Chapter Text
The arena still haunted his skin, dust and blood clinging like the ghost of a fight unfinished.
Sasuke could feel the grit of pulverized earth caked under his fingernails, chakra burn pulsing faintly across his ribs, and the hollow throb in his shoulder where that bastard from Kumo had landed a spinning kick that should’ve broken bone. It didn't.
There were three phases. A week straight of fighting. Sleepless nights in hard grounds. Chakra drained to fumes. He'd earned the flak vest now slung over his shoulder, a badge of exhaustion more than pride.
Chūnin. All three of them. Team 7 had made it.
Yet, the word didn't mean anything yet. It felt like static under his skin, like waiting for something sharp to break the surface.
The sun had dipped behind the Hokage Monument by the time he reached the Uchiha district. Dusk spilled down the old tiled rooftops like ink, warm violet catching in the curve of paper lanterns, red silk fluttering in the wind. Cicadas thrummed in the distance, swallowed slowly by the hush that only settled within Uchiha walls.
It always hit him like this—how quiet it got here. He enjoyed it more than he cared to admit.
Outside the compound, the village still buzzed. Outsiders from every corner of the continent lingered in the streets, pretending they weren’t sizing up Konoha’s power. There were too many foreign shinobi crowding the bars, too many rival colors on forehead protectors for him to relax. But in here… in here it was shadows and familiar scent. Smoke from the evening hearths. The sharp tang of pine sap and hot stone. The weight of centuries in every brick.
He didn’t realize how much he’d actually missed it until his shoes scraped across the old stones of the path toward his house.
His eyes tracked the red glow behind the trees before his ears caught it—the sound of distant laughter, deep voices. Men's voices. Familiar ones. His fingers twitched toward his sword out of habit, then dropped.
His family. The unhinged half.
He could’ve walked past. He would’ve walked past, except—
“Oi,” someone called. “Don’t pretend you didn’t see us, you brat.”
Sasuke froze, jaw tensing.
Shisui stepped into the path, tall and loose-limbed, wearing his usual smirk and a firelight tan. He always looked so smug. “You deaf now too, Chūnin-sama?”
Sasuke gave him a dry look. “No. Just busy.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Shisui said, already closing the distance, clapping a hand onto Sasuke’s sore shoulder. “You were gonna sprint home to sulk in the bath and pretend you’re not limping, right?”
Sasuke didn’t answer.
From behind him, more figures emerged. Taller silhouettes flickering with shadow and ember, framed in the firelight of a bonfire burning in the wide clearing between the trees behind one of the larger houses. He caught the movement of Itachi’s profile near the edge, quiet and composed, half-lit in flame. Obito was seated on a low log, legs splayed, cup in hand, waving something off.
“Seriously?” Sasuke muttered. “I just fought for seven days straight. I’m going to bed.”
“You’re not,” Shisui said, dragging him by the collar.
“Try that again,” Sasuke warned, low.
“Ohhh, we got threats now,” Shisui laughed, tugging him anyway. “Listen, little cousin, there’s something you need to do before you die of exhaustion. It’s tradition.”
“What tradition.”
Shisui flashed teeth. “You will see.”
Sasuke dug in his heels but Shisui kept hauling him forward like a piece of furniture, not caring at all for his protests. The scent of smoke thickened as the trees opened up and the full clearing came into view.
The bonfire was huge. They'd stacked it with cut pine and kindling, wild and roaring, high enough to flicker against the canopy above. Half a dozen men sat around it, all Uchiha, their vests shed, sleeves rolled up. There was food somewhere—Sasuke caught the scent of grilled meat and soy—and something darker, rich and fermented, sloshing in ceramic cups.
He hesitated.
Someone whistled when they saw Sasuke enter the ring. Obito raised his cup.
“Well well,” he called. “The prodigy lives.”
“I’m not sitting down,” Sasuke muttered.
Itachi looked up, eyes amused. “You already are.”
Sasuke blinked, then glanced down—he hadn’t noticed Shisui push him into a seat until he felt the warmth of the log under him.
“Cute,” Sasuke said under his breath. “Very mature of you.”
Shisui dropped next to him. “We’ve all done it. No one escapes.”
Sasuke narrowed his eyes. “Escapes what.”
“Your rite of passage, baby Uchiha,” Obito said with a grin. “You’re a man now. Time to learn how to drink like one.”
Sasuke gave him a look. “I’m seventeen.”
And drinking is not even allowed here, he thought.
“Which means you’re a ninja, a killer, and a Chūnin,” Obito said. “That makes you old enough.”
