Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

  When ███████ died at seventeen, a four year old Yamada Taro woke up screaming.

 Life got even more shittier for a-now-four-year-old Taro after the incident™ where he almost jumped off a god-knows-how-many story building because the doctor that waltzed in to check on him has a horse head yet the people around him kept going with their merry life Taro almost thought he’s under the influence somehow. It took two nurses to haul his ass back to his cot.

 The word quirk was thrown around like a non-existent game of hot potato, shits immediately clicked. He got transmigated into My Hero fucking Academia universe. Which isn't as mindfuck as he expected; sue him, 2024 made him beyond desensitized.

 Taro guessed he probably accidentally had killed the actual Taro (whoopsies)....Which is… very fucked up, and is most definitely not a conversational material for actual-Taro’s dad. Said dad also never failed to make him feel like a shitty-child-murderer because of the sudden shift in his supposed-son’s personality after a horror film worthy scream has caused him to age 20 years in the span of 2 seconds.

 Worth to mention, the doctors thought him screaming and blacking out was just another violent quirk awakening. Only for them to find that Taro doesn't feel or have any sort of change in his body—excluding the accidental possession part. They scanned his toes and found that he is indeed, single jointed; thank fuck, Taro does not want to be at the end of Japan’s excused human right violations. Dad gave him a speech about unconditional love and hugged him that day, Taro did not cry. No sir.

 For years, his quirk has been registered as unknown until when Taro was eight and alone in his room; minding his own business drawing aesthetic squiggly lines on his homework paper ( that definitely does not look like a school on fire), each stroke caused him to feel sleepier—which, he didn't really think much about it at that time, it was past his bedtime after all.

 Taro yawned and once he opened his eyes—his own fucking homework blew up on him and now his room’s roof was set on a fiery frenzy. His dad managed to pull him out of there on time, only his eyebrow was the casualty… oh, and his room.

 Officers were involved, Taro was whisked to get questioned, he recited the entirety to his best ability. Taro draws, Taro sleepy, then kaboom. It wasn't exactly a mystery to solve. But it did raise eyebrows.

After careful consideration and more back and forth discussions with his dad. They wrote it off as a quirk accident and suggested a quirk specialist or trainer.

So his dad hired a trainer (Taro loves him so fucking much). Haburashi is a nice guy and isn't as weirded out like most adults by Taro’s most-definitely-not-child behaviour; he found it hilarious instead. Him and eight year old Taro had a blast together, literally. In a controlled environment of course.

 Turns out his quirk was explosion related? Not in a straightforward Bakugou boom-boom way. In his trainer’s theory— Taro’s quirk was more like wiring a bomb than anything. His energy acted as the fuel , a volatile source of power that was poured into his ink as he drew. The ink in turn served as the components or wiring of the metaphorical bomb. The way the ink was arranged dictates how shits would explode.

 “At this point I'll just go work as a demolition expert.” Taro once said, Haburashi snorted.

 The drawback was of course he’ll be tired as hell, Taro’s stamina has always been shit. When he was asked if he wanted to be a hero his answer was, “I’ll fall asleep before I can save anyone.” It was a shitty excuse but it shuts people up.

 He got to name his quirk. Of course naturally Taro immediately references Naruto for the irony; Fūinjutsu .

 Hah, take that Kishimoto. Copyright laws don't exist across dimensions, it's his now. Right, had he told you that Naruto and other popular anime franchises don't exist in this world? Wild.

 Haburashi once joked about him being a terrifying villain one day after Taro showed him how he discovered how to make a timed bomb and arrangements that react to specific triggers such as touch or sound; practically a booby trap. His dad was not impressed.

 Overall, it was a perfect little power for a closeted pyromaniac.

 From that on, Taro grew up to be a normal…as normal as a reincarnated guy can be—in the busy city that is Musutafu without any intention of becoming a hero—being a villain for the meme was an option a long time ago but, eh. He doesn't want to disappoint his dad and Haburashi. Also, Musutafu? Really? Taro couldn't count how many times he got a heart attack every time a canon character walked by him.

 His dad passed away quietly not long ago after Taro graduated highschool. For the first time ever since his own death, he mourned.

 So now he inherited his dad’s bookshop that was his dad’s dad and so on; Yamada’s Corner . Gotta love it.

 It was small and packed with kinds of books even dating to fucking pre-quirk era, what the fuck. Taro also managed to uncover his world’s mangas’ strange counterparts deep inside the shop’s bowels. It was hilarious, what do you mean by Shibuya Wraiths? 

 After moving the stacks of boxes that were probably there since the beginning of humanity, Taro found the wall behind it was empty and lacking; he can't just buy another shelf, DIY project it is. A mural would look good, especially since it’s facing outside the shop’s windows.

 Taro bought paints and other necessary stuff. He already planned for his doodle mural thing to contain references from his world; that means, anime. Because it's funny, because he’s in an anime world, get it and kind of ironic—Somebody stab him, please , God .

 He drew in a Sharingan on the Naruto-only section, also Konoha’s leaf symbol and a shittier version of the Hokage mountain—only reaching to Minato because there's no more space. Taro filled in the other sections with their own anime. He got to draw Nyanko-sensei’s true form, which was a nightmare so he discarded it and opted with the maneki neko version instead. There was a ghostly ache in his chest as he let the brush glide along the images he was so familiar with. Man, get your shit sorted, Taro. Thankfully nothing exploded.

 It didn't take him long to finish, roughly a month. Just needed for it to dry so he can start putting things near the wall without fear of shits getting permanent paint stains. Taro notices the significant rise in customers too. He's glad the mural caught a lot of passerby’s attention quickly.

 Until Taro’s good, no bad day, was absolutely ruined by a masked silver haired boy wearing UA’s uniform staring at his mural—especially on the Naruto section—for five fucking hours. He was getting worried for the teen. So as a good samaritan and store owner. Taro was about to shake the guy’s from whatever trance he is in—and proceeds to get jumpscared by a single red, bright, spinning Sharingan.

 …This kid looks like Hatake fucking Kakashi.

 Oh shit, he probably is what the fuck—cosplay is no way because Naruto is not supposed to exist here—

 “Yo kid. You good? You've been standing here for a concerning amount of time.” Taro finally managed to get out from his rapidly constricting vocal chord. Possibly-Kakashi simply blinked then stared at Taro so blankly it felt like getting blasted by continuous psychic damage.

