Uchiha family 🔥

Chapter 38: OK

Summary:

Music for this chapter : HERE

Pakura stepped out of her car. She grabbed the salad bowl from the passenger seat, then slammed the door shut.

Shizune’s house stood before her. Once warm and welcoming, it now seemed strangely menacing. Probably because she didn’t want to be here. Seeing Shizune and Konan was always a pleasure. But Miru and Rin… that was a whole other story.

She took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell by the front entrance.

“There you are, finally!” Shizune said as she opened the door.

She gave her a once-over, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips.

“Wow… You look amazing. You have to give me some style tips. I literally wear the same thing all the time.”

Pakura glanced down at her outfit: a black turtleneck, matching pants, and heeled boots. Nothing special. But over the years, she’d come to understand that her good looks could elevate even the simplest clothes.

“When I offer to take you shopping, you say no,” she shot back as she walked past her friend.

“I don’t have the time.”

“Liar.”

She entered the living room with a smile—only to freeze the moment she spotted the other guests.

Konan was setting the table, while Miru and Rin, sitting side by side, were flipping through a photo album. All three looked up as she walked in.

“Hey!” Rin called out, waving cheerfully.

“Hi,” Pakura replied.

Her eyes drifted to the side and met Miru’s. Her long hair had grown out even more. Her bangs too. But she hadn’t changed. Still that same innocent look.

“It’s been a while,” Miru said.

“It has,” Pakura answered—neutral, not cold, but not warm either.

Miru gave her a polite smile, then gave her a once-over just like Shizune had done moments ago.

“You’re still just as gorgeous,” she remarked.

“Thanks.”

Pakura didn’t return the smile—or the compliment.

An awkward silence settled over the room.

Konan cleared her throat.

“Miru and Rin were just looking through some old photos,” she offered, trying to ease the tension.

“Oh yeah?” Pakura said.

The brunette pulled her into a hug.

“Please, try,” she whispered in her ear during the embrace.

Pakura inhaled deeply and gave her a faint smile, letting her know she’d make an effort.

She hadn’t wanted to come. She and Miru didn’t get along. And ever since the incident with Obito, things had been tense with Rin too. But Shizune had insisted. She wanted them all together again, “like the good old days,” as she put it.

So she’d said yes.

And now, she regretted it.

“Wanna see the photos?” Rin asked. “You’re in them.”

“Sure,” Pakura replied, faking enthusiasm.

Konan gave her a grateful look as she moved around the table and took a seat beside Miru and Rin.

She glanced down—and froze.

The photo had clearly been taken in a rush. It showed her surrounded by boys. She was wearing her favorite T-shirt from back then: white, tight-fitting, with a plunging neckline that looked great on her but also earned her comments from just about every guy around—including some teachers.

She was smiling, one arm slung around the neck of a teenage boy no one had seen in years. The others in the photo were smiling too, staring at the camera, but their eyes told a different story: they all wished they were the one she was looking at. Because really, she was the focus of that picture. The real center of attention. And yet, not a single one of those faces remained in her life.

“I forgot how insanely popular you were,” Rin laughed.

Pakura felt her stomach tighten. She stayed still for a moment, then forced a smile.

“Time flies, huh?” she said lightly.

“Oh, some things never really change,” Miru replied.

She winked at her.

And just like that, Pakura was back there: in the hallways, in the chaos, in the noise… in the hell that had been high school.

 

---

 

“My dad totally lost it when he found out I got detention for forgetting that math assignment,” Miru sighed. “He told me if I don’t get my grades up, I can kiss prom goodbye.”

“Prom? Seriously?” Shizune gasped.

“Yeah, I swear. The school year just started and he’s already dangling prom over my head like some hostage situation.”

“That’s because he knows how much it means to you. He’s using it like a carrot. What do you think, Pakura?”

Pakura pushed open the locker room door. Most of the girls were already changing, laughing and chatting as they pulled on their sneakers. They were going to be the last ones again.

“I think we better hurry up, or the gym teacher’s going to chew us out—again.”

“That pervy old creep,” Shizune muttered.

Miru burst out laughing and clapped a reassuring hand on Pakura’s shoulder.

“Oh, come on,” she joked. “You’ll charm your way out of it like always.”

She dropped her gym bag onto a bench with a loud thud, then winked at her.

“Everyone’s seen the way he stares at your cleavage.”

Shizune frowned.

“Gross. Stop.”

“What?!” Miru laughed even harder. “Why do you think he always picks her to demonstrate the exercise? He totally milks it!”

Pakura sighed and shook her head. Her neckline wasn’t any lower than anyone else’s. It was just that her chest was bigger than most girls in the class, and the school gym uniforms only came in size M or S. Obviously, that didn’t work for her body type—so she got the stares.

“Hurry up, Miru,” Shizune urged.

They were the only ones left in the locker room.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m trying,” Miru grumbled.

She stumbled as she shoved on her last sneaker, and the three of them rushed out of the locker room at a jog. But of course, they were the last to arrive, and the gym teacher looked far too pleased to point it out.

“Same ones, every time!” he called out, clapping his hands sarcastically.

It was clear he’d been waiting for this moment.

As usual, his eyes landed on Pakura. Her body tensed, her fists clenched—but she made sure to keep her hands behind her back.

“Well, well… Pakura,” he drawled. “I’m starting to think you like being the one to show the exercise. Come on, up front.”

Whispers and giggles rippled across the gym.

“Sir,” Miru suddenly said.

Every head turned toward her.

“I can show the exercise. We were late because of me—I was messing around in the halls.”

All eyes shifted back to the teacher. He raised an eyebrow, surprised, then frowned.

“No, it’s fine, Miru. Pakura needs to bring her PE grade up, right? I’ll take that into account.”

“But—”

“I said it’s fine.”

A tense silence followed. Pakura took a breath, then stepped forward.

“Don’t worry, Miru,” she whispered as she passed.

And she gave her a quick wink to let her know it was okay.

She stood next to the teacher, who briefly explained the exercise planned for the girls—the classes weren’t co-ed. Then came the moment she dreaded: the demonstration.

The teacher wasn’t dumb enough to grope her outright. But he was sly. He knew just how long to let his hands linger on her hips, when to slide his thumb just inside her thigh, or press his forearm under her chest in the name of a “better grip.”

It was uncomfortable. Humiliating. Degrading.

Pakura took comfort in the fact that at least it was only girls watching. The boys would’ve been far less discreet.

“Alright,” the teacher huffed, like he’d just performed a feat of athleticism. “Everyone get that, or do I need to show it again?”

Mercifully—or maybe just out of female solidarity—no one raised a hand. Pakura silently thanked them.

“Alright then, get to it.”

The rest of PE class passed without incident.

As the girls headed back toward the locker room, the boys entered the gym, carrying equipment.

“Who’s that?” Miru asked.

She was looking toward the far end of the gym, where a giant of a guy had just walked in, followed by a much smaller, thinner boy.

“The new kids,” Shizune whispered. “They’re from some kind of shelter or foster home. Supposedly, they’re part of that government scholarship program. You know, the whole ‘equal opportunity’ thing they kept talking about on the news?”

The two boys stood off to the side. The smaller one looked uncomfortable, while the tall one didn’t seem fazed at all. Nothing seemed to get to him. And the other boys didn’t dare mess with him—or even get too close.

“What are their names?” Miru asked.

“The tall one’s Kisame. He’s in my language class. The smaller one’s Nagato. We picked the same science track.”

“Whoa,” Miru breathed. “They’re kind of scary, huh?”

And yeah, Kisame didn’t exactly radiate warmth. He was too tall for a high schooler. Too muscular. Scars marked his body here and there, like he’d been in more than a few fights. And his gaze—it was cold. Unpleasant, even. He always stayed close to his friend, keeping a wary eye on anyone who got too near, like he was on some kind of mission. His whole body seemed constantly on alert.

“Nagato’s really nice,” Shizune added. “A little shy, but super sweet. And smart as hell. He’s always helping out their other friend… Ugh, what’s his name again? Right—Yahiko.”

“Oh,” Miru said. “So it’s not just the two of them?”

“Nope. There’s this Yahiko guy—kind of a handful, if you ask me—and another girl named Konan. I don’t see them much. We don’t have any classes together.”

Pakura turned toward her friends.

“Konan’s in my art class,” she said. “I figured she wasn’t from around here because of her accent, but I didn’t know she was part of a scholarship program.”

“D’you reckon they’ll manage in class?” Miru asked.

“Yahiko and Kisame seem a bit all over the place, if you ask me,” Shizune replied. “But Nagato’s brilliant. His brain’s definitely not wired like ours.”

Miru turned to Pakura.

“What about Konan?”

Pakura shrugged.

“It’s the beginning of the year. Hard to tell. And… art class isn’t exactly where you get to know people deeply.”

“My dad says kids from care homes are trouble. He’s not keen on the idea of them being placed in schools like ours just because they’ve got a scholarship.”

Pakura’s parents had said more or less the same thing. They were worried the school’s standards might drop—and by extension, that the students would suffer for it.

“Hey,” a male voice suddenly called out.

They all turned their heads at once.

It was Oliver—a sixth-former from the basketball team. Almost as tall as Kisame, but with a much friendlier face.

“Hi,” Miru said with a smile.

He barely glanced at her, but gave Pakura a wink.

“We’re throwing a party Saturday. If you lot fancy coming, you’re more than welcome.”

He said it to the group, but his eyes never left Pakura.

“Ok,” she replied, unsure what else to say.

“Ok,” he echoed with a laugh, clearly amused by her nonchalance.

Then he turned to Miru, who had gone bright red.

“See you later?” he asked her.

She nodded, blushing even harder.

He gave Shizune a polite nod before heading off to the changing rooms, soon joined by other lads.

A short silence followed—then Miru suddenly squealed.

“Yes!” she cried, making Shizune jump.

“What?” she asked, rubbing her ear.

“Oliver invited us to his legendary party!”

“Hmm,” Shizune muttered. “What I saw was Oliver inviting Pakura to his legendary party.”

“He said you lot are welcome, not Pakura is welcome,” Miru pointed out, raising a finger.

She was practically bouncing with excitement.

“Oliver’s so fit, so stylish… and clever too…”

“I get it. He is hot. Just not really my type. What about you, Pakura?”

“Dunno, really.”

Miru rolled her eyes.

“She says that, and next thing you know, they’re falling at her feet like flies.”

She turned to her with a cheeky grin.

“You’re building yourself a harem, aren’t you?”

Pakura smiled.

She’d always had her fair share of attention from boys. Every year, she’d get a handful of love confessions—which, most of the time, went unanswered. Now and then, she made an exception… but that had only happened once or twice. A drop in the ocean, really, considering the number she’d received.

“I can make sure Oliver doesn’t end up in it,” she replied coolly.