“I’m going to sleep.”
“No, you’re not,” Shisui said smugly, pouring something dark from a ceramic bottle into a cup and sliding it toward him. “You're going to get wasted with us.”
Sasuke stared at the cup.
“What is it?”
“Homemade,” Itachi said. “Clan recipe.”
“That doesn’t answer anything.”
Shisui clinked his own cup to Sasuke’s. “You’re not supposed to ask questions. Just drink it.”
“This is how you idiots die.”
“Actually,” Obito said, stretching back and sighing, “this is how you survive. Every Uchiha before you has had his first drink here. Even your father.”
Sasuke blinked. “Bullshit.”
“No,” Itachi said, almost smiling. “He broke a chair afterward. Shisui’s father dared him to fight a tree.”
“Did he win?”
“He concussed himself.”
There was a beat of silence. Then they all started laughing—deep, warm, rolling laughter that filled the clearing. Sasuke stared at the cup in his hand.
He should’ve left.
He should’ve walked past them, gone home, showered, collapsed into bed, ignored the ache in his bones and the pulse of fresh bruises down his side. But he didn’t.
Because they were all here.
Not just Itachi and Shisui and Obito, but Daiki, Tetsuya, Ren—all cousins from different branches of the clan. Men he’d trained beside in passing, seen in missions, sparred against. Strong. Smart. Hardened. They spoke the same language he did—one made of glances, silence, expectation. They were the same kind.
And for the first time, they weren’t looking at him like a kid anymore.
“You don’t have to like it,” Itachi said softly, tilting his own cup toward the fire. “Just finish it like a man.”
Sasuke took a breath. Even though he loved his brother, he hated how Itachi made him feel like he always had something to prove.
So he drank.
The first hit burned.
It was hot, bitter, and sharp—fermented heat that struck the back of his throat and clawed all the way down. His body jerked before he could stop it, nose wrinkling, eyes watering.
“What the hell is that—”
“Success,” Obito cheered, lifting his cup. “To your first burn.”
“Shut up.”
“You’ll live,” Itachi said mildly.
“Barely,” Sasuke rasped, coughing.
Shisui poured more into his cup. “Now just continue until you don’t feel the bruises.”
“No talking about missions. No talking about strategy. This night is for celebrating. Nothing else,” Obito said.
Sasuke rolled his eyes, but the warmth was already spreading in his belly. The second cup went down easier. The third slid like firewater, quick and mean. He didn’t notice the stubborn grin pulling at his mouth until Shisui flicked his forehead.
“There it is,” he said. “Knew you had a smile somewhere under that terminal brooding.”
Sasuke smacked his hand away.
“You’re lucky I’m not sober.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it.”
The laughter returned, and this time, Sasuke didn’t fight it. Only hid it better. The bonfire cracked behind them, bright with heat. Someone pulled a grill from the coals and started handing out skewers. Shisui snagged a handful, passing them around. The meat was smoky, spiced, rich with fat. Itachi silently poured Sasuke another drink.
He drank it.
It warmed the hollows inside him.
He didn’t remember when he started to lean back, or when Obito started singing something ridiculous in old Uchiha dialect, or when the stars started to spin above the trees. But he was still upright, still breathing, and for the first time since the tournament ended—
He wasn’t thinking about the bruises.
He wasn’t thinking about the pressure.
He was here.
And they were all watching him, laughing with him, pouring drinks, dragging him deeper into the firelight.
Someone slipped more pine logs onto the stack, and the sap crackled viciously in protest, popping like rogue shuriken through the clearing. Smoke curled up in coils, sticky and sharp, and the heat drew sweat beneath collars. The night had fallen fully now, blanketing the trees above them in indigo silk, stitched with a handful of stars peeking through the canopy. Lanterns were strung nearby, but the fire was the heart. Everything moved around it.
Sasuke eventually sat with his forearms resting on his thighs, shoulders curved forward slightly, boot heels dug into the dirt.
The cup in his hand was warm. So was his face. So was everything, now. His skin buzzed faintly—just below the surface, like static—and the firelight was starting to smear across his vision. Not enough to stumble. But enough to loosen his jaw.
For the first time, Sasuke noticed that none of them treated him like he was too young to be part of the conversation.
They weren’t censoring themselves. They weren’t stiffening when they saw him listening.
He was in it now as an Uchiha man, whether he liked it or not.
And it eventually turned to mission talk, just like they said it wouldn't.