 “Maa, don't worry. I'm simply admiring the artwork.” Possibly-Kakashi finally relented. “Do you know who painted it?”

 “I, uh, did.” Admitted Taro, which has now possibly condemned him to a death sentence. The boy didn't say anything back and turned his head at the Sharingan drawing. Shit, he drew a small Itachi near that part.

 Taro found himself shifting in his place with sweaty palms. “So,” coughed him not so subtly; putting both of his hands on his hips, effectively wiping the moisture off. “Are you going to buy anything, at least?”

 Possibly-Kakashi whips a book out of nowhere, a glint in his mismatched eyes signaling something sinister—Taro can feel it in every inch of his bones; this child is a menace.

 "Have you heard about this series, then?" Possibly-Kakashi not so subtly asked while showing the content of that book, and by god, things couldn't get more awkward than this. Taro swears, the book—its horrible mishmash of pink and red is most definitely not enough to hide the yellow book aura it is emitting by sheer will.

 "Dude, you're like what? A highschooler! Who on earth would even let you have that?!"

 He scoffs; as if offended by that, and shrugs. "I'm not that young, almost graduate actually." And now it's Taro’s turn to scoff back, "pfft, yeah, more like just graduated from middle school 3 hours ago. Give me a fucking break.” Possibly-Kakashi shot him the nastiest glare.

 Holy fucking shit what is this conversation is he having with a baby Definitely-Kakashi. Not the two of them falling into another awkward silence again.

 At last, Taro broke it. “Look,” he found himself pinching his nose bridge. “Give me the damned book. Go pick an age appropriate one from these shelves and, I might give you a discount. What about that?”

 Definitely-Kakashi hummed, as if he was considering it. He probably isn't and only did this to humor Taro. 

 Taro sighed for the hundredth time his soul might have gotten loose, “What could you possibly need this… thing for? Freaking out your classmates into leaving you alone?"

 There it was, that damn hum again. "Maybe. Or maybe I just like to indulge my interest in good literature." He gave a lazy shrug, already moving toward the shelves Taro had gestured to earlier. "You wanted age-appropriate, right? Some normal   reading for a normal kid like me?”

 "If you say it like that again, I’m charging you double," Taro muttered, reshelving the advanced psychology book with more force than necessary. Definitely-Kakashi sauntered into wherever the fuck he wants.

 He returned far too quickly, holding up a brightly illustrated children's book with an uncharacteristically serious expression.

 "'The Adventure of Duck on Asteroid'" he announced flatly.

 Taro stared at him. "You're joking."

 "Dead serious," Definitely-Kakashi nodded, his tone so dry it would have sucked the moisture out of the room.

 " You expect me to believe this is what you want?" Taro cringed at his raised voice.

 " I expect you to give me the discount you promised," he countered smoothly, holding out the book like it was some kind of peace offering. "What do you think, Mr. Bookstore Owner? Will you help me on my journey to follow the heroic tale of Duck on Asteroid and become a well-adjusted member of society in the process?”

 Taro whips his hands in the air, smiling with so much force it could shit diamonds. “Fine! Okay, okay. Twenty percent off.”

 Definitely-Kakashi made a hat-tipping gesture, he's not wearing a hat. “Pleasure doing business with you.” He placed the book on the counter.

 “Yeah, yeah.” As Taro rang him up, he couldn’t help but feel like he sprouted a few gray hairs. “Here,” he handed Definitely-Kakashi back the book. “Now get the fuck out of my store.” 

 The teen faux offense, placing a hand on his chest as if he was a scandalized Victorian woman. “Such hostility,” gasped him as dramatically as possible, then plucking the book from Taro’s hand. “You should work on your customer service skills. Don't think it's good for business if you cuss your potential customers out.”

 A twitch crawled up to Taro’s eye. “My customer service is fine. You're the problem.”

 “Me? A problem? Please. I'm a delight.” God, please give him strength to not throttle a minor in his shop. Please . “But fine. I'll go, your hairline is receding as we speak. You might want to get a hair implant, old man.” Taro is fucking nineteen he's not old. Wait no, he's supposed to be thirty six isn't he? Hold on—

 “I swear to—” Taro watches as Definitely-Kakashi had already turned his heels and waltzed out with the lazy grace of a little shit. Leaving him alone with a bell that has not yet stopped its jingling, Taro is going to fucking rip that shit off tomorrow.

 “Delight my ass.” Muttered him, dropping himself onto the musty creaky plastic chair that has seen better days. The bell is still fucking jingling.

Also…is it just Taro or does Definitely-Kakashi kinda look like Shinsou?

 Nah, he tripping.

———————

 Taro was tempted to use his quirk to blow the fucking bell because it won't, fucking, detach.

 Maybe it heard his promises to be a renowned terrorist or something, since it immediately popped off from the wall after that. Only now though, a tiny bit of a problem.

 There's a small hole from where the bell was. Fuck.

 He covered it up with an old poster he found after scouring through his dad’s old stuff. Nothing to see here, people 

 “That doesn't match with the vibe the store has, you know?” No, Taro did not shriek nor did he fall from the ladder. Shut up.

 Whether or not Taro wanted to disagree with the little shit. The poster indeed clashed with his Insane Artist™ theme he is proud of…You can't blame him that his dad was an avid boy band fan in his youth, okay?

 Taro clutched the ladder with one trembling hand, the other pressed firmly over his chest as he tried to get his breathing under control. “First of all,” he said, his voice slightly higher than usual, “don’t sneak up on people when they’re on ladders.” Then began jabbing a finger at the teen’s direction as if it’ll hurt him if he tries hard enough.

“Didn’t sneak up,” Definitely-Kakashi replied, leaning casually against a bookshelf, hands in his pockets. His eyes crinkled to crescent shapes in amusement. “You were too busy committing a crime against interior design to notice me.”

 Taro pushed the urge to comically drop an anvil on him. But Definitely-Kakashi was right, the poster he not-so-carefully smacked on top of the hole screamed fan service with how most of the guys had their abs out and were wearing awful pastel clothing. Not like Taro will admit his wrongs.