“Such grace, Your Majesty, the Sultana.”

Shizune burst out laughing—then suddenly froze.

“Shit, maths class!”

 

---

 

"Do you have any other photo albums?" Rin asked, looking up at Shizune.

"Yeah," she replied. "Right behind you, on the bookshelf. Bottom shelf."

"Don’t move, I’ll get it."

Rin stood up and stretched her arm toward the album in question. Predictably, her short legs weren’t much help.

"Pakura, you’re tall," she said with a grimace, "would you mind—"

Pakura stood up before she could finish her sentence. She crossed the dining room, then the living room, and reached out. The album slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a thud.

"Shit," she muttered.

"It’s fine, don’t worry about it," Rin replied.

 

---

 

Pakura bent down to pick up the chemistry book she’d been looking for. Her fingers brushed over the cover and closed around it. But because she was clumsy—and also because she’d thought it was a good idea to put on fake nails—it slipped out of her grasp again.

This time, a much larger hand caught it mid-air.

She looked up.

Kisame.

"Thanks," she said.

He didn’t answer. His eyes lifted toward the shelves above her head.

"Do you need something up there?" he asked after a moment.

She followed his gaze.

"The green one, over there. And the red one too, if you don’t mind."

He nodded, reached up, and grabbed both books.

"Here," he said, his tone flat.

"Tha—"

"Kisame!" a voice called out suddenly.

Pakura and him turned their heads.

It was Shizune, smiling brightly, arms full of books.

"I’m glad to see you," she whispered, careful not to get shushed by the librarian. "How’s Nagato?"

Surprisingly, Kisame smiled. Not a full-on grin, but something close.

"He’s doing better. But he won’t be back until next week."

Pakura frowned.

"He broke something?"

"No, he’s sick," Shizune explained, a sad little frown tugging at her mouth.

She turned her attention back to Kisame.

"Tell him I took notes for him. And that I worked hard on our bio project, so he doesn’t have to stress. There won’t be much left for him to do when he gets back."

Kisame looked genuinely surprised. He paused for a few seconds, processing, then nodded.

"You’re gonna make him really happy. He’s not doing great, but he kept going on about that damn project, worried he wouldn’t have time to catch up," he said. "You just saved us a few days of stress and crankiness, Shizune. Thanks."

She laughed. "It’s nothing, don’t worry about it."

She glanced around the packed library.

"Did you find a spot?"

The giant looked around too.

"No. But I was gonna head home anyway."

Shizune shook her head disapprovingly.

"There’s a seat open next to me and Pakura. Want to join us?"

Surprisingly, he turned to Pakura, waiting for her approval.

She raised an eyebrow, caught off guard that he was looking for her okay, then shrugged.

"I’ve got no problem if you want to sit with us."

Kisame gave a crooked smile, like she’d said something mildly funny.

"Alright then... I’ll join you."

Shizune beamed. "Perfect."

They finished gathering the books they needed and headed back to their table. Kisame sat to Pakura’s right. They chatted a little about nothing in particular—which earned them a sharp glare from the librarian—then got to work, though Kisame seemed more interested in checking the time than focusing on his books.

"Psst," someone hissed.

They looked up to see Miru hurrying over, backpack slung over one shoulder.

"What are you guys doing?" she asked, frowning.

Shizune put down her pen and leaned back in her chair.

"Gee, I don’t know," she said. "White sand, sunscreen, BBQ, swimsuits... We’re clearly in the middle of a beach volleyball match."

She folded her arms.

"Seriously, what do you think we’re doing on a Wednesday afternoon in the library?"

Miru rolled her eyes.

She was about to fire back when her gaze landed on Kisame—and froze.

"Hey," she said, forcing a tight smile.

"Hey," he replied.

She stared at him for a second, clearly uncomfortable, then looked over at Pakura.

"Can I talk to you for a sec?" she asked, clearly uneasy.

"Yeah, of course," Pakura said.

She stood up and followed Miru, who was already speed-walking toward the back of the library. They ducked into a maze of bookshelves. Miru glanced left and right to make sure no one was around.

"What’s going on?" Pakura asked, worried. Miru’s nervous energy was totally unlike her.

"Oliver just asked me if I wanted to go to the cinema with him."

"You pulled me out of a study session for that?"

"But it’s Oliver!" Miru whispered, eyes wide. "The Oliver! I don’t know what to do..."

Pakura squinted. "What does that have to do with me?"

Miru started pacing.

"I don’t know what to say to him. I wasn’t expecting him to be into me. Not like this. Not so soon. The competition’s insane—every girl in school is after him... Honestly, I’m freaking out. I can’t tell if it’s a good idea to say yes or not, and—"

"Miru," Pakura cut her off. "It’s a movie date. Not a marriage proposal."

Miru let out a groan.

"Yeah, I know," she muttered. "I’m overthinking everything."

She locked eyes with her friend, clearly desperate.

"So what should I say?"

"What do you mean, what should you say?"

"I mean, what do I tell Oliver?"

Pakura sighed and shook her head.

"I don’t know... Maybe just say 'yes'?"

"Just yes?"

"What else do you want to say?"

Miru frowned.

"I don’t know! You’re the one who has guys falling at your feet and treats dates like weekly errands!"

"And that makes me a matchmaking agency?"

"No, but it sure helps," Miru shot back.

She pouted.

"If you were in my shoes, what would you say to Oliver?"

Pakura sighed.

"Something like 'Ok'."

Miru pulled a face.
"No. 'Ok' is your signature move. Oliver keeps saying you say that all the time, even in critical situations. And he’s not wrong. Someone could tell you the world’s about to stop spinning and you’d still just go, 'Ok'."

Pakura shrugged.

"Ok."

Miru gave her a light smack on the arm.

"Stop it, I’m being serious here. You’re the stunner of the school. The one all the lads fall for, and who couldn’t care less — you even blow them off like it’s nothing. Me, I’m a rookie. And I need your help. Right now."

Pakura really didn’t feel like diving into some melodrama. But she could tell that if she didn’t answer Miru’s distress with some kind of emotional thesis, the girl wouldn’t let her go.

She reached out, took her friend’s phone, and read Oliver’s message.

"Well?" Miru asked, hopeful.

"Tell him to pick you up at seven. And end it with an emoji."

Miru closed her eyes in relief.

"Thanks," she sighed, tapping away on her phone.

Pakura looked away, idly scanning the rows of books.

She didn’t understand how someone could get so worked up over a boy. In her experience, they weren’t all that interesting. And when they were, it was usually because they saw her as a shortcut to sex. She didn’t mind that — if she liked the guy and he seemed trustworthy — but frankly, she was over it. And in her final year of school, the last thing she wanted was to indulge the emotional turmoil of whatever brave soul tried cornering her at her locker to ask her out to the cinema, or the arcade, or the party of the year — which, let’s be honest, never actually was.

"You lot hanging out with him now?" Miru asked suddenly, eyes still fixed on her phone.

"With who?"

"The giant."

"Kisame?" Pakura replied.

She glanced over her shoulder, even though she couldn’t see him from where they were.

"Shizune invited him to join us," she said with a shrug. "He seems nice enough."

Miru pressed her lips together, unconvinced.

"He mostly just seems scary. And he’s got a bad reputation."

"Bad reputation?" Pakura repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Oliver doesn’t like him. Says he acts all cynical, like he’s better than everyone just ’cause he’s tall and built… but really, he’s just some thug who grew up dirt-poor."

Pakura didn’t feel like getting into an argument.

"Ok," she said simply.

Miru sighed.

"I’m only saying this for your sake, you know. You’re probably the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. Wouldn’t surprise me if he starts coming onto you. Just be careful. And pass the word to Shizune too."

"I doubt Shizune’s going to take your advice."

Miru nodded.

"Yeah… she does seem pretty obsessed with that Nagato guy."

"Did he get Oliver’s official approval too?" Pakura teased.

She narrowed her eyes.

"My whole life isn’t dictated by Oliver, you know?"

"Ok."

This time, Miru hit her harder on the shoulder.

They burst out laughing, then made their way back to their table.

 

---

 

"I just found out recently that it’s closed," Konan announced.

They were all seated around the table, enjoying a meal from the local Italian restaurant—Shizune being completely hopeless in the kitchen. The photo album session had ended a while ago, and the conversation was now in full swing. Pakura, as usual, stayed mostly quiet, only speaking when someone asked for her opinion.

"Oh no!" Miru gasped. "That was the ice cream place when we were in school. That’s really sad. What happened?"

"No idea," Konan sighed. "It’s the economy, I suppose. Tough times for everyone."

"It’s been replaced by a Starbucks," Rin chimed in.

Shizune narrowed her eyes.

"A Starbucks?" she echoed with disgust, as if it were the worst thing to happen to the planet since the dinosaurs went extinct. "Wow. That’s genuinely depressing."

"What was it called again, that ice cream place?" Rin asked, sipping her glass of wine.

"Chez Lulu," Pakura replied.

All eyes turned to her.

"Yes, that’s it!" Shizune said, delighted. "The ice cream there was to die for."

 

---

 

"Careful, it's dripping," Pakura pointed out.

Kisame glanced down at his ice cream cone and licked the melting edge.

They were both sitting on the sea wall steps, facing the ocean. Chez Lulu, the ice cream parlour, was just behind them.

"I knew I should’ve gone with a tub," he grumbled.

"It doesn’t taste as good. You made the right call with the cone."

He shrugged, then turned his eyes to the sea. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting an orange glow across their silhouettes.

"Weren’t you supposed to be out with Miru today?" he asked after a pause.

Pakura gave a small laugh.

"Technically, yeah. But Oliver had other plans. And she didn’t want to risk upsetting him," she sighed. "I swear, ever since they got together, she acts like she’s the First Lady."

"First Lady of what?" Kisame scoffed.

"Of school."

The boy snorted.

She knew he probably wanted to throw out something a lot more savage—he had a talent for that—but he was holding back, likely because she was Miru’s best friend.

"Anyway, I can’t wait to see what happens with prom voting," she said after a moment.

"Why’s that?" Kisame asked.

"Because if she and Oliver don’t get voted Cutest Couple, we’ll never hear the end of it. So we’d better make sure they win."

Kisame laughed under his breath.

"Some bloody victory. Especially with that arsehole... I’ve no idea what Miru sees in him."

Pakura shot him a look. He’d finished his cone and was now digging in his pockets for a cigarette.

"You planning on going to prom?" he asked as he flicked his lighter.

She raised her eyebrows with a laugh.

"Absolutely not. That thing’s the biggest pile of crap I’ve ever heard of. I honestly don’t see the point."