Nothing classified. Just old stories. Field scars. Shisui mentioned the time he and Itachi had to track a rogue shinobi through the cliffs of Kaminari no Kuni during monsoon season.
“He used to have this thing,” Shisui said, grinning into his cup, “where he’d always pretend he wasn’t cold.”
“I wasn’t,” Itachi replied.
“You were blue, Itachi.”
“I was conserving chakra.”
“You were shaking,” Shisui said, cackling. “I remember you tried to light a fire with a scroll that got soaked. It smoked for two hours.”
“It kept the mosquitoes away.”
“You’re impossible.”
“That was the mission where you got the leech on your—”
“Nope,” Shisui cut in, raising a hand. “Shut it. Shut your mouth. There are children present.”
“I’m right here,” Sasuke said, scowling.
Shisui turned to him, smirking. “Exactly.”
Laughter bloomed again around the circle. Easy. Familiar. The kind of laughter you didn’t fake—not in this clan.
Sasuke shifted, listening more than speaking. The haze in his head wasn’t unpleasant anymore. It just slowed things down. Made him hyper-aware of the way Obito’s voice dropped when he talked about near-misses, or the way Tetsuya’s grin didn’t quite reach his eyes when he mentioned the Suna genin team that never made it out of the forest.
Not all stories had happy endings.
But some were ridiculous.
Like the one Shisui told about accidentally infiltrating the wrong camp.
“They looked like Kiri uniforms,” he explained, wide-eyed, hands gesturing. “How was I supposed to know they were bandits who stole Kiri uniforms? I gave a whole report to their leader before I realized we weren’t on the same side.”
Obito cackled. “What gave it away?”
“He asked if I wanted a cut of the loot,” Shisui deadpanned. “Also, he had four toes on one foot. No ninja has four toes.”
“That’s not true,” Tetsuya said. “I knew a guy—”
“We don’t need to hear about your foot fetish friends again,” Shisui shot back.
Ren nearly choked on his drink.
“Anyway,” Shisui said, raising his cup. “I escaped. But not before their medic tried to, uh… distract me.”
Sasuke glanced at him.
Shisui grinned wickedly. “She was very persuasive. Told me if I didn’t blow their cover, she’d blow something else.”
“Oh my Gods,” Ren groaned.
“It was a compromise,” Shisui said innocently. “I faked amnesia. We shared a ration bar. She said I tasted like smoke and almonds. We didn’t talk much after that.”
“Did you get her name?” Obito asked.
“No. But she had a tattoo of a serpent coiled around a kunai on her back.”
Sasuke coughed. Loudly.
Shisui smirked sideways. “You okay there, cousin?”
“Fine.”
“You ever kiss anyone with a tattoo?”
Sasuke raised a brow. “I’m not answering that.”
Obito leaned in. “Is that a no, or is that the famous Uchiha refusal to comment?”
“Same thing,” Shisui grinned. “It’s genetic.”
“Where do you think he learned it?” Itachi said, sipping from his cup.
Sasuke looked pointedly at the fire.
“Gods,” Tetsuya said, stretching. “Remember when he used to glare at us if we swore around him?”
“I was ten,” Sasuke muttered.
“Exactly. Ten and already judging us.”
“Still judging you.”
More laughter. Someone passed another bottle. Sasuke didn’t see whose hand it was—only that the cup was full again. He drank.
He was drifting. But he was alert. The way Uchiha always were. The heat didn’t erase that instinct. It just softened it around the edges.
“Okay,” Ren said. “I’ll bite. Worst battlefield hookup?”
“Why worst?” Shisui whined.
“Because the good ones are boring.”
“I had one,” Tetsuya offered. “Rain village kunoichi. She insisted we both keep our masks on.”
“That's not a hookup,” Shisui said. “That’s performance art.”
Obito laughed, dragging a hand over his face. “I once got caught sneaking out of a Kumo officer’s tent. Got a broken rib for it.”
“You regret it?” Itachi asked.
“No. She had incredible taste in sake.”
Shisui grinned. “I had this one time—Cloud border, year after my exams. She was a courier. Had that tight little flak vest and those eyes that say, ‘I’ll rob you and you’ll say thank you.’”
“Oh no,” Ren said.
“She made me swear not to say a word,” Shisui said, deadly serious. “Said if anyone found out, she’d cut off my—well. You get the idea.”
“And you agreed?”
“I still have the scar.”
They all turned.
“No. Show us.”
“Later.”
“Coward.”
Sasuke sat, arms now loosely crossed, cup empty but fingers still curved around it. He wasn’t speaking, but he was watching. Taking it all in.