 “Shut up.” He snapped after ungracefully climbing down the ladder. Glaring at the little shit that is a half a head shorter than he is. “It's temporary.”

 “Temporary?” Mused Definitely-Kakashi, tone light, “it's more like you're trying to revive their fan club. Hey, are you more of a Kaito fan or Nazuma fan?” 

 Without thinking, Taro shot back, “I’m a fan of your mom .”

 Absolute silence.

 “Maa,” Definitely-Kakashi raised his hand to the back of his neck, a gesture so familiar it felt like a punch to his stomach. “But I don't have a mom?” 

 The silence stretched on, longer than it should have.

 He glanced at the old boy band poster, the ridiculous, glossy faces grinning back at him, and shook his head. Seriously, what the hell is going on at this point?

Taro sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, and muttered, “Truce?”

 Mismatched eyes crinkled back at him, “truce.” A pause, “does that mean I got another discount?”

 Pointing towards the door, Taro used his most flattest tone he could, “get out.”

———————

 Taro fiddled with his lighter nervously, he's already been dreading the past-life-reincarnation-bullshit talk with Definitely-Kakashi and find out what the fuck is he doing in My Hero Academia out of all places. He has to take the shot now before he chickens out, again .

 “So,” he started, sounding as calm as possible, “Konoha, amiright?” what the FUCK does that even mean , Taro?! You stupid—

 Meanwhile not so far from him, Definitely-Kakashi froze mid-step with his fingers brushing over the spine of a book. He didn’t even try to turn to Taro when he finally responded with, “what about it?” His tone is neutral and laid back. Fucking ninjas.

 Taro absent-mindedly clinked his nails into the glass case of his lighter, already regretting bringing up this topic. “Well, you know…big trees, the whole teamwork is the dreamwork…thing.” A pause. “Ring any bell?”

 Definitely-Kakashi finally graces Taro with his masked face. The silence stretched. Kid was just looking at him now, and Taro swore he could feel the weight of something unspoken in the air. It was unnerving and he wanted out.

 At last, Definitely-Kakashi hummed, then said “You talk like you've been there.”

 Taro hesitated. “Been there? Well,” another pause. He cannot possibly say he's from another universe where Naruto was an anime, Taro is not looking forward to giving a guy existential crisis. He could always backpedal, laugh it off, pretend he was just making conversation—or he could lie.

 He lied.

 Raising an eyebrow like it was obvious while he's screaming bloody murder on the inside. “Of course I’ve been there. I live there, well uh, lived .”

 Taro regrets his fucking life for the second time.

 More silence that Taro honestly has gotten used to after how many times he had to deal with the kid. Said kid is also definitely thinking 101 ways to murder him now. Good bye, cruel world.

  Sheepishly, he gestured towards the mural on the wall like a madman. “Konoha.” said Taro, as if it'll help his case. “Yes.” Oh my fucking God just shut up .

 “The Sharingan.” Definitely-Kakashi—or is it just Kakashi now?—said lightly, followed by another yet unbearably long silence, probably considering his next approach in a calculating manner.

 Fucking finally Kakashi—because how could this not be Kakashi—shattered it, “are you an Uchiha?”

 Taro bit the bottom of his lips so hard it might bleed. With a sigh, he leaned back against the counter, casually crossing his arms as though this conversation wasn’t spiraling into the realm of “oh god, I’ve just made everything worse .”

 For a few seconds, Taro then fired the shot “What if I am? Hatake .” 

The words hung in the air. Kakashi didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. He was too damn good at this—whatever this was. Taro had no idea if he was buying it or if he was already seeing through the charade that was collapsing as they're speaking.

 He just stood there, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Taro could almost see the gears turning in his head. It's kinda hilarious how Taro is making the guy work filling in the blanks that are non-existent in the first place, but also not hilarious if this is going to be a threat to his peaceful life.

 Kakashi’s expression didn’t change, but he was nodding weirdly enough, then continued with a “You’re an Uchiha civilian, then.”

 That threw Taro for a loop. “Uh... what?”

 “You don’t move like a shinobi,” Kakashi clarified, voice calm but edged with something that might drive Taro into an early grave. “Not trained. You’re clearly not a ninja. Which means you must’ve been a civilian. Maybe even died before the massacre.” His eyes that were scrutinizing him had darted to stare into Taro’s very soul, “nobody would draw that man on their wall as if he never killed them.”

 Taro froze, his entire body tensing as Kakashi’s words sank in. His mouth went dry, and he had to fight the urge to glance at the mural again. No one else would draw that man? His mind immediately raced back to the tiny red and black abstract of Itachi in the corner he oh so lovingly painted, shit why must he be such a fanboy?!

  Think. What would an actual reincarnated Uchiha civilian say here? He wasn’t sure how to answer that. He hadn’t really thought about it. After all, in his previous life he wasn’t really around for the massacre but did watch how it went; though if he was an Uchiha … he wasn’t exactly sure when he would’ve died either. Would it have been before the massacre, like Kakashi said? Fuck it, Taro will snatch that into his Uchiha Backstory.

 “What…massacre?” Taro slowly tested the water, putting up a facade where he looked beyond devastated—y’know, wide eyes and unsteady breathing. He had too many panic attacks in his previous life to not execute it perfectly.

 Kakashi winced, almost looking a little bad for bringing up such a tragedy. “Ah, right. You didn't know.” 

 “I—uh—don’t. Yep.” He swallowed hard, nodding to himself on how good he's acting currently. Man, he should audition for a film.

 Then, Kakashi continued, quieter now—regretful, Taro gave him some points for actually caring. “The Uchiha massacre. Itachi… killed everyone in the clan, except for Sasuke. He…he left Konoha after everything.”

 They both glanced at Taro’s stupid Itachi painting for a moment. Yep, there's the mass murderer right there. “Oh…” Stammering, “Was—was he… caught?”

Kakashi’s face darkened. “No.” He shook his head. “Itachi was killed by Sasuke, years later. Sasuke… couldn’t get over it, I guess. He wanted revenge. Itachi... Itachi never had the chance to explain why he did it.”

 Taro didn't say anything for a while. Hell he doesn't know what to say after that explanation. Should he start breaking down or something? Fuck no, that will be cringe.