It was still early in the school year, but people were already talking about prom like it was the bloody Cannes Film Festival. Some couples were even campaigning to be crowned King and Queen. Thankfully, Miru and Oliver hadn’t sunk to that level—yet—but Pakura had no doubt her friend would’ve done it if her idiot boyfriend had suggested it.

"And you?" she asked, though without much interest.

She already knew the answer. Kisame didn’t seem like the type to get excited about overhyped, superficial traditions—most of which were borderline sexist anyway. He was like her: unimpressed by people who thought this kind of thing counted as actual fun.

She also dreaded the time of year when people started the date-hunting phase. With her reputation, she knew she’d be bombarded with offers—and frankly, the idea exhausted her. Turning people down one by one wasn’t her idea of a good time, and she had zero intention of squeezing herself into some sparkly dress just to spend an evening with a guy she didn’t give a toss about.

It had to be the same for Kisame. He didn’t seem like the sort who—

"I think I might go," he said.

Pakura nearly choked on her ice cream. She wiped her mouth with a tissue, then turned to look at him.

"Oh yeah?" she said, with a note of disbelief.

"Nagato talked me into it. Says it might be my last chance to see some people, and that I’d regret not going if I don’t take it."

She stared at him for a moment, surprised, then finally shrugged.

"He’s not wrong."

Kisame took a drag on his cigarette and leaned back, resting his arms behind him on the steps.

"You should run for Prom Queen."

Pakura caught his mischievous smirk.

"I’d rather die."

"You’d win, though."

And he was probably right. Pakura was well-liked, even though she didn’t fully understand why. Her looks definitely played a part—that much was obvious. But she’d never tried to be in the spotlight. Maybe that was the trick: staying out of reach.

"Miru would have a full-on meltdown," she laughed. "And she’d be right. It’d be a dick move."

Kisame grinned even more.

"Guess I’ll just sign you up secretly then," he teased.

"You’d be the biggest bastard ever born if you did that."

She finished off her cone and reached out for his cigarette. He passed it to her without even glancing her way.

"What if we signed Nagato up instead?" he said, deadpan.

Pakura burst out laughing.

That was an excellent idea.

"Ok," she said, still laughing.

They shook on it.

 

---

 

Pakura helped Shizune clear the plates.

"Who's playing tonight?" Miru asked.

"PSG versus Real Madrid," Shizune replied. "The boys all went over to Yahiko and Konan’s to watch the match."

"Let’s hope they don’t leave too much of a mess," Konan grimaced, heading into the living room to set the dessert plates on the table.

"Depends on who wins," Rin said with a smile.

She turned to Pakura.

"I thought you’d have gone with them."

Pakura held back from saying she’d have preferred to—Shizune wouldn’t have appreciated that level of honesty.

"I’m more into basketball than football," she said instead.

"That’s true," Miru chimed in. "You’ve always had a soft spot for basketball players."

Pakura looked up at her. She was watching her with a sympathetic smile, arms crossed.

"Let’s test your reflexes, then!" Shizune suddenly called out. "Catch!"

And she tossed her the kitchen towel.

 

---

 

Pakura reached out and caught the basketball just in time.

The crowd whistled in admiration, followed by applause from the stands.

"Sorry!" a student shouted from the court.

He genuinely looked apologetic.

Pakura stood up, threw the ball back to him with perfect aim, and sat back down between Miru and Shizune.

"That was close," Miru breathed, still shaken.

"I honestly thought I was about to lose my head," Shizune replied. "Thanks, Paku."

The girl answered with a smile.

If she hadn’t caught the ball in the corner of her eye at that exact moment, her friend would’ve ended up in the nurse’s office.

She was just about to say she owed her an ice cream when the crowd erupted in cheers for the players at the centre of the court.

In front of them, Nagato and Konan raised their fists in the air.

Kisame and Yahiko’s team had just scored, evening the match. The opposing team, led by Oliver, quickly sprang back into action, desperate to regain the lead.

Pakura watched the intense back-and-forth of the game. The scores were neck-and-neck, the end of the match fast approaching. This wasn’t just a friendly game—it was a full-on ego war. Oliver couldn’t stand Kisame and his crew, and the feeling was entirely mutual.

"Come on!" Konan cheered, clapping.

Miru shot her a disapproving side-eye, which made Shizune smirk.

"Not everyone’s on Team Oliver, you know?" the girl said.

"Let me believe otherwise," Miru replied coolly.

At that moment, Oliver grabbed the ball. In his haste, he elbowed Yahiko hard in the face, snapping his head sideways. Yahiko collapsed by the court’s edge like a pile of bricks.

Konan shot to her feet, quickly followed by most of the spectators.

From their seats, it was impossible to hear anything, but the view of the court was clear—front row to the start of a brawl.

Kisame helped Yahiko to his feet, then stormed straight towards Oliver, clearly demanding answers. The two boys started arguing heatedly, their bodies inching closer.

Suddenly, Oliver shoved Kisame violently. Kisame pushed back, then turned to rejoin Yahiko. But as he turned away, Oliver shouted something at him—and spat on his back.

Everything after that happened fast.

Kisame spun round, lifted his leg, and drove his foot straight into Oliver’s stomach. It was so brutal, the team captain crumpled backwards like a rag doll.

Chaos erupted.

"Get them apart!" Nagato shouted immediately.

He bolted down from the stands, Konan on his heels. Other students flooded the court, trying to separate the players.

Pakura rushed down the steps, eyes locked on Kisame. She finally spotted him, held back—barely—by Nagato. The boy clearly didn’t have the build to restrain him, but somehow his presence alone seemed enough to spark some flicker of reason in Kisame.

Using all his strength, Nagato dragged him by the shoulder and steered him towards the gym exit.

Pakura followed, heart pounding.

The door slammed shut behind her, cutting them off from the chaos.

"You know he did that on purpose!" Nagato shouted.

She had never seen him so furious.

"That son of a bitch called us a bunch of 'shitty mongrels'," Kisame spat.

"You should’ve let him run his mouth!" Nagato shot back.

Kisame gave him such a dark look, Pakura honestly thought he might snap.

"He said we should go back to fucking goats in our slave country, and—"

"He wanted you to react, Kisame!" Nagato cut in. "He knows we’re on thin ice. He knows one wrong move and we’re out of the scholarship programme. He’s waiting for us to slip up so they can kick us out. And you walked right into it. Three months from graduation!"

Kisame swore and turned his back on him.

"You’re already on two warnings because of him!" Nagato pressed on. "One more—just one—and you can kiss your scholarship goodbye. And your plans for the army."

Pakura stepped sideways, drawing their attention. Both boys stared at her coldly.

"Sorry," she said awkwardly.

Silence fell. Kisame exhaled hard, then disappeared into the boys' locker room, slamming the door so hard the corridor walls shook.

Nagato slowly shook his head, rubbing his shoulder. Kisame must’ve hurt him trying to break free and go after Oliver.

"You okay?" Pakura asked gently.

"Yeah, I’m fine," he sighed. "I’ll go talk to Oliver, try to convince him not to report it to the teachers."

And she could tell from his grimace that he hated the idea of having to beg his sworn enemy.

"No," Pakura said. "Talk to Miru first. She’s his girlfriend—and she likes you. She’ll be a much better mediator, trust me."

Nagato seemed to weigh her suggestion, then nodded.

"Yeah. You’re right. Thanks, Pakura."

"I’ll handle Kisame," she told him.

Nagato gave her a grateful look before heading back into the gym, where the chaos seemed to have settled.

Pakura waited for the door to close behind him, then walked into the boys’ locker room. She knocked three times before stepping inside.

Kisame was rinsing blood out of his T-shirt at one of the sinks. He didn’t look up as she approached.

"You alright?" she asked.

His brow was bleeding, a smear of red staining his shirt.

"I’ve been better," he muttered.

Pakura watched him a moment, then reached over and turned off the tap.

"Don’t bother with that. Let’s deal with your forehead first."

She grabbed a paper towel from near the sink and pressed it gently to his wound.

"Oliver’s just a complete arsehole," she murmured. "Don’t stoop to his level."

Kisame clenched his jaw.

"He was lucky Nagato was there. Otherwise I’d have smashed his face in."

And she believed him. Kisame knew how to fight. He’d been fighting all his life.

"Miru will handle it for you," Pakura said. "She’s going to break up with him."

"She’d sooner throw herself off a bridge than do that," he growled. "How else would she win prom?"

Their eyes met. A silence lingered, and then both started laughing quietly.

Pakura gently pressed the towel to his cut. Her thumb brushed his temple.

"She really is going to dump him," she said firmly.

"And how would you know that?"

She softly wiped away the blood from the side of his face.

"First—because he’s a racist. And a fucking narcissist. Second—because he’s been messaging me," she admitted. "At first I let it slide, it seemed harmless. But yesterday he actually asked if I wanted to come over while his parents were out."

Kisame gave a cruel smile. A low chuckle escaped him.

"So he’s racist and can’t keep it in his pants."

"Pretty much," Pakura muttered, clearly uncomfortable. "I was going to tell Miru after the match. But honestly, I’m a bit scared of how she’ll react."

"She’s not stupid. She’ll see things for what they are."

That didn’t surprise her, coming from him. He was like that—straightforward, grounded, always on the right side of the line. But not everyone had the ability to take a step back like he did.

"You don’t look convinced," he said, noticing her silence.

"It’s not that simple," she sighed. "You know, I’ve got this..."

She cleared her throat.

"...this reputation. As a tease. I’m worried Miru might—"

"Miru’s your friend," Kisame cut in. "She knows that’s not who you are. The worst thing you could do is not tell her."

And he was right. Pretending nothing had happened would be a betrayal. Not to mention, Oliver would’ve used it like a ticking bomb. But still, Pakura dreaded the moment she’d have to break the news to Miru. The girl was so in love, so proud to be with that boy... it would crush her.

"I’m sure it’ll be fine," Kisame said.

She gave him a small smile.

"You’re the one in deep shit, and yet you’re the one comforting me. That’s backwards."

"That’s because I charge for emotional support," he joked.

She chuckled.

They were standing close. Closer than they probably should have been. And yet, it didn’t feel awkward. She liked seeing the details in his face, feeling the heat that seemed to radiate from him.

Kisame had a lot of good qualities. But this—this closeness—was when she felt best around him. Like something magnetic always pulled her into his orbit.

She wondered if he felt it too. She liked to think so, judging by the fact that he never stepped away from her.

"Alright then," she said at last. "You’re all set."

She pulled away the makeshift compress from his eyebrow.

He glanced at himself in the mirror and nodded, as if satisfied.

"Thanks," he said, turning to her.

He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. But the kiss landed just a little closer to the spot where her neck met her ear.

Pakura shivered.

He stepped away and headed for the door.

"Don’t forget your T-shirt," she called after him.

She grabbed it from the sink and tossed it over.

He caught it effortlessly and gave her a small bow of thanks.