They noticed.
“Quiet back there,” Obito said, voice low and lazy. “You writing all this down in your head, Sasuke?”
“I don’t take notes from idiots.”
Shisui gasped. “Rude. You know I’m giving you gold here.”
Sasuke smirked faintly, but said nothing.
“You ever…” Ren started, half-daring. “You know. Caught feelings on a mission?”
Sasuke tilted his head. “What kind of amateur—”
“Feelings,” Obito repeated, nodding. “You know. Those things you’ve heard of but never experienced.”
Shisui leaned in, face too close. “Tell us you didn’t get even a little soft for that blonde from Suna.”
“I broke her wrist.”
“So she made an impression. Let's just hope you don't die a virgin, little cousin.”
Laughter rippled again.
Sasuke let it move past him.
“You know,” Shisui said, looking at him with a strange fondness. “You were always just—there. Angry. Stiff. Eavesdropping from ten feet away.”
“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” Sasuke countered coolly.
“You were learning,” Obito said. “Like a proper Uchiha.”
Sasuke gave them a dry, skeptical look. “So this is the kind of crap you talked about when I wasn’t there?”
“No,” Itachi said calmly. “We only talked like this because you weren’t there.”
Sasuke went still for a moment.
Right. That tracked.
“You were too young,” Obito said. “Too sharp. Too serious.”
“You still are,” Shisui added. “But you passed the exam. You bled in public. You nearly passed out on that last match.”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh? So you meant to fall into the medic’s lap afterwards?”
“I hate all of you.”
They were grinning.
This was the tradition.
Not the drink. Not the stories.
The way they stopped filtering themselves around him.
And he knew this was a part of it. Sasuke wasn’t stupid—he’d spent his entire life watching from the edges of these conversations. Silent during gatherings, standing behind his father at clan meetings, listening from hallways when Shisui and Itachi passed through the compound whispering about ANBU, or old missions. He’d heard half-truths and cut-off laughter. Obito’s voice echoing from behind sliding doors. The tail-end of a joke, the metallic clink of cups against porcelain. A world just out of reach.
Until now.
Now he was here, seated among them, the fire painting red across the curve of his cheekbones, with alcohol humming through his veins and smoke thick in his lungs.
And they were letting him see them.
Letting him belong.
And yet—
He still couldn’t bring himself to say anything real.
Not about the exams. Not about his final match. Not about the way Sakura had looked at him—gaze level, breath caught between admiration and terror—as he dragged himself back to his feet after taking a jutsu point-blank to the chest. And certainly not about the quiet way she'd whispered, "You okay?" afterward, voice tight and controlled, eyes shadowed with something she couldn't say aloud—when they'd stood alone in the shadows, hidden from everyone's view.
And he couldn't answer. He never knew what the hell to say to her anymore, not since things started changing, subtle and sharp all at once, like the edge of a kunai turned inward.
So he deflected. Again. Like always.
They were starting to slouch now—the older ones. Ren had sunk halfway down against the base of a tree, cup on his chest, eyes half-lidded. Daiki had rolled his sleeves up fully and was poking at the embers with a stick, watching the fire snap and complain. Shisui had gone quiet for a bit, only to suddenly groan and stretch long, his vest sliding off one shoulder.
“You know what I hate?” Shisui muttered, voice gravelly with drink.
Everyone made the sound of reluctant listening.
“Mission birds.”
Itachi turned his head slightly. “Mission birds.”
“You know,” Shisui said, “the hawks they use in Suna. With the little scrolls tied to their legs. We used to have to send replies on those things.”
“So?”
“I accidentally attached a breakup letter once.”
Obito choked on his drink. “You wrote a breakup letter?”
“Well, I meant it to be a gentle disengagement.”
“What did it say?”
“Something like: Hey, I think you’re amazing but we’re both ninja and I can’t do emotional attachments while actively suppressing my chakra signature for survival purposes.”
“Wow,” Tetsuya said. “So romantic.”
“She sent a bomb back.”
Sasuke blinked. “What.”
“True story,” Shisui said. “Tiny scroll. Embedded explosive tags. Nearly took out my eyebrows.”
“Shame it didn’t,” Itachi said.
Shisui pointed. “You’re drunker than you look, aren’t you.”
“I’m soberer than I should be.”
Ren shifted on the grass. “Was she the courier?”
“No,” Shisui sighed. “She was the wind user. With the mole. That mole could move.”
“Don’t elaborate,” Obito warned.