 “I, I need a moment.” Yeah, get the fuck out, Hatake. Be guilty for what you've done, little shit. Taro needed his alone time to bash his head onto the counter, preferably repeatedly. Also cover up Itachi later.

 Kakashi glanced at him with worry, wow he’s actually worried? Now Taro’s the one feeling like the bad guy here. “You’ve got a lot of questions, don’t you?”

 Taro met his gaze, unsure how to respond. “Maybe. But…I don't think I want to hear or know anymore than I should. Y’know?” A deep breath. “So uhm, I guess I…I should process this.” He doesn't even have the idea what this actually is for the longest time, how the hell is he going to process shit in the first place. “Would you be so kind as to uhh, leave?”

 Wait, he forgot to— “what's your name?” Taro asked, almost ready to jump over the counter if the teen tried to fuck off ninja style. “I mean, I know who you are—What I'm saying is. This life’s name.” 

 Kakashi eyed Taro from his shoulder; then, a smile tugged his lips beneath the dark mask he wore. 

“Shinsou Hitoshi.”

 What in the fuck ? Oh dang he left already. Rude—Wait SHIT WHAT SHINSOU????

———————

 Shinsou—Kakashi—Hatake—Hitoshi, whatever the fuck his name is now. Has been an almost daily encounter since then. He wondered if the guy is just lonely and Taro is the first person that he can relate with the reincarnation bullshitery.

 When Taro washes his face on the sink, he takes a few seconds to look at himself. And yeah, no wonder Kakashi—Hitoshi— Katoshi ? Thought he was an Uchiha. Straight onyx hair and brown eyes so deep it could pass as black from afar. The only difference was Taro is not pasty as hell. Shit, he's a discount Uchiha.

 He sighed, if he was going to lie he needs to at least commit to the bit.

 So he created a whole backstory for this fake Uchiha. It's starting to feel like an OC, and God he doesn’t need to be reminded of his old creations from his past life. Out, out all of you stupid memories.

 Uchiha civilian, parents dead, never activated the Sharingan, had friends before Katoshi, alright what's next?

 Ugh, what if Katoshi asked how he died? Taro didn't even remember exactly how ███████ died, it’s like gods decided to pluck him from his miserable life only to put him on a more downright horrible life. Really, he was content being a mid guy and never consented to participate in this crisis.

 Exiting the bathroom, Taro did his routine; open up the shop, do inventory, restock shelves and all that jazz. He ripped the stupid boy band poster and filled the stupid hole with putty his nextdoor neighbour generously let him have. Carry his remaining paint then cover up the mass murderer; now there's a weird white void in the middle though. Taro is tempted to draw Madara (can’t blame him, he's hot) but he changed that silly thought into the beautiful man that he is: Madara Warring Era.

 What were you expecting except for said hot man?

 Anyways, Taro has probably been staring at the painting for an unhealthy amount of time. Because he got startled by Katoshi’s mop of gravity defying silver hair.

 “Yo.” Greeted him with one hand in the air while the other deep inside his pocket. Typical Kakashi behaviour.

 Taro is somewhat not used to seeing him without his UA uniform, the first thing he was about to mention was "wow you look weird not wearing your uniform” but what came out instead was, “Why are you not at school?”

 Katoshi blinked, then for the second time. “It's Saturday?”

 Taro blinked too, glancing at the dusty calendar on the wall. Sure enough, it was Saturday. Of course, it was. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, muttering, “Right, Saturday. Guess I lost track of time.”

Katoshi stepped closer to the wall, his sharp narrowed eyes locking onto the fresh paint. His expression shifted, faintly curious. “So, you decided to replace Itachi with… Madara? Out of all people?”

Taro crossed his arms, leaning into a more relaxed stance to cover up his nervous state. “Yeah, figured I’d upgrade to the OG badass. Got a problem with that?”

Katoshi tilted his head, probably thinking why Taro is stupid. “Not really. Just wondering why you’d paint him. Seems… odd.”

 Taro cursed internally, realizing too late that maybe painting a second Uchiha on the wall wasn’t his smartest move, not like he was ever smart—He doesn't know who to paint okay?! It's near the Sharingan so it would be weird if it's a random ass shinobi from Kiri instead. 

 He shrugged, playing it cool—just like how you practiced it, Taro. “He’s got a nice aesthetic and cool hair. Thought he’d match the vibe of the shop better than, y’know, the guy who apparently murdered a whole clan.”

Katoshi didn’t laugh. He didn’t even crack a smile. Instead, he just slouched even more; his expression unreadable. “Madara’s not exactly the poster boy for peace and love either. You’ve got a thing for traitors?”

 “Maybe I do have a thing for maniacs. What are you going to do about it?” Taro tried to counter though now it made him sound like another crazy person.

 “Start being careful around you if you’re holding a knife, I guess.” Katoshi did not even hesitate with that response.

 Taro blinked, then again, then for the third time. Staring at Katoshi as if he’d just grown a second head spontaneously. “What the fuck does that even mean.”

 Katoshi’s eyes twitched, ever so slightly, into what could almost be mistaken for him smiling under that mask. “You might stab me in the back.”

 It took Taro a moment—one infuriating moment—to process that, and when he did, he groaned out loud. “Oh my god. Oh my fucking god.” He rubbed his face in his hands, wishing he could scrub away the realization. “That’s because I said I like traitors, isn’t it? You’re calling me one.” Another moment for Taro to sputter here. “That—did—wh—did, you really just made a joke?” A horrible one too.

 “Maa,” a beat passed. “Maybe.” Then the teen tilted his head. “Was it funny?”

 “Fuck. No!” Taro felt his lips twitching, betraying his own words. “It's terrible! I swear to god if you start cracking up dad jokes now—”

 “I would, but I like living. Y’know?” Shrugged him, definitely asking to get punched, though that'll only prove his point.

 Taro found himself muttering a string of curses under his breath before shooting a half-hearted glare. “When’s the next gig then, Mr. Comedian?” 

 “Oh, I’m on tour 24/7 which means… right now o’clock at Yamada's. Congrats, you got the front seat.” Announced him, mismatched eyes narrowing to crescents—seriously, this fucking guy is smiling under that stupid mask.

 Taro’s smile immediately fell after hearing his answer, groaning for the hundredth time, “I fucking hate you.” His eyes focused on the way Katoshi’s shoulder faintly shakes, this bitch thinks his suffering is hilarious.