"Ok," he replied, echoing the word she used for everything, no matter the situation.

With a wave, he turned and shut the door behind him.

 

---

 

"This dessert isn’t from the Italian place," Shizune warned.

Everyone grimaced, already dreading what the dish might taste like. She placed it in the middle of the table.

"What is it?" Konan asked suspiciously.

"An apple crumble."

Rin tilted her head.

"Well, it looks like one, at least."

Pakura couldn’t help but smile.

"So, who’s sacrificing themselves to try it?" Shizune asked, folding her arms proudly.

"I’ll volunteer," Pakura said.

Shizune slid a portion onto her plate. Pakura picked up her spoon and took the first bite.

 

---

 

"So?" Miru asked.

Pakura swallowed slowly.

"It’s not bad," she said at last.

They were tasting the new dessert served in the canteen—a kind of vanilla pudding with a deeply suspicious texture.

The flavour wasn’t unpleasant, but the consistency was nothing like proper pudding. There was something odd about it, almost rubbery.

Pakura dropped her spoon and leaned back in her chair, unimpressed.

Just then, a group of boys walked past their table. As they drew level, they fell silent and stared at them with hostility. Oliver was among them. He shot Miru a glacial look, then winked at Pakura before miming a blowjob. The group burst out laughing as they moved away.

Pakura glanced at Miru. Her friend was red with shame and trembling.

"Don’t let it get to you, Miru. He’s just pissed he got dumped, and that his cheating scheme got cut short. He’s just venting like the fragile little man he is."

But Miru wasn’t listening. Her nails tapped nervously against the table, her eyes locked on her tray.

Pakura tried to distract her, to change the subject for the rest of the day, but nothing worked.

It had been almost two months since she’d broken up with Oliver, and her mood hadn’t improved. The only good news was that she didn’t blame Pakura. From the start, she’d known her friend hadn’t meant her any harm. All her anger had gone to Oliver instead—who now took delight in spreading vile rumours about Pakura’s sex life (which he knew absolutely nothing about, since they’d never even slept together) and Miru’s supposed naivety.

"Can I ask you a favour?" Miru said suddenly.

They were walking towards the bus stop. Rain drummed down on their umbrellas.

Pakura turned her eyes to her friend, who was staring straight ahead, her eyes sad and dull.

"Of course," she said.

The girl had cut her off mid-sentence, while she’d been rambling about the last maths test. Pakura knew it wasn’t the most thrilling topic for passing the time on the way home, but she hadn’t had anything better to talk about. Usually it was Miru who carried their conversations. Pakura only reacted.

"Could you… play matchmaker between me and Kisame?"

Pakura nearly tripped on the kerb. Miru caught her arm and helped her straighten up.

"What for?" she asked, incredulous.

Miru and Kisame barely knew each other. They’d spoken before, yes, but never properly. They tolerated each other because of their mutual friends—mainly Pakura and Shizune—but the giant had always been wary of the brunette because of her past closeness with Oliver. Things had eased a little since the breakup, but not enough to form any real bond.

"I was wondering if I could go to prom with him."

Pakura blinked, stunned.

She didn’t know what to say. Or what to do.

Since the basketball fight, she and Kisame had grown closer. They studied together in the library, went for walks after class, and he often walked her to the bus stop. In the evenings, they texted late into the night. It wasn’t quite flirting, but it was far more than just friendship.

They lived in a comfortable in-between that suited them both—and, more importantly, stayed discreet enough not to draw attention. The last thing they needed was the school gossip mill turning its eyes on them the way it had on Miru and Oliver.

Pakura cherished that safe little haven. And more than anything, she was waiting. Waiting for Kisame to make the first move, to ask her out somewhere, to cross the line between camaraderie and something else. With prom coming up, she even wondered if he’d find the courage to ask her—despite her constant claims that the whole thing was utter bullshit.

"Er…" she said, still caught off guard. "I don’t get it."

Miru shut her umbrella as they stepped under the bus shelter. Pakura did the same.

"I don’t have a date. Thanks to the crap Oliver’s been spreading, every boy’s avoiding me like the plague. The only ones who’d take me are downright ugly. And I can’t show up alone. That’s impossible."

"Why not?" Pakura asked, raising an eyebrow. "Nobody’s ever died of being single."

"Because it’s humiliating!" Miru snapped.

And she genuinely seemed distressed saying it.

"I’m not like you, Pakura. All that stuff just rolls off your back. You’re so gorgeous that no matter what happens, people still adore you. Look at Oliver—he’s been telling everyone you gave him blowjobs in the boys’ toilets all year, and people still idolise you because you’ve got the body of a Victoria’s Secret angel. Meanwhile, I’m just hated because I dumped him! Nobody cares about the reason—I’m just the school’s 'ugly idiot'. And now even this fucking prom is off-limits to me, just because I’ve got no one to go with!"

She had shouted that with all the rage she could muster, and Pakura was glad no one else was in the street at that moment.

"Listen, Miru—you don’t have to go to prom. You could do plenty of other things without—"

"No!" she cut in, looking at her with raw frustration. "You know how important this is to me! I’ve been dreaming about it since we started secondary—and you know that! Prom is everything! It’s the cherry on top of my school years!"

She was breathing heavily, as if she’d run for miles.

Pakura stayed silent for a moment, then took a deep breath to calm her racing mind.

"Ok," she said. "I get it. You really want to go. But why… Kisame?"

Miru swallowed, then clenched her jaw.

"Because I’m pretty sure nobody’s asked him," she murmured. "It’d teach Oliver a lesson."

She looked away, embarrassed.

"And also because… I admit he’s kind of fit. Even if he is a bit intimidating at first."

Pakura felt a sharp sting in her chest. Her eyes widened, stunned.

Miru noticed. She frowned slightly, uneasy.

"I have noticed you two spending time together," she whispered. "But boys clearly don’t interest you—you turn them all down. And anyway… you hate prom. You’re always saying it’s total rubbish, that you’d never waste a penny on some soppy dress just to nibble crappy finger food and dance among the school morons."

It was true. She had said all of that. And she had turned down every boy who had asked her to prom.

But that was because, deep down, she’d secretly hoped that maybe—just maybe—Kisame would be the one to ask.

For him, she would have worn the stupid frilly dress, choked down the crap appetisers, and danced in the middle of all the idiots at school.

"I… I don’t know," she hesitated.

"You’re not interested in him, are you?" Miru asked at once.

"No," she replied firmly.

And it was a lie. But for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she refused to expose her feelings. It felt like weakness—a perfect target for gossip, something that could turn her last weeks of school into hell.

"In that case, perfect," Miru said. "Could you… talk to him for me?"

Pakura shivered.

"I don’t know if he’ll agree. He’s not really the type for that sort of event," she tried.

"You don’t know him as well as you think," Miru replied with a mischievous smile. "I’ve done some digging with Shizune. She told me Nagato managed to convince Kisame to go. He just hasn’t found a date yet. And since you’re closer to him than she is, I thought you’d be perfect to bring it up."

She had found her cheer again.

Pakura felt the trap close in on her. Whatever she did, she was stuck. If Kisame asked her and she said yes, Miru would resent her. She wouldn’t understand why Pakura had spent so much time tearing down prom only to go with a boy who supposedly didn’t interest her. But if she played matchmaker… she would be arranging, for her best friend, the very date she herself had been silently hoping for.

It hardly got worse than that, strategy-wise.

"So?" Miru asked, eyes wide.

Pakura couldn’t refuse. That would have been absurd.

"Ok," she sighed. "I’ll mention it to him."

But she swore she’d only do it if Kisame brought up prom first.

Miru closed her eyes in relief and hugged her.

"Thank you," she whispered in her ear. "You don’t know how much this means to me."

She pulled back with a smile.

"Don’t worry, I’ll give him back to you. It’s only for one night. Promise."

She even gave her a knowing wink.

Pakura realised then that her friend had guessed, despite all her denials, that Kisame meant more to her than she’d admitted.

She didn’t answer, only changed the subject as they waited for the bus.

Back home, she forced herself to think of other things—and she kept at it the whole week. But on Friday, Kisame asked if she wanted to go for a walk by the canal. She hesitated, afraid he’d bring up prom, but accepted, because she had missed him. No matter how hard she tried not to think of him, her heart craved his presence, his voice, the scent of his cologne.

"How was your week?" he asked as they walked along the water.

"Yeah, good. Bit exhausting with exams coming up, but… I suppose it’s the same for everyone. And you?"

He nodded.

"Same. If I want to get into the army section I’ve got my eye on, I need that fucking diploma. So I’m trying to do my best."

The sun was setting later each day, announcing the start of summer and the end of school. Its orange glow slid over the lawns and the green waters of the canal.

It was probably the last time they’d allow themselves this kind of outing as students. After this would come exams, then graduation, and afterwards… everyone would go their separate ways—to university, or whatever path they’d chosen.

Pakura’s chest tightened. She wondered how she’d manage without Kisame teasing her after class, or inviting her on an impromptu walk.

She’d miss everything about him.

Absolutely everything.

"Can I ask you something?" he said suddenly.

She snapped out of her thoughts and looked at him.

"Yes," she replied.

He stopped walking and turned to her. His hair was messy, his uniform shirt half-untucked, and his satchel hung half-open. But despite all that, he didn’t look stressed, not even tense.

"I know you think prom is a load of rubbish," he murmured. "But would you like to go with me?"

Pakura’s heart skipped a beat. She wanted to throw herself into his arms. A smile spread across her lips, thrilled to finally hear him say those words—but it faded almost at once.

Kisame frowned, uncertain of what her reaction meant.

She swallowed hard.

"I’m sorry. I can’t. I just… really don’t like that kind of thing."

And as the words left her lips, she felt her heart break.

Kisame stayed silent for a moment, then sighed.

"I sort of figured," he said. "Don’t worry. You’ve been saying it all year, after all. It was obvious."

It took everything in Pakura not to go back on her words, not to blurt out that she’d go for his sake. Her only comfort was that Kisame didn’t seem hurt by her refusal.

He gave her a smile and urged her to keep walking, as if nothing had happened.

"Never mind," he said softly. "I won’t go, then. Apparently it’s miserable if you go on your own."

Pakura swallowed.

You promised Miru you’d bring it up, she reminded herself. Say it.

She cleared her throat, uneasy.

"You don’t have to go alone," she said, her voice unsteady. "There’s… Miru. She’s looking for someone to take her."

Kisame frowned.

"Miru?" he asked, doubtful.

"Yes. Since she broke up with Oliver, she hasn’t got anyone to go with. And you know how much prom means to her."

Kisame looked out at the horizon, expression unreadable, then finally shrugged.

"Yeah, why not," he said without much conviction. "At least I wouldn’t have to go as the eternal thug. And it’d make Nagato happy."