“I was just going to say—”
“Don’t.”
They all laughed again. The kind of laughter that came from the belly. From history. From the bond that only formed after you’ve buried the same bodies and bandaged the same bleeding knuckles. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could fake.
Sasuke stayed quiet, his eyes half-lidded now too, throat warm, cheeks flushed. He wasn’t drunk enough to slur, but the world was shifting softly, as if swaying in slow, deliberate breaths.
The fire spat a burst of sparks. One floated toward him, then died. He watched it, mesmorized.
Obito sat up a little.
“You ever hear the story of the Uchiha girl who got cursed?” he asked suddenly, almost like changing the subject. But the tone shifted.
Itachi’s gaze flicked sideways. Shisui didn’t smile.
“No,” Ren said, adjusting his cup. “But now I need to.”
“She was from when the village was founded,” Obito said, voice lower now, fire painting orange along his jawline. “Back when the clans were stopping being nomadic. Before shinobi wore forehead protectors. She was a genjutsu prodigy. Said she could trap a man in a single blink.”
Sasuke didn’t move, but his attention sharpened.
“They say she fell in love with a Senju boy,” Obito continued and they hissed at that. “Met him on a treaty run. Kept it secret. Kept everything secret. She wanted to run away with him.”
“And?” Tetsuya asked.
“He disappeared. Just before they were supposed to leave together. Gone. No explanation. No body. No note.”
“They killed him,” Shisui said, serious now.
“No,” Obito replied. “Worse. He never existed.”
The air went still.
“They say she went mad,” Obito said. “Pulled her own chakra out through her eyes trying to find him. Used forbidden genjutsu to trap herself in memories that didn’t belong to anyone. When they found her, she was humming a lullaby and carving a name into the tree roots over and over again.”
Ren frowned. “Whose name?”
“No one remembers.”
The fire crackled.
Then, Shisui leaned in, just enough to break the spell. “Your turn, Sasuke.”
Sasuke blinked. “No.”
“Oh come on,” Ren said. “You’ve just been sitting there glaring at the flames like they insulted your mother.”
Sasuke took a long, slow sip from his cup.
“That’s just his face,” Obito said.
“Still,” Shisui nudged him. “You’ve gotta have something.”
“Like what.”
“A story. A near-death. A weird girl. A ghost. A teammate who punched someone on your behalf.”
Sasuke’s eyes flicked up at that.
Itachi smiled behind his cup.
Sasuke set his drink down.
“Nothing interesting,” he said.
“Liar,” Shisui muttered.
“He’s dodging,” Tetsuya added.
“Classic,” Obito said. “That’s okay. We’ll get it out of you one day.”
Sasuke shrugged, slumping back slightly against the log.
“I’ve got one,” Ren said, leaning back. “Not scary, but weird.”
“Oh?”
“Forest of Death. We were two days in. My teammate got poisoned by a trap. We set up camp behind a cliffside waterfall—couldn’t risk lighting a fire.”
“Classic.”
“Well,” Ren continued, “I swear, during my night watch, I saw a woman standing in the spray. Long black hair. Pale skin. She didn’t speak. Just looked at me and walked into the water.”
“You hallucinated.”
“That’s what I thought. Until we left the Forest. My poisoned teammate? He described the same woman.”
Everyone stilled.
“That’s a lie,” Shisui said.
“I swear. We weren’t even together when it happened. He said she touched his face and told him to keep still.”
No one spoke for a few seconds.
Then Obito, softly: “The clan has stories about her. She appears when you’re about to lose your path. They say she used to be one of us.”
“And now?”
“She watches.”
Silence again.
The fire had shrunk, but the embers pulsed low, like the heart of something old still beating under the ash. Sasuke let the warmth sink into his spine. Let his head tip back. The stars were faint above the treeline.
Someone handed him another cup. He didn’t question it.
He drank.
Eventually, Shisui started humming something—an old Uchiha lullaby, barely remembered, half-off key. Obito leaned into the sound, finishing the tune in a deeper register. Tetsuya fell asleep against the roots of a tree, arms folded. Ren muttered something about cursed dreams and threw a stick into the fire for protection.
Itachi didn’t speak again.
Sasuke’s eyes slipped closed at some point.
And eventually, even the fire grew tired.
The logs split themselves open with a sigh, sparks fading into dull red, the pit low and pulsing now, no longer roaring. Shadows stretched longer across the clearing. Someone had gone quiet in the grass. Someone else had stopped answering. Cups lay scattered. Boots half-forgotten. The smell of smoke was thick in everyone's clothes.