 For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Taro forced a cough and gestured to the freshly painted Madara that had been glaring at their shared idiocy for the past ten minutes. “Anyway, think that the boogeyman of Konoha would approve of my artistic skills?”

 Katoshi didn’t laugh, his expression had already changed to a neutral-ish “are you for real” kind of expression before shrugging. “He’d probably burn the whole shop down for the audacity.”

 “Yeah, well,” Taro said, snorting. “Good thing he’s not here, huh?”

———————

 It was supposed to be a normal, calming day where Taro satisfies his caffeine addiction and does not think of anything involving life choices. Serving customers, watching people come and go. Y’know, a day where nothing bad ever happens.

 Just his luck for his shop to get robbed and now Taro is at a knife point.

 Alright so, rewind a little on how the fuck Taro got into this situation.

 Taro heard the door opening, it was loud by itself despite not having any bell installed. The man who walked in was dressed in black, with a hood that obscured most of his features; but Taro could see red strands peeking out from it. Taro didn't immediately clocked the guy as suspicious; no judging the book by its cover and all. Maybe it was the way he scanned the shelves, or how his hand kept hovering onto a specific place on his body that made Taro immediately know something’s off.

 Taro wiped his hands on his apron and straightened up. "Can I help you?" he asked, trying to sound casual. He swears to god if this is a robbery—

 The man suddenly turned, his red eyes cold—not nervous, definitely experienced. Without warning, he lunged toward the counter. "Give me the cash," the guy growled, pulling a knife from his pants. Taro was fucking right about the robbery.

His mind began scrambling for a way out of this mess. He had no time to reach for the phone or call for help. The knife glinted in the dim light of the shop, and panic started to rise in his chest.

"Hey, hey, no need to get all stabby," Taro said, trying to keep his voice steady. Before he could even stop himself, words spilled out without any single thought put into it. "You know, this is kinda weird don't you think? Who robs a bookshop for cash? Shouldn’t you be like, targeting a bank or something? Maybe seven eleven too—there’s one two blocks from here—”

"Shut up," he spat, so Taro shuts up. "Do you want to keep your mouth intact or not?”

 He held up his hands defensively, attempting to defuse the situation. That would be too easy though. His life has never been because what comes out next from his big mouth was,

 "Look,” Taro breathes out. “I don’t—I don't have much money on me. I run a bookshop, not a vault. But hey, you want some rare manga? I got some pre-quirk era stuff in the back—”

 In a split second, the robber lashes out. Taro didn't have a chance to back away or dodge or do whatever fuck he needed to do to not get stabbed. He got stabbed anyway.

 The blade was caught into his side, just below his rib. Taro watches in morbid awe as red blooms into his favourite sweater; hot searing pain brought him back to reality as the guy pulled his knife back.

 His legs gave up on him immediately, crumpling like a discarded ragdoll. Taro felt his chest shaking? Oh, he's laughing. What a fool he is to laugh in the face of death.

 Not his first time to do so though… huh, not his first time? What does that mean? He doesn't remember how he died in his previous life… no, no . He does; Ta—███████ remembers. He remembers laughing in an alley, he thinks. Yeah, alone and fucking freezing as his guts kept spilling out from his body after a dude shanked his ass—God must’ve thought it's funny or ironic for him to die in the same way again.

 Clutching at his side, spine digging into the wall behind him. Taro lolled his head and saw his cash register has already been raided by the robber who probably had fucked off by now. He grits his teeth, stopping the bubbling glee stuck in his throat since laughing will aggravate the injury.

  Through the haze of pain, a familiar voice called out to him.

 “Oi!” Was it Katoshi? Taro could care less anymore.

 “Yo.” He greeted back and giggled hysterically again, can't help it; he's a dying man, let him have his last laugh. Taro blinked then Katoshi’s already by his side, checking his wound—practiced and careful.

 The bleeding wouldn't stop. Taro could feel his consciousness slipping, the edges of his vision darkening as his body screamed at him to just let go.

 He could hear muffled voices, distant sounds—wow, he already can't hear shit anymore that was fast. The sharp sting on his side burned, but it was almost soothing compared to the way his body was trying to shut down.

 “Yamada, Yamada? Hey, stay with—” Katoshi’s urgent voice soon escaped his ears again; Taro could faintly feel hands pressing against his side, staunching his bleeding—

 Taro thatsnothisname doesn't—couldn't? Listen anymore. He's so damn fucking tired and he's one hundred percent sure it's because of the blood loss or something, he's not a doctor. Man, fuck this shit and fuck this stupid fucking life—

 “Uchiha, oi. ”

 His body jolted, the sharpness of Katoshi’s voice slammed him back into consciousness. Eyes fluttering open—Taro couldn't see shit either through his lashes; Katoshi's a weird abstract of silver, black and yellow. It's a little bit funny.

 Taro parted his lips to weakly hum, “Hm? Hatake?”

 Katoshi gave him a sharp look, his hand not easing its pressure on the wound. “Don’t start with me. Focus.”

 “Focusing is overrated,” Taro mumbled, his voice slurring slightly. Woo, it's getting woozy out here.

 Before Katoshi could retort, Taro’s gaze shifted and froze. Standing a few feet away beyond his counter, framed in the shop’s doorway, was Eraser fucking head or Aizawa or dadd— cough . The man’s dark eyes flicked between them, his phone placed near his ear.

 “Wait.” Taro blinked, forcing himself to focus despite his earlier comment. “Why the fuck is Eraserhead here?”

 “Are you even listening to yourself? He's a hero.” Katoshi sighed, his voice clipped. “He was already near the scene, you're lucky.”

 “Lucky, huh?” Taro coughed weakly, the motion sending fresh pain through his side. “Remind me to buy a lottery ticket.”

 The teen gave him another glare, lacing his next sentence with a warning, “and don't talk, you're going to only waste your energy.”

 Taro tore his gaze from Aizawa’s silhouette to the ceiling that stretched far and tall, the edges of his vision distorting while the exchange between Katoshi and Aizawa continued on without him, what a way to make a guy feel special.

 Aizawa only stared at them bantering, his eyes narrowing when he looked over the bloodied bandage Katoshi was holding. “The guy’s still loose?”