He turned his head towards Pakura.

"I’ll ask her next week."

Pakura forced a smile.

"Ok," she replied.

Kisame narrowed his eyes, studying her, as though trying to read something in her. Then he slung an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in just to mess up her hair. She laughed, squirming to get away. He let go, shoving her lightly aside. She stumbled, then smoothed her hair back down.

"From now on, every time you say 'Ok', you owe me a forfeit."

Pakura burst out laughing.

"Ok," she shot back, defiant.

At prom, he would belong to Miru.

But today, like every other day to come, he was hers.

 

---

 

"Verdict?" Shizune asked, watching them curiously.

"Honestly, it wasn’t bad," Rin replied.

"Yeah. Pretty good," Konan confirmed.

Shizune jumped up in delight.

Pakura had to admit she’d outdone herself. The apple crumble was well baked, she hadn’t mixed up sugar with salt, and the dish even looked presentable. A real success for a novice cook—and it warmed her heart to see Shizune so thrilled.

"Where are you going?" Rin asked, turning to Pakura.

She had stood up from her chair and slipped on her jacket.

"For a smoke," she said, holding up her packet of cigarettes.

She crossed the house and opened the patio doors.

 

---

 

The cool night air brushed against her face. She pulled her jacket tighter and wandered across the restaurant terrace before settling at an empty table.

She glanced over her shoulder. Inside, Yahiko had just blown out his birthday candles and was unwrapping his presents with enthusiasm. The glass between her and the dining room muffled the laughter and applause.

Pakura smiled to herself, then turned her gaze to the horizon, where the moon shimmered on the ocean. Everything was calm. The only sound was the waves crashing against the shore.

She lit a cigarette and crossed her legs.

"Mind if I steal one?"

Obito was leaning over her.

"Here," she said, handing him the pack.

She watched him light up, then raised an eyebrow.

"Didn’t you promise Rin you’d quit smoking?"

He shook his head, handing back her lighter.

"I promised I’d try to quit. Big difference."

Pakura let out a small laugh.

"You’re unbelievable."

They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the stillness of the beach at this late hour. Behind them, the sound of laughter and chatter carried on.

Pakura could have gone back inside, but she always reached a point where her tolerance for socialising ran out and she needed a break. This quiet moment with Obito was the perfect recharge before diving back into the heart of the party.

A burst of laughter caught her attention. She turned her head to the right and spotted two figures approaching—a tall one, and a smaller one. In the dim glow of the streetlamps, she recognised Miru and Kisame. They were messing about in the dark, enjoying a moment alone on the beach.

Pakura’s whole body tensed. She watched them from the corner of her eye, trying to look indifferent, though her heart was racing.

Two years had passed since prom. Two long years since Miru had promised to give Kisame back. Two years, and she still hadn’t. Two years in which Pakura had helplessly watched them grow closer.

She swallowed hard.

In her first year of university, she’d realised Miru had never truly let go of him. Her friend had hidden things, pretending they only spoke now and then. But Pakura had found out that Miru often called him, inviting him out.

She’d felt betrayed. Cheated, even. Because it wasn’t right. Miru couldn’t do that to her. Not when she knew how much Kisame meant to her, and that she was only waiting for the right moment to say it.

But how could she explain that without sounding like a lunatic? She couldn’t exactly scream, "It’s against girl code!" or "You promised you’d give him back!" She’d have sounded ridiculous. And Miru would have turned it against her.

Once again, the trap had sprung shut, leaving her paralysed, forced to watch their growing closeness in silence.

"You know, it’s not too late to make the first move."

Pakura jumped. She turned and saw Obito watching her.

Lost in thought, she’d forgotten he was even there. He had clearly noticed her wandering eyes.

She felt stupid, but didn’t let it show. She stayed silent, then took a drag from her cigarette.

"I’m waiting for him to wake up," she admitted at last, her voice cold.

It was the first time she’d confessed to anyone that she liked Kisame—that she wanted more than his friendship.

Obito shifted his chair closer.

"Don’t wait. He thinks he hasn’t got a chance with you. That’s why he’s settling for her."

Pakura felt guilty for the rush of satisfaction those words gave her. She didn’t dare look at him, afraid he’d see the storm in her eyes.

Her foot tapped softly beneath the table, her nerves betraying her.

Nearby, Miru’s laughter grew louder, as if she were doing it on purpose. Pakura couldn’t see clearly in the dark, but she could picture it easily—Miru tugging Kisame’s arm, pulling herself closer to him.

Anger bubbled up inside her.

"You can still change things," Obito said. "But hurry. Otherwise, he’ll make his final choice—and once he does, he won’t go back."

Pakura swallowed.

She nodded slowly, forcing her gaze back to the horizon.

"Ok."

 

---

 

"I’m assuming everyone wants a drink?" Shizune asked.

"Champagne?" Konan asked immediately.

"Yes, champagne. Unless you’d rather have something else?"

"No, that’s fine. And you girls?"

Everyone nodded, Pakura included.

She didn’t really feel like having a glass, but she knew that if she refused, she’d only come across as the killjoy again. So she simply went along with it.

Shizune went to fetch the flutes while Miru set about opening the bottle. The cork popped and hit the ceiling, sending them all into fits of laughter. Each of them held out their glass, smiling.

"To our reunion!" Shizune cheered.

 

---

 

"Cheers!" the guests exclaimed.

Nagato kissed Shizune, then clinked his glass with several others. A round of applause echoed through the wedding hall, beautifully decorated for the occasion.

Shizune looked stunning in her white bohemian dress. Nagato, meanwhile, was striking in his light suit—simple, but perfectly tailored.

Pakura stepped back to let a waiter pass and accidentally trod on someone’s foot.

She turned—and found herself face to face with Kisame. He looked so handsome in his suit that her chest tightened.

"Sorry," she muttered.

"Forgiven," he said in a teasing tone.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Your foot had no business being there."

He was about to reply when a manicured hand slipped onto his arm.

Miru appeared, seeking his gaze.

"Yahiko’s looking for you," she told him. "He wants your opinion on his speech before he gives it. He’s worried he’ll say something stupid."

Kisame sighed.

"Duty calls, I suppose," he replied, in a mock-blasé tone.

He leaned down and kissed her. A brief kiss, familiar yet soothing—the kind that reminded you love could be simple, if you let it.

Pakura turned away and took a sip of champagne, her heart aching.

When she looked up again, Kisame was already walking off, leaving Miru behind. She watched him go, visibly content. Pakura couldn’t blame her—for in her place, she’d have done exactly the same.

"You alright?" her friend asked.

They didn’t speak as often as they once had. Their bond had frayed, though no words had ever been exchanged that might break it entirely. But no one was fooled: Miru had won, Pakura had lost. Something had shattered, irreparably. Both of them knew it, though neither dared voice it. It was an open secret, a silent pact. A lie wrapped in pretty paper. And, in a way, it was enough. Enough that neither had made a scene, enough that they could still stand in the same room.

"Yes," Pakura answered simply, her gaze already drifting elsewhere.

She didn’t want to talk. Not to her. Not to play pretend. She wanted to get away. To find Konan, Obito, anyone else who could pull her out of the state she was in now.

"It’s a beautiful ceremony, isn’t it?" Miru asked.

Pakura’s eyes returned to her.

"Very beautiful," she replied with a flat smile.

Miru looked uncomfortable. She pressed her lips together, forcing a stiff smile.

"Really beautiful."

She cleared her throat.

"And work? How’s that going?"

Pakura’s smile vanished.

She didn’t understand. What’s the game this time? What are you plotting?

She needed to think fast. Because no matter how many degrees she held, when it came to human relationships, Miru was the stronger of the two. That was why she always won. First people’s empathy, then their sympathy, then their hearts entirely. It had worked on Pakura when they were teenagers, and it still worked on others now.

"It’s going fine," she said neutrally.

Not cold, not warm. Just enough to make it clear she didn’t want the conversation to go further.

Miru seemed even more embarrassed. She nodded and let the silence stretch—long, unbearable. Then, gathering her courage: "Can we talk?"

Pakura let a few seconds pass.

"We’re talking now," she replied evenly.

Miru stiffened.

"No, I mean…"

She glanced around.

"Outside. On the riverbank."

Pakura looked out at the view through the windows of the barge. Night had fallen, visibility was low. If they left the boat, they’d likely need to light the way with their phones: the barge was moored at an isolated quay in the countryside, and without streetlights the place was drowned in darkness.

Perched on her heels, Pakura had no desire to trudge through wet grass—least of all for a conversation with someone she could barely stand.

"No thanks," she said, setting her glass down on a cocktail table and moving past her.

Miru’s fingers closed sharply around her arm.

"Please," she said firmly.

Pakura glanced down at her hand. Her friend was gripping her forearm so hard her knuckles had gone white.

She raised an eyebrow, reproachful.

Miru let go at once.

"Sorry," she murmured, flustered. "But I really want us to talk. Just the two of us."

Pakura stared at her a moment, unmoving. She weighed the pros and cons, then finally nodded.

"Ok."

Miru gave her a grateful look, then turned and led the way out of the main hall, up onto the deck. A waiter helped them down onto the riverbank. They walked a little way from the barge until they stopped in the middle of a field.

Surprisingly, the place wasn’t as dark as Pakura had imagined: the full moon bathed the landscape in a pale glow, enough for her to see Miru’s features clearly.

In the distance, the barge shone warmly, lit by lanterns and strings of fairy lights. On the deck and inside, guests had begun to dance. The ambient lighting gave the whole scene a soft, almost magical air. Jazz music drifted in the background, mingling with laughter and lively chatter that floated into the night.

Pakura watched the scene for a moment, admiring it, before remembering the person at her side.

She turned slowly towards Miru, who was also gazing at the view, her eyes filled with the same admiration.

"I’m listening," Pakura said coldly, cutting through the brief moment of respite.

Miru seemed to snap out of her thoughts. She swallowed and clasped her hands together, visibly nervous.

"Listen…" she sighed. "I can tell we’ve drifted apart these last few years. We don’t really talk anymore. We speak through mutual friends, or only when we have to. And honestly, I…"

She seemed to search for her words, twisting her fingers in a clumsy gesture.

"I… I’m unhappy. I miss our friendship. I miss you. I want us to be like we used to be. To be able to talk about everything and nothing. To get back that bond we had in school. Because… I’ve never found that with anyone else. I tried, really, but no one comes close. And that’s normal: there’s only one Pakura. Just like there’s only one Miru."

She took a deep breath, then spoke faster, as if afraid of being cut off: "I want us to be a duo again. So that when people think of you, they think of me. And the other way around. I want us to share everything. Sorrows, joys, the big things and the small. Because every time I hear something good about you, I feel sad. Sad that I wasn’t there to celebrate it with you."