And Sasuke…
Sasuke was gone.
Not literally. But the version of him that had sat stiff-backed on the log, answering with clipped words and clenched shoulders, had dissolved somewhere between the tenth and eleventh drink. What remained was this—
His body slumped against the side of the fire pit, head tilted at an uncomfortable angle, one arm flopped across his ribs like a collapsed scarecrow. His bangs clung to his forehead. His flak vest was bunched beneath him like a discarded blanket. The firelight softened the sharpness of his jawline, made him look strangely young again. Vulnerable, in a way none of them dared say out loud.
They were Uchiha, after all.
“Oh, he’s gone,” Shisui said, grinning as he loomed over him. “Dead to the world. Mission accomplished.”
“He's breathing, though,” Tetsuya confirmed, poking Sasuke’s shin with the toe of his boot.
“Barely.”
“I say we leave him,” Ren offered, sipping from the last of the bottle. “Let the forest gods teach him about consequences.”
“Let the mosquitoes teach him,” Shisui laughed.
“It builds character.”
“Or we just draw something on his face,” Ren said.
“Or both.”
Obito cracked one eye open from where he was laying flat in the grass. “You draw on him, you clean up the murder scene when Fugaku finds out.”
That sobered them.
There was a pause. A visible shift. The fire creaked.
“...Right,” Ren muttered. “Forgot who his father is.”
“We all forgot who his father is,” Shisui muttered. “We’re drunk, Ren.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“You sang to a skewer.”
“That skewer deserved it.”
“Focus,” Obito groaned. “Someone’s gotta take him home before he freezes out here.”
“I nominate Shisui.”
“I nominate your mother,” Shisui shot back.
“Enough,” came Itachi’s voice.
They all turned.
He was already crouched beside Sasuke. Moving silently, like the night was a mission. The humor was gone from his face, replaced by something quieter. Familiar. That strange mix of softness and responsibility that only surfaced when Itachi was forced to be a big brother in public.
“Sasuke,” he said.
Nothing.
He nudged his shoulder.
Still nothing.
“Up,” Itachi said, sharper now.
Sasuke made a noise — somewhere between a growl and a groan — and flopped heavier into the grass.
“Chūnin, huh,” Shisui whispered, clearly delighted. “So proud of him.”
Itachi sighed through his nose. Then, without ceremony, he hooked an arm under Sasuke’s and pulled. The youngest Uchiha groaned again as he was dragged up to a seated position, his head lolling onto his brother’s shoulder.
“Get up,” Itachi repeated, low and unforgiving.
Sasuke muttered something incomprehensible. Possibly in a language that didn’t exist.
Itachi didn’t flinch.
With a practiced sweep, he adjusted Sasuke’s vest over one shoulder, looped his arm across his back, and stood — lifting half his little brother’s weight with the ease of someone who’d done it before.
“Whoa,” Obito said, impressed. “That’s love.”
“That’s being smart,” Itachi replied. “Father’s still awake.”
Shisui snorted.
“Do you think he knows we’ve been out here?”
“Oh, he knows,” Obito said darkly. “He probably counted the cups.”
Ren shivered. “Gods. We’re all dead.”
“Sleep well, everyone,” Shisui said, mock-formal. “I’ll write your eulogies.”
Sasuke groaned again, head bumping against Itachi’s collarbone.
“Don’t you dare,” he mumbled.
They howled.
“Oh, now he wakes up.”
“I thought he was dead!”
“Uchiha resurrection jutsu — powered by humiliation.”
“Shut up,” Sasuke croaked.
Itachi adjusted him again. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”
“No I won’t.”
“You’ll want electrolytes and regret.”
“Sounds like my last relationship,” Shisui muttered.
With Sasuke slumped over his side like an exhausted cat, Itachi started walking, slow and careful, down the old stone path toward the inner district. Lantern light shimmered off the dark lacquered rooftops. The others watched them go, muttering, laughing, already peeling off toward their own houses, voices disappearing into the night.
The clearing emptied.
The fire crackled low, ember-red and whispering.
And then—
Quiet.
The hush of Uchiha territory returned. Like it always did. As if nothing had happened.
But something watched.
Just beyond the clearing, where the trees began to thicken and the torchlight no longer reached—
A flicker of silver-white movement.
A forked tongue.
A slither.
Eyes like molten gold narrowed in the dark.
The snake stayed silent.
Watching.
And somewhere deeper in the woods, a hand not quite human curled around a branch.