“Yeah,” Katoshi confirmed, tone grim. “He ran before I could grab him. Doubled back, I think. I couldn’t leave Yamada like this.”

 Aizawa nodded curtly, his expression hardening. “I’ll deal with it. You stay with him.” If it's allowed, Taro would squeal right here right now.

 A choked gasp escaped his lips, causing Katoshi to be alarmed as he tried his damndest to pull Taro from the brink of death. “Hey, hey. You're not dying on me. Uchiha.”

 “What if I am? Hatake .” Taro snickered, referencing that conversation because he's a little shit. Katoshi was not amused.

 “Don't,” his voice is tight, the same with his expression. “You're not funny.”

 “Neither are you. Mr. Comedian.” Was the last thing Taro remembered saying back to the teen before darkness rapidly tugs at the edges of his vision.

 At least this time he won't die alone.

———————

 When Yamada Taro died at four, an impostor wearing his face woke up with a curse on his lips fifteen years later.

 “Fuck…” Wise words, Taro. Eyes blinked open sluggishly, a heavy grogginess clouding his thoughts. The bright white of the hospital room assaulted his eyes with its searing glory; then as if god had it out for him, the antiseptic smell hit him next—all sharp and sterile, ugh. For a moment he wished he could sink back into the blessed nothingness he’d been in before and never wake up.

 Somebody yelped followed by clattering? besides him. That caught his attention, Taro turned his head slowly at the noise to find a nurse with mouth hanging open.

 “You're awake?” She stammered. Scrambling to pick up a metal tray that fell just now.

 He didn't even hesitate to say, “Girl, I’m not even here, I'm just a hallucination.” 

…

 Slowly Taro closed his eyes and silently wished to throw himself off the hospital building for the second time since he was four. “What time is it?” He asked with a shaky grin after the silence.

 “Not time for you to wake, that's for sure.” she sighed, hurriedly changing the IV bag as she spoke, “You just went through surgery and lost too much blood; the sedation should’ve kept you under for at least a few hours.” 

 “Huh.” A beat passed. “Guess I'm just built differen—” Then memories starts flooding his brain uninvited, hitting him at once—he remembers; the knife, the redhead robber— the blood —then Katoshi screaming at him, and fucking Eraserhead entering the scene to add more fuel to the fire. Most importantly though he remembered himself , his death— fuck , what kind of cosmic joke is this? Death by shanking twice would be embarrassing. Taro is glad Katoshi was there to save the day; I mean, the little shit is a hero in training, right?—and before that he was a war hero himself, hell .

 His chest heaved—full shaking at this point as he let out a breathy soundless laughter, lips twitching upwards. Taro couldn't stop it—just, everything was too absurd for him to even begin to think about it—no, Taro never liked thinking, it only brought him misery. So he laughed and laughed—

 Meanwhile the nurse was standing there, staring as if he’d just lost it. He probably did.

 “Sorry,” he coughed awkwardly as an attempt to kill his own laughter. Looking away with a grimace. “Just remembered something real funny.”

 The nurse however, doesn't look convinced. Shaking her head and muttering about trauma and walking off to give him space.

 Oh, the room is spinning again. Did she give him another dose? Hell yeah, druuuuu—

 Taro blacked out.

———————

 Man, the food is shit. As expected from hospitals. Does his insurance cover the bill, by the way? Fuck, no, no. Stop thinking dumbass.

 There's a knock on his door, pulling him out from his own thoughts he wanted out from, thank god. Taro didn’t get to answer because the guy himself Shinsou Hitoshi—Hatake Kakashi— Katoshi casually slinks in without even being granted permission firstly.

 “Maa, you decent?” 

 Taro grimaced, his lips straightened to a thin line. “Define… decent.”

 The teen snorted, stepping closer to Taro with his hands in his pockets. “Conforming to the recognized standard of propriety, good taste, modesty, etc; as in behavior or speech.” 

 The hum of air conditioning was the only thing filling in the room’s silence.

 His eyes narrowed to a glare as Taro forced his mouth to not quirk up, the effort was half-hearted at best as. “You're not funny.” 

 “Yeah, I'm hilarious.” 

 Before Taro could retort, the door creaked open again, revealing Aizawa?! —Taro barely resisted the urge to ogle at the man—Looking as tired and intimidating as always, his scarf hanging loosely around his neck. Now Katoshi is eyeing Taro weirdly, mind yo’ business ninja boy.

Taro’s heart eyes dispersed before him as his gaze darted between the two of them in confusion. "What the hell? Why are you here?”

 The pro-hero raised a brow, crossing his arms in a way that reminded Taro of a disappointed parent. “It could be maybe because someone decides to rig an explosive into their savings, somehow.” 

 Taro blinked, then it hit him straight in the face. Oh, oh shit —he'd intentionally made sure to create a fucked up countermeasure on one of his bills just in case he ever got robbed. He'd thought of it during his early days of owning the bookshop and crippling paranoia. didn't expect for it to actually hold up and do its very last job.

 “Right…” he winced slightly at the memory. “It was my quirk, it—uh… when I draw stuff it’ll just uh, explode?” explained Taro, shrugging. “I know how to make it trigger at specific conditions—that one was, I think, if somebody other than me touches…it then well. Kaboom.” He made sure to mime the explosions with his hands.

 The most deadpan to ever deadpan is fixed on Aizawa’s face, not even impressed in the slightest when he heard Taro’s explanation. "The police got a call about an explosion the night when you were admitted to the hospital. Showed up and found the robber’s apartment burnt and scattered with singed money. You’re lucky no one was hurt—badly; but your art caused enough trouble as it is."

 Taro hesitantly chuckled. "Oh. Well…” a stiff shrug. "Honestly, I forgot all about that. Am I going to get fined…?”

 Aizawa sighed and said, “we’ll see,” his tone flat. “The police have already reported it as an accident. But someone has to pay for the damages and hopefully, you won't be blamed for the robber’s stupidity.”

 Taro’s face scrunched up into a displeased one; already imagining the worst-case scenario: fines, legal trouble, maybe even a hefty bill to replace the robber’s apartment—which immediately made him turn to god and pray he wouldn't be expected to pay. But before he could get too lost in his spiraling thoughts, he noticed the silent stare that Katoshi was still giving him.