She lifted her eyes to Pakura. "Do you understand? I want us to be friends again. To wipe the slate clean. To write a new book, turn the page on the old one. Could we… could we try?"

Pakura didn’t move. She stayed silent, a long time—maybe too long—before finally fixing her gaze on her friend.

"No."

Miru blinked, as though the word had taken a few extra seconds to reach her.

She opened her mouth, ready to say something, then shut it again, clearly stunned.

Pakura looked away and started walking back towards the barge.

"What…?" Miru breathed behind her. "But… Pakura…"

She didn’t turn back. Her steps were brisk, unwavering.

"Wait…!" Miru cried.

Pakura heard her running after her through the tall grass.

She grabbed her arm to stop her.

This time, Pakura wasn’t so patient. She shook her off with a sharp movement. Miru stumbled, nearly falling.

They froze, staring at each other in horror.

"Why…?" Miru whispered.

Pakura narrowed her eyes.

"I have my reasons."

Miru looked lost, as though she couldn’t understand.

"But… you can’t just say that… you can’t…"

"I don’t owe you an explanation."

And she turned away. The discussion was over. She didn’t want to be her friend anymore. She didn’t want anything to do with her.

The only reasons she still tolerated her were because Kisame worshipped her, and because she was willing to keep up the pretence for his sake.

He was at the heart of their open secret—the real reason why they exchanged polite words, why they pretended it was only time that had frayed their bond.

The performance worked. And it had to go on.

Pakura had no intention of reopening the door to friendship. There wasn’t one. Maybe there had never been one.

"Why are you reacting like this?" Miru shouted behind her. "You’re acting like I stabbed you in the back! Like… like my relationship with Kisame wasn’t legitimate! Like I didn’t get him fair and square!"

Pakura froze.

Her heart skipped a beat.

She turned slowly.

"Fair and square?" she hissed. "What are you talking about?"

Miru frowned, glancing around as if looking for invisible support.

"Kisame was single!" she cried. "The way was clear! And—"

"You knew!" Pakura screamed. "You knew, and you did it anyway!"

Miru stared at her, shocked by her tone. Wide-eyed, she stammered: "Knew what, exactly?"

Pakura’s tense face slackened in an instant. She looked at her, weary, almost hollow, then shook her head slowly.

"You know what? I don’t have time to fight with a grown woman acting like a lying child."

Miru flushed scarlet. Seeing Pakura about to walk away again, she stepped forward.

"So what?! What difference does it make that I knew you loved him?!" she shouted. "What does it change, huh?!"

This time, Pakura looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

Miru narrowed her eyes, her face twisted with fury. "You never did anything!" she screamed. "You never lifted a finger to make things move forward between you two! He was throwing you obvious signals, and you just acted like nothing was happening! Why? Because Madame always needed the boys to crawl at her feet before she gave them the slightest look! Because if they weren’t kneeling, they weren’t worth the attention of Her Majesty the Sultana!"

The words spat from her mouth.

"And me, what was I supposed to do in the meantime, huh? Sit back and wait for you to get bored? Settle for scraps? Always come second to you? Then look in his eyes and see the outline of your ghost?"

She glared at her with hate, then let out a laugh. A bitter, joyless laugh.

"There was no way I was going to keep living like that. Why should I have to hold back? Every time I liked a guy, you showed up with your long legs, your big tits, and two weeks later, he only had eyes for you! And you’d come back with that little sorry face: 'Sorry, Miru, I don’t get it, he’s the one who came on to me…'"

She mocked her in a stupid, high-pitched voice.

"It’s always been like that. Always. Even Oliver, for fuck’s sake! You couldn’t even leave him to me! You knew I was crazy about him! You knew it!"

She jabbed a finger at herself, furious.

"So yes—for once, I thought of myself. I chose Kisame. Because he’s a good man. Because he’d reach for the stars for the people he loves. Because I deserve, too, someone who truly desires me, without pretence. Someone who, even if you stood naked in front of him tomorrow, wouldn’t so much as flinch—unlike all the others."

She caught her breath, voice trembling with emotion.

"No matter what you believe, I got Kisame fair and square. I beat you because you chose to wait. You chose to think that, like all the rest, he’d eventually fall to his knees for you. And you chose to believe I could never play in the same league as you."

Her eyes burned into Pakura’s.

"But here’s the truth. I made the first move. I fought for him. And now he’s chosen me. And there’s nothing you can do. That drives you mad, doesn’t it? Because, for once, someone doesn’t want you. For once, you’re left watching in silence. And for once, you can do absolutely nothing about it."

She lifted her chin, meeting her gaze without wavering.

Silence fell.

Behind them, the joyful sounds of the barge carried on.

Pakura froze. Blindsided. The air seemed to suspend around her. Time stretched, unreal. She stayed motionless, empty, until her body, with a brutal reflex, reminded her to breathe. So she did. Slowly. Because she would not collapse here. Especially not in front of Miru.

She raised her chin, standing tall.

"So you admit it, don’t you?"

Miru frowned, uncertain.

"Admit what?"

Pakura folded her arms.

"That you are—and will always be—his second choice."

Miru stared at her, as though struck.

Pakura reached into her clutch and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with calm precision.

"He wanted me," she said evenly. "I was his number one. His favourite. And you… you were second place. Everyone knows it. Everyone thinks it. Everyone says it."

She drew on her cigarette.

"He chose you out of resignation, not preference. That’s the truth of it. And I pity you for it. You can cuddle him, twist yourself around him as much as you like—it won’t change a thing. I was the first. You, the second. You understand?"

Her eyes turned icy.

"I can’t blame you for reacting this way. All your life, you’ve been second," she murmured. "Second in class. Second in the art competition. Second-prettiest girl in school… Second in everything. Absolutely everything."

She shrugged.

"You’ve never surpassed me in anything. Not in dance. Not at university. Not with Alex. Not with Tyler. Not with Jacob. Not with Thomas. Not with Oliver. Not with Kisame. Not with anyone, or anything else. And for that, I truly am sorry."

She sighed, then, with a perfectly composed tone: "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and try that dessert Shizune’s been raving about, then enjoy my evening with the others. Hopefully without another girl sobbing her insecurities at my feet."

She gave her a polite smile, turned, and walked away.

Behind her, she heard Miru’s sharp intake of breath.

Pakura’s throat tightened.

She knew what she had just said. She knew it was cruel—exceptionally cruel. But Miru had hurt her as no one ever had before.

She had ripped out her heart, speared it in the town square, and screamed: "Look at her! Look how stupid she was! Look at what I took—and what she’ll never have!"

And she couldn’t let that stand. She couldn’t remain silent.

Miru hadn’t said all that by accident. She had chosen violence. And so Pakura had chosen to respond in kind.

Cruelly.

Without a shred of restraint.

"You’re wrong," Miru said behind her.

Pakura glanced over her shoulder. The girl’s fists were clenched.

"Oh, really?"

She had no intention of yielding. Not this time. She had done that far too often. Like all the times she’d taken the blame for her, just to stop her from crying like a child. Or the night she’d let her go to prom with Kisame. Or all those times she’d deliberately sabotaged her name off the prom queen lists, knowing that if it appeared, she’d win it all without contest.

That ungrateful brat. That little pest who played the victim once burned, after a lifetime of playing with fire.

"Yes," Miru snapped. "I’ve won."

Her eyes narrowed.

"I’m the one he calls when he’s away on missions. The one he takes to the cinema. The one he lies beside at night. The one he makes love to. The one he begs to give him a child. The one he’d lay down his life for if I asked."

She tilted her head slightly.

"And you? What’s he offered you these past few years?"

Her brows arched, waiting for an answer.

Silence.

She frowned, feigning pity.

"Nothing?" she asked in a mock-innocent voice. "What a shame… But then again, it makes sense. You’re nothing to him. Just another girl. A pair of tits bouncing from man to man, incapable of holding down a relationship."

She paused, then gave her a slow once-over.

"You’ll end up alone, legs spread, with a queue of men waiting their turn until your beauty fades and age finishes you off. The eternal whore of this town. The eternal friend people look at just to reassure themselves and think: Christ, dodged a bullet there."

Pakura had to swallow twice just to make sure she was still standing in the world of the living.

For a moment, she was mute, breath caught. Then the pain tore through her, brutal, branding her like hot iron.

She would not lose face. Not here. Not in front of this arrogant little girl.

She stepped forward slowly, arms crossed, like a predator.

Miru stared her down at first, then took a step back, sensing the threat sharpen.

Pakura didn’t slow. She closed the distance until their shoes almost touched, until a single movement would have made their skin brush.

"Careful what you say, Miru," she murmured coldly. "All these years you’ve seen me passive with men. But you’ve never seen me active. And believe me—you’ve no idea what a 'big-titted slut' can do to a man’s brain. Even the one you think unshakable."

She leaned in closer.

"Instead of bragging and insulting me, you should be grateful I haven’t made the first move. Because if I ever decide to… I swear you’ll finally have a reason to call me a bitch."

Her words were so icy that Miru swallowed.

That tiny reflex, insignificant as it was, sent a rush of adrenaline through Pakura.

Her gaze slid down the silhouette of her opponent.

"You know what? All your little jabs have made me realise just how well-behaved I’ve been. Far too well-behaved. You don’t deserve my pity. You don’t deserve my compassion. And now… now I’ve a burning urge to test your precious man."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Wouldn’t that be fun? Just like in school: if he cracks, then he wasn’t the right one. And onto the next. What do you think? Not a bad little loyalty test, is it? You seem so sure of him. So sure of his feelings. Nothing to fear, right? It’s not as though you’re his number two… is it?"

Miru froze. Paralysed.

Pakura pretended to wait for an answer, then raised an eyebrow.

"What? Not sure it’s such a good idea?"

She shrugged, casual.

"Never mind. Let me do you the favour. As you said yourself—you deserve a man with unfailing fidelity."

She began to step back, slow and deliberate.

"Can’t wait to see if my devastating charm still works."

She gave her one last look, heavy with silent promises, then turned on her heel and left. This time for good.

As Pakura laid her hand on the gangway rail, she heard footsteps behind her.

"Leave him to me."

She froze. Turned her head.

Miru stood there, rigid, pale. Her eyes were shining.

Pakura felt her blood run cold.

Not the tears, she thought at once. Don’t you dare play the tears on me.

Miru knew how much she hated seeing her cry. Even after all these years. Even after everything that had happened between them.

"Spare me the melodrama," Pakura growled through her teeth.

"Leave him to me," Miru repeated, her voice trembling.

Pakura glanced at the gangway. All the guests were inside. A slow dance floated in the air—likely Nagato and Shizune’s first dance.

"Pakura."

The sound of her name cracked like an order.

She flinched, then turned her gaze back to Miru.