 “Why are you staring at me like that?”

 He didn't respond immediately, just leaning closer to Taro as he props his arm against the bed-rail-thing as a resting place for his chin. “Just thinking about you.” From afar Aizawa choked on air.

 Well this is fucking awkward. “What.”

 There's a slight furrow to Katoshi’s brows; he probably realized by now how wrong the sentence was. “No—not that , I mean. For a civilian your life sure is a mess.”

 Ooooh… Thank god . “Yeah, well.” He scoffed, “I hope this kind of thing won't turn into an Average Tuesday™ for me.”

 “Make sure of that.” Aizawa glanced at him, his expression scrutinizing since day one. “You’d better be more careful next time. Kid.”

 “Can’t promise that, Mr. Hero. Especially in this economy.” He flashed him a lazy grin as Aizawa shook his head, muttering shits about problem children as he exited the room. Hey, this kinda feels like déjà vu.

 …

 Taro side-eyed the little shit ninja man who hadn't made an effort to leave alongside his teacher and was far too comfortable sitting in the tacky hospital chair right beside his bed. “Why are you still here?” he asked, voice flat.

 “Maa, am I not allowed to hang out with my friend for a bit?” 

 Giving the teen his most unimpressed look for a moment, Taro then arched his brow. “We're friends?” he scoffed, “since when.”

 “Is that really how to talk to someone who just saved you?” Katoshi mimicked his raised brow and materialised a book from thin air and sheer will— oh my fucking god not again.

 “Is,” stuttered Taro from disbelief and exasperation, “is that erotica—?”

 Tilting his head, Katoshi flashes the 90 percent naked women on the cover which immediately causes Taro to reel back from genuine fear. “What do you think?”

 Taro groaned, sinking back into his pillow. “Get out.”

 “No, I don't think I will.”

 “Somebody is going to scrape my disfigured corpse from the sidewalk and it’ll be your fault.”

 The room is deadly silent.

 Taro hissed through his teeth, lips quivering nervously to a smile. “Too far?”

 Katoshi blinked slowly, putting away his erotica. “Nah you're good.” Taro sighed out the breath he's holding.

———————

 “Also, Eraserhead’s my foster father, and is happily married. I saw how you look at him, Uchiha.”

 “He's your WHAT?!— ”

———————

  Yamada’s Corner is back in business! Only now the current owner is stuck in a wheelchair for a few weeks and will be far crankier as he recovers. Why is he not staying at the hospital then? Look, if he decides to take the time to rest, there won't be any money for him to take from his bank account. Now that he realizes it, Taro should probably start finding a sort of safety net he can rely on if shit hits the fan next time. Hopefully he won't procrastinate.

 He's glad the space behind the counter is wide enough to fit in a wheelchair and not so glad when he finds his ass can barely get up to reach the upper parts of the shelves without his right side screaming at him. Fuck you too.

 Not to mention since that stabbing incident, Taro is starting to get haunted by his past life for some dang reason. Waking up in a cold sweat after a dream he can never remember, or was out of it all day as if he’d been on autopilot. Wow, can his life get any more shittier?

 Then one day, when Taro was watching the silver haired teen that has made it mandatory to loiter in his shop and reading porn that he does not sell right at his face, as per usual. He catches himself blurting out, “Hey, do you remember how you died?” 

 Katoshi didn't respond immediately, letting the sentence marinate for a while as Taro squirms. “Why do you ask?” Fucking finally.

 “Dunno, it just seemed unreal to imagine the cool and badass Copycat Ninja—Kakashi no Sharingan—to, well… pass away?” Great. Perfect. His bullshit sounded way too rude. Nice going, Taro.

The teen batted his eyelash. “I'm flattered you think highly of me.” Nevermind, he takes the bad feeling back.

“Don't push your luck, Hatake.”

 To his surprise, Katoshi seemed to actually consider telling. His index finger tapping onto the edge of the book, each tap only increases the gnawing curiosity he had since the first time they met. Who wouldn't? Especially if you found out you've been living in a crossover your whole entire second life. Wild.

 “Maa… classified.” Little shit —

  Taro felt his eye twitching. “Classified? Come on man, it's not like you're a shinobi in this world.”

 “Old habits die hard.” Katoshi smirked faintly, turning the page of his book with an unbothered swagger. “And some things are better left unsaid.”

 “Better left—are you kidding me?” Taro threw his arms up. “You can’t just dangle that in front of me and walk away.”

 “I’m not walking away. I’m sitting right here,” quipped him back.

 “If I'm not stuck on this thing—” Taro gripped the armrest of his wheelchair to emphasize. “I can and will strangle you.”

 “Excuses, excuses.” He waved his hand dismissively.

 “You're insufferable,” Taro groaned, slouching back in defeat.

 “And yet, you keep inviting me to your shop.”

 “Invite—?!” the AUDACITY of this guy— “ Bitch , you loiter! That's not the same thing!”

 “Potato tomato.”

 The counter would have collapsed right there and now from how hard Taro bashes his head on it. Thankfully it didn't give up on him, yet.

———————

 Hitoshi eyed the…pieces of paper with interesting designs in Yamada’s hand that uncannily resembled fūinjutsu from back home.

 “What is this?” He arched his brow, trying to make sense.

 Yamada grinned, his eyes glinting with dripping mischief. “Think of it as paper bombs.” What the fuck. “Y’know, being a hero is a dangerous job. So like, another trick up your sleeve would be good for you.”

 “I made it so it only works for you. Rigged it up with your voice. Pretty cool, huh?” That piqued his interest despite the creeping horror.

 Yamada then continued, "don't use it in front of Eraserhead, though. He’ll know it's mine, and he’ll—well, let’s just say people won't stop finding my body.” For some reason he sighed dreamily.

 Ignoring whatever that was just now, he hesitantly asked, “...How does it work?” Barely can help but let a spark of excitement coursed in his chest as he weighed the idea of having a bomb out of all things in his arsenal.

 “You just gotta tap it twice first then say the magic word ‘kaboom, baby’ and boom it did!”

 For a moment, Hitoshi just stared at him. “Seriously?” 

 “I am! Y’know it's hard to find an obscure enough word. Be glad I didn't make the command in gen alpha language or something.” Hitoshi doesn't know what that is, but okay.

 Hitoshi blinked, then let out a quiet, reluctant laugh. It was stupid, but... actually kind of fitting. His lips twitched upward despite himself. "You’re insane."

 “Maybe," Taro said, unfazed. "But you'll thank me when you’re blowing stuff up in style.”

 “Alright, alright.” He took the papers from Taro, slipping it into his pocket. “I’ll admit it's kind of cool.”

 And Taro beamed. “That’s what I like to hear! Go out there and wreak havoc! Wait, no, you're a hero—”

 Hitoshi rolled his eyes, smiling underneath his mask. He can't wait to cause more headaches in the future.

———————

  Uchiha, Uchiha, Uchiha…

 The name is somewhat of a curse to Shouta’s mind; for the longest time he wondered why it was so impossible and irritating to feign ignorance. A splinter lodged deep into his brain with each thought about it drove him a little madder.

  Pentagonal rock carved carefully with unfamiliar names reminiscent of a gravestone, tucked and hidden inside Hitoshi's closet.

 Hatake Sakumo

 Namikaze Minato

 Uzumaki Kushina

 Nohara Rin

  Uchiha Obito

 Uzumaki Naruto

 Haruno Sakura

  Uchiha Sasuke

 Uchiha… Hatake…

 Those names… they meant nothing to Shouta, but to Hitoshi it's everything. And for some reason, one Yamada Taro was involved in all of it.

Yamada, a man who was as average as they came. The kind of ordinary that didn’t just fade into the background but practically begged to be overlooked. The kind of man you wouldn’t think twice about—until his shop got robbed, laughing as if the idea of his insides spilling out was the funniest shit ever, alive enough to end up on a hospital bed and promptly earning a note regarding his mental health from a concerned nurse.

 He was supposed to be a civilian with no apparent ties to whatever Hitoshi was hiding inside that head of his. His background was clean; Shouta had checked, just to be thorough. The guy had no military history, one quirk incident when he was a kid and another pending after the bombing case. He ran a bookstore, for god’s sake. And yet, Hitoshi knows him enough to visit him in the hospital, to bicker, knows him enough to call him by some cryptic name— Uchiha— and in turn, Hatake.

 “Where does a bookshop owner fit into a child soldier ring?”

 Shouta had visited him at the hospital alongside Hitoshi with the excuse of discussing a certain explosive incident. Listening to the man confessing to rigging a bomb on one of his bills as a counter against thievery… Shouta now can see this man wasn't just the unassuming civilian he came to think of, no.

 This man was insane.

 After the eventful visit, Shouta is painfully aware of the thing that gnawed at him most: How Hitoshi looked at Yamada.

 Reverence. Familiarity. Trust .

 Hitoshi didn’t trust easily that was clear. He barely trusted Shouta nor Hizashi, even after years of living under the same roof—Trust wasn't something Hitoshi gave away freely like a mass produced commercial brochure.

 But with Yamada, it was different, their trust came from another place—it's as if they've known each other for years .

 Except that wasn't possible.

 Three weeks ago, Shouta remembered Hitoshi brushing off a scolding for being late for dinner; expecting another absurd excuse from the teen, only for him to flippantly mention he’d been at a friend's place . At the time Shouta had been caught off guard, Hitoshi wasn't the type to throw the word friend around and Shouta had chalked it off as progress—maybe even pride at his son making connections.

 Hizashi who overheard was gobsmacked—almost dropping his plate—and excitedly began to interrogate Hitoshi on said friend’s identity at the dinner table.

  "Oh my god, Hitoshi, you have a friend?! Who is it? What’s their name? How did you meet? Are they in your class?"

 "Can you not?" Hitoshi muttered, stabbing at his food with the kind of irritation only a teenager could muster.

  “But, it's a friend! You should invite them to dinner sometime!” 

  “I'll introduce you if it matters that much. ” Hizashi practically beamed at that, while Shouta let it slide and did not prod.

 Now he regretted not to.

 Shouta’s chest tightened with unease. Three weeks. That was all it had taken for Hitoshi to look at Yamada like he was someone irreplaceable. Someone who belonged in his life.

 But how? And why?

 The questions churned in Shouta’s mind, each one more unsettling than the last. Whatever the answer was, it lay somewhere on Hitoshi’s mess of a past and those damn names that haunted his every thought.

 “Just who are you, Hitoshi…Yamada…?” Shouta murmured, rubbing at his face tiredly as he notices a horrible headache creeping in like an old friend.

———————

 On a random day, Shouta found himself standing in front of Yamada’s Corner . Hands clenched at his sides, knuckles turning white from the sheer pressure.

 A mural his mind supplied, it’s an explosion of details despite the minimalistic usage of color—red and black over the white background. His gaze was immediately drawn to a stylized mountain that reminded Shouta of Mount Rushmore, four enormous faces carved into its rocky surface—their expressions are stern and hold authority.

 And then there was the eye at the corner, right above a man Shouta cannot seem to put a finger on who.

Red, ringed, and marked with three black commas rotating in a hypnotic pattern. It was the same identical image as Hitoshi’s left eye— why did Yamada paint his son’s eye? That doesn't make any sense.

Shouta’s eyes swept the mural again, catching sight of something even stranger—a massive, snarling beast. Nine long tails lashed behind it; Maws stretched open with a floating sphere inside it? Eyes glowing red ominously over the darkened silhouette. It was odd that's for sure, unless it's a metaphor? But of what?

 Dread sets heavier on Aizawa’s guts as he notices directly below the mountain and centered—tying everything together. Loomed a spiral inside a stylized leaf, a symbol Shouta had seen too many times in Hitoshi’s mindless doodles to mistake for coincidence. 

 The symbol that had seemed like some distant, buried piece of his past.

 And now, it was here. Painted on a civilian’s wall innocently. As though it were nothing more than an artistic choice made by Yamada Taro, a man who supposedly ran a bookshop and minding his own business—how had Shouta missed this? It's only a few miles from his apartment, what the hell.

 “Yo, Eraserhead?” He stiffened, reluctantly tearing his gaze away from the mural as Yamada wheeled himself up beside him, a smile that didn't reach his eyes spread across his face as he greeted him.

 For a moment, he simply stared at Yamada, who seemed entirely, utterly oblivious to the storm brewing