"If you were ever my friend, don’t do this. I’m begging you."

Silent tears rolled down Miru’s cheeks.

"I know you love him," she said. "Maybe even more than I do. Because he’s an extraordinary man. But I want him for myself. For me alone."

She looked as though she might collapse to her knees.

Her make-up was running. Her superiority had vanished.

"I’ve done everything to win his love," she whispered. "And now I have it. So if you truly care for him—if you love him that much—don’t come between us. Not now. Not like this."

She stepped closer, laid a hand over Pakura’s, and squeezed. Hard.

"I swear I’ll take care of him. That I’ll never hurt him. That I’ll love him, whatever life throws at us. That he’ll never suffer. I promise you, Pakura. On everything I hold dear. On my life, if I must."

Her words shook, her voice faltering with every phrase.

"Let me prove to you I’m worthy of him. That I can love him the way he deserves."

Pakura’s chest contracted.

Her heart—ripped out. A second time.

She tried to pull her hand free, but Miru held on tight.

"I know you love him," Miru murmured. "I’ve always known. From that day you met him in the school library, right up to today, when you looked at him in his suit."

A plain, raw admission.

"I don’t blame you. I understand. But that’s exactly why I’m asking you not to do this to him. Because right now, he’s fine. He’s at peace. His feelings are steady. And you know it. He’d torture himself if he doubted. It would hurt him deeply, even if he pretended otherwise. You know what he’s like. I do too."

She drew in a shaky breath, fighting the sob in her throat.

"So if you really love him… don’t do this. I’m begging you."

Pakura felt the air leave her lungs.

She inhaled deeply, as though surfacing from water, then exhaled slowly.

Her eyes fell on Miru—pale, trembling. And in those shining pupils, she saw her own reflection. That of a desperate girl. A girl so unsure of herself… despite having everything handed to her.

She stood there a few seconds, frozen. Watching. Absorbing. Then, despite the invisible weight on her shoulders, she straightened.

"You’re lucky I love him more than I hate you," she whispered.

Her hand slipped free of Miru’s grip.

And without looking back, she climbed the gangway.

 

---

 

"Another glass?" Shizune asked, nodding towards the champagne bottle sitting further down the table.

"No thanks," Pakura replied. "I’m driving."

"Fair enough—probably wiser."

She turned to Miru, Rin and Konan.

"You three stopping here too?"

They all nodded at once.

Miru drained the last sip of her glass, then stared at it for a moment, lips pursed.

"What’s the brand of this champagne?" she asked.

"Can’t remember," Shizune answered. "Look, the bottle’s right next to you."

Miru picked it up and read the label.

"Knew it looked familiar," she said. "It’s the same champagne Kisame and I had at our wedding."

"Oh really? Total coincidence."

"Well, it’s actually very good," Konan added.

"I’d agree," Rin chimed in.

A silence settled. Then Rin asked: "And with him… how’s it going?"

Miru froze, clearly thrown by the bluntness of the question. Her eyes flicked briefly towards Pakura before returning to her neighbour.

"Well… it’s moving along," she said.

"As in?" Konan pressed, which didn’t exactly help.

Miru shrugged.

"We’re slowly getting to the end. Which… isn’t always simple."

"Psychologically?" Shizune asked.

"And practically," Miru replied. "We both want certain things, and sometimes the negotiations stall."

She paused, fiddling timidly with her glass.

"He wants to keep the flat. But I’m not agreeing to that."

Konan sighed.

"I think that’s the sticking point in most divorces," she remarked. "Who's staying? Who's leaving?"

"That, and the kids," Shizune added. "Nagato’s always telling me it gets complicated once children are involved."

"You don’t say… usually it’s because both parents want sole custody."

"You’re joking? More often than not, it’s because neither of them want it. They just want their freedom back."

There was a beat of silence, then laughter broke out around the table.

"God, Shizune… that’s awful!" Konan burst out, doubled over.

"I swear it’s true. You can ask Nagato yourselves."

The laughter rose again before ebbing back to a calm, easy quiet.

Konan turned to Miru.

"Wouldn’t it be simpler if you both gave up the flat?"

Miru inhaled, then slowly shook her head.

"No. Kisame wants it because it’s close to his new job. And I want it simply because I love it," she sighed. "I must have trawled every estate agent in the city before finding it. It’s perfect. Even if the rent’s steep."

She shrugged, pulling a little pout.

"I just wish he’d understand that."

Silence fell again.

Pakura glanced around the table. All her friends were looking at Miru with soft eyes. She frowned and let out a short, sharp laugh.

Almost instantly, their gazes swung to her.

She stopped at once, staring back at each of them in turn.

"What?" she asked with an incredulous smile.

"I think that’s our question for you," Rin said. "You’re laughing to yourself."

Pakura pressed her lips together, fighting to hide the faint, ironic smile tugging at her mouth.

"Nothing. Just observing, that’s all."

"Observing what?" Miru asked.

Pakura’s eyes turned to her.

That innocent gaze fixed on her, silently saying ‘Go on, tell us more.’ And Pakura had a thousand things to say. But she had to choose her words carefully—once again—if she didn’t want to come off as the villain of the room.

"Your stubbornness over certain details."

Miru frowned.

"Certain details? That’s what you call negotiating over a flat?"

No, of course not, Pakura thought. And Miru knew perfectly well what she meant. But since she wasn’t stupid—and since her favourite pastime was charming everyone around her—she deflected by nitpicking words instead of addressing the heart of the matter.

Pakura wasn’t about to let her.

"No. I meant your obsession with keeping a flat you don’t actually need."

"I struggled to get it. It’s special to me."

"Which proves my point: you don’t need it."

Miru went still for a fraction of a second, then narrowed her eyes.

"It doesn’t matter if I don’t need it. I pay the rent. I’ve every right to want to stay."

"So does Kisame. Except unlike you, he actually needs it—so he doesn’t have to get up at five in the morning to commute to work."

Miru pressed her lips together.

"And how do you know I don’t need it?"

"You just admitted it yourself."

"Alright, stop," Shizune cut in suddenly. "Let’s not get bogged down in this."

She raised her hands in a calming gesture.

"I’m sure it’ll sort itself out. With any luck, Kisame will stumble on another flat that’s more convenient and give up the fight."

"Yes, and then everything will fall into place," Konan added smoothly.

Pakura arched a brow, folding her arms. She eyed the two of them, her finger tapping her bicep—sharp, impatient.

"Why do you do that?" she asked.

Shizune and Konan exchanged a surprised glance.

"Do what?" the first asked.

"Never call her out," Pakura shot back, jerking her chin towards Miru. "Kisame’s let her keep everything—the car, the furniture, even the garage they rent out. The only thing he’s asked for is to stay in that flat. Not out of spite, but to avoid a hellish life. And even that, she won’t grant him."

A heavy silence fell.

Konan parted her lips, hesitant, but Shizune cut in:

"The wording was a bit off, I’ll admit," she said evenly. "Konan and I just don’t want to take sides."

Pakura frowned.

"Well, maybe you should," she retorted.

"Why?" Rin asked, eyebrows raised, as if her opinion had been requested.

"Because last I checked, it was Miru who cheated on Kisame. Not the other way around."

She turned to Shizune and Konan.

"Supporting your friends is one thing. But making them own up when they’ve fucked up—that’s better. Especially when they’re busy playing the victim."

Miru’s eyes widened. She looked like she was about to answer, but thought better of it. Only her frosty stare betrayed her animosity.

Pakura sighed.

"Oh, spare me that look. I’m not the one whose husband walked in on her giving a blowjob to her lover."

The entire table froze.

Pakura’s gaze swept across the group.

"What?" she snapped. "You’d forgotten? That’s what adultery is. Betraying the one who trusts you most just to fuck the first bloke who comes along. That’s treachery. And Miru excelled at it."

She stood, her chair scraping back.

"If you expect me to pat her back while she sobs into her tissues… you can forget it."

She grabbed her cigarettes from her bag and headed for the French windows, stepping outside to smoke without a flicker of remorse.

Behind her, silence fell, broken only by Shizune’s half-hearted attempt to comfort Miru.

Pakura exhaled smoke, rolling her eyes skyward. She knew she’d snapped. Miru would shed a few tears, and then she’d be the one everyone turned on—reminded yet again not to get so invested, not to drag things into sordid detail.

Ridiculous. Hypocrites, the lot of them. Shizune, Konan, the rest—they should’ve turned their backs on Miru. Same as they should’ve cut off Rin and Kakashi. But no. Instead, they still invited them round, as if nothing had happened.

"But they’re old friends," Shizune had once protested. "I can’t just erase them from my life! They’ve always been there for me. I’ve known them longer than Kisame or Obito. They're my first friends!"

Not good enough, as far as Pakura was concerned. Rage simmered in her veins. But she couldn’t let it show. Not here. If she did, Miru would put on one of her fainting acts, and everyone would turn on her—again. Worse, they’d accuse her of siding with the men just to curry favour. No one would say it outright, of course, but they’d all think it. Same as in school. She was used to it. A reputation as a tease never really left you.

She took another drag on her cigarette and stared out into the garden. From inside, Miru’s light, airy voice floated through, joined by the saccharine replies of Rin, Konan, and Shizune.

Pakura strained to catch the words. She couldn’t make out much, only fragments.

I should just go, she thought. No point staying.

She stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray and headed back inside.

Miru sat with her head bowed. Rin leaned close, whispering while squeezing her hand beneath the table.

Pakura picked up her handbag. Shizune, realising she meant to leave, rose at once to see her out.

But before Pakura could step away, she caught Rin’s voice, low but clear: "Forget her. She doesn’t know what it is to love. She’s never kept a man longer than two weeks."

Pakura froze. Slowly, she turned her head, then pivoted fully, eyes narrowing.

"Say that again, Rin?" she asked, suspicious.

Konan jumped to her feet at once.

"Alright, I think it’s time we all head ho—"

Pakura raised a hand for silence. Konan swallowed, then obeyed.

"Go on, Rin. Repeat what you just said."

Rin shifted uneasily, then lifted her chin. She met Pakura’s stare with quiet steel.

"I said you don’t know what love is, and you’ve never stayed with a man longer than two weeks."

Pakura didn’t move. Then a short, sharp laugh shook her shoulders.

"Why would you say that?" she asked, stepping slowly towards the table.

"It’s not meant to be cruel, Pakura. It’s just the truth, that’s all. The only ones here who can give lessons about love are Konan and Shizune. They’re married. Long-term. They actually know what they’re talking about," Rin said defensively.

Pakura’s heart skipped. She blinked, stunned, breath stuck in her throat. And then the memories hit: the school days, the painful images she’d fought to bury.

Shock rooted her in place. Then, like a dam breaking, fury tore through her.

"Unbelievable, isn’t it…" she spat bitterly. "This obsession with giving more credit to married women. As if they’re somehow more respectable. Wiser. More legitimate than those who aren’t."

"That’s not what I—"

"Yes. It’s exactly what you just said, Rin."

Pakura lowered her gaze to her, still seated.

"Who the hell do you think you are, eh? Tell me. Where do you get this divine authority to decide who’s legitimate and who isn’t?"

Her palms slammed down on the table as she leaned over her.

"Was it your first marriage that gave you that power? The one with Obito?"

Her eyes narrowed to slits.

"You think that your wedding day gave you the right to feel so fucking sure of yourself? That beautiful day when you swore loyalty to your husband… only to spread your legs, not for some stranger, but for his fucking best mate?!"

Her voice cracked like a whip through the room.

Rin inhaled, lips parting—

"It wasn’t—"

"What the fuck do you know about my love life?" Pakura cut her off at once. "What could a girl like you possibly know, eh?"

Her brow furrowed, her voice a growl.

"Because I’ve gone through one-night stands, I’ve never loved? I don’t deserve a place at this table?" she spat the words. "Well, I’ve never betrayed anyone! Not once!"

Her fist crashed down on the table.

"You’ve got no idea what I’ve done for love. NO FUCKING IDEA!"

Rin sat frozen, like prey cornered by a wild beast. Beside her, Miru remained impassive. Pakura stared at her, heart hammering. Her former friend didn’t flinch. This time, unlike in all their past clashes, her complexion wasn’t pale, her eyes weren’t brimming with tears, her bottom lip wasn’t curling into that pathetic little grimace.

"You never told them, did you?!" Pakura burst out, eyes fixed on her. "You never told them what really happened, did you?! How you treated me! How you betrayed me—not once, but twice!"

Her breathing was ragged, painful.

Why was she the one hurting? Miru was the guilty one. She should be suffering, not Pakura. And yet the pain clung to her. That gnawing jealousy. That constant sense of having been robbed, right from the start.

And it was unbearable.

So unbearable that, for the first time in years, her eyes burned.

"You promised me!" she spat. "You swore you’d take care of him! That you’d never, ever hurt him! That was the deal—the condition for me to let you have him! That was our fucking agreement!"

Her nails dug into the wooden table, her heart thudding violently in her chest.

"I sacrificed the love I had for him because of you! I threw away potential years of happiness just to let you have him! So why?! Why take him if it was only to end up hurting him?! Why wouldn’t you let me be his, why?!" she screamed. "Tell me! Tell me what those tears by the boat meant! Those pleas you threw at me to stop me from winning him back?!"

She paused, gasping.

"‘Please, Pakura, let me have him,’ "she mimicked savagely. "‘I’ll make him happy, whatever happens. I swear it on my life. Let me prove I can be enough for him.’"

She leaned close to her former friend.

"You kept none of your promises. Not one."

She swallowed hard, her heart torn to shreds. Her eyes blurred with tears, her face twisted in anger. She clenched her jaw, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill.

"All these years, I was a good friend, Miru. A fucking good friend. And you spat in my face," she whispered.

Her eyes locked on hers, unblinking.

"You don’t deserve Kisame—that’s a fact. But you don’t deserve me either," she breathed. "You’re nothing but a coward. A fucking coward, Miru. I’d never have done that to you. Never. Not once. Not even in my blackest rage, not even in my deepest grief. I would never have betrayed you like that. I would never have begged you to give me a man who meant everything to you… only to fail to love him the way he deserved."

Miru trembled. A strange light flickered in her eyes as she stared back. Her jaw was tight, her brow furrowed.

"I loved him," she whispered, broken. "I swear I tried to love him the way you did. It’s just that…"

Pakura cut her off, shaking her head. Tears splashed weakly onto the table.

"You lie as easily as you breathe."

"No, I swear I’m not lying… I swear. It’s because—"

"This whole story isn’t just about Kisame," Pakura interrupted. "It’s about something else. Between you and me. Our firendship," she gulped.

Miru’s eyes glistened now, but she held firm. For once, she wasn’t the one in tears—Pakura was. For the first time since they’d known each other. Usually, it was Miru who wept. Never Pakura. Never.

"Tell me why you did this to me, Miru," Pakura whispered. "For once in your life, have the guts… and tell me the truth."

Miru’s jaw was so tightly clenched Pakura thought she’d say nothing. But after what felt like an eternity, she closed her eyes briefly and drew a breath. When she opened them again, her irises trembled. A single tear slid down her cheek.

"You had everything. I had nothing," she said simply.

Then she met her gaze, and added nothing more.

Silence stretched.

They stared at each other, locked together, held in suspension.

Finally, Pakura pressed her lips tight.

"Now tell me it was worth it," she murmured, her voice shaking. "Please. One of us has to have gained something from all this. Otherwise… all this suffering, everything, will have been for nothing."

She waited. But Miru said nothing. The silence dragged on.

"Ok."

Pakura wiped her tears with the back of her hand and stepped back.

As she straightened, she felt Miru’s fingers brush hers, tentative. She looked down. Her friend still wore her engagement ring.

Pakura stared at it for a long moment, breath uneven, then whispered: "You’ve lost him. But you’ve lost me too."

She grabbed her handbag from the table and walked out without looking back.

In the hall, Shizune tried to tell her something, but she didn’t listen. She reached her car, reversed without checking behind, and drove into the black night.

She drove for a long time, climbing higher and higher until she reached the outskirts of the city. Finally, she pulled into a driveway, slammed her door, and dragged herself up the broad steps of a sombre-looking house, one heavy tread at a time.

At the great dark-wood door, she hesitated, then pressed the intercom.

The door swung open.

"Pakura?" Obito frowned. "What are you—"

He stopped when he saw her face. His eyes widened, and he fell silent with shock.

"You were right," she murmured, her eyes still red with tears. "I should’ve made the first move."

Obito froze for a few seconds. Then his shoulders softened. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.

She pressed her face against his shoulder and let herself fall apart in his arms, her silent tears taking over.

In the back of her mind, she could hear the music that had lulled her in the car the entire ride. A melody—haunting, deadly—that she already knew, though she had never really taken the time to listen. Now, it made perfect sense.

It stabbed her in the heart like a blade honed too sharp.

 

Smart, sexy Lacy, I'm losin' it lately
I feel your compliments like bullets on skin
Dazzling starlet, Bardot reincarnate
Well, aren't you the greatest thing to ever exist?

Ooh, I care, I care, I care
Like ribbons in your hair, my stomach's all in knots
You got the one thing that I want
Ooh, I try, I try, I try
Try to rationalize, people are people, but
It's like you're made of angel dust

Lacy, oh, Lacy, it's like you're out to get me
You poison every little thing that I do
Lacy, oh, Lacy, I just loathe you lately
And I despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you
Yeah, I despise my rotten mind and how much it worships you

 

Music : HERE

Notes:

Hello everyone! Another chapter! And this one is veeeery special (I was way too impatient to hold onto it, so I’m posting it today :D)

I’ll try to keep it short, because there’s a lot I want to say.

1) Pakura is a baddie: back in high school, she had the reputation of being a tease, but that wasn’t true. She never needed to chase anyone — boys always came to her (never the other way around). She had a very polished, mature style for her age. She was wearing acrylic nails long before they became fashionable (very long, with carefully designed nail art). That earned her plenty of reprimands from teachers, but she didn’t care. She was more of a loner, but her striking looks brought her a popularity she NEVER wanted (and that’s important to highlight). She’s a girls’ girl. Loyal in friendship. EXTREMELY loyal.

2) Miru was the archetype of the classic teenage girl. Cute, energetic, clever, and always into the latest trends. She always had a bit of an issue with herself, mainly because Pakura drew everyone’s attention (unlike her). Miru was popular too, but never on Pakura’s level. Let’s just say she was near the top of the social ladder — which is exactly what allowed her to date Oliver, the school’s golden boy.

3) Kisame was the delinquent type. Other students avoided him like the plague (even though he was kind). He was basically the bodyguard of his crew with Konan, Nagato, and Yahiko — especially Nagato, who was already ill and more fragile than the rest. No one dared mess with them (except Oliver, who often managed to turn people against them). Kisame got detention countless times for insolent or violent behaviour, but most of the time it was because he was standing up against what he considered injustice. He nearly got expelled from school. He was never interested in prom — the only reason he went was because Nagato convinced him he had to live like everyone else if he wanted to move forward in life.

4) Nagato was (and still is) the brains of the group. Extremely intelligent, with a passion for science. But he chose to study law instead, so he could make sure Kisame, Yahiko, and Konan’s rights would always be defended. He still deeply loves his work (don’t worry about him).

5) I hope it’s clear by now, but the conflict between Pakura and Miru isn’t just some high school spat. It’s much deeper. It’s about their friendship. Their love. They both share responsibility (even if Miru made more mistakes). Pakura is right to feel betrayed — she would never have done something like that to her friend. But she also should have made the first move with Kisame. Miru wasn’t wrong when she yelled at her: “You were waiting for him to come to you because Madam Sultana would never dream of making the first move; you were waiting for him to fall at your feet, like all the others; and you thought I could never compete with you.” Pakura’s mistake was assuming everything would always come to her — even Kisame’s affection — and that Miru wouldn’t dare beat her to it. She never said it aloud, but she thought it, and she was wrong. Miru decided not to let her chance slip away. But Miru’s mistake was doing it for the wrong reasons: even if she did love Kisame, it was never as deeply as Pakura — and she knew that from the start. Out of jealousy, she chose to take Kisame for herself. In the end, both were in the wrong: one for resting too much on her laurels, the other for acting out of envy.

6) The scene where Pakura confronts Miru, saying “I would never, ever, EVER have done that to you” and “This isn’t just about Kisame. It’s about our friendship too” is very clearly inspired by the fight between Maddy and Cassie in Euphoria. You can watch the clip HERE. That scene was acted so well it broke my heart when I saw it. And it made me realise that a betrayal of friendship can cut far deeper than any romantic one.

7) Konan, Shizune, and Rin never knew that Pakura was in love with Kisame. They found out at the same time you did — during the final confrontation. The only thing they suspected was that Kisame had once had a crush on Pakura before he fell for Miru. But no one guessed that Pakura had felt the same — except Obito. He knew, but kept her secret.

8) Kisame has absolutely NO idea that Pakura ever loved him. Truly, not the faintest clue. Back in high school, he thought he never stood a chance. He never tried anything, afraid it would ruin their friendship. If he had known how Pakura felt about him, he would have gone for it. Because she was the one he loved first. In this case, the story would have turned out differently. Pakura and he would have been endgame.

9) The song Lacy was chosen for Pakura and Miru. It resonates with them both.

Thanks for reading. Thanks for people who takes time to comment, really you are the reason for what this story still continue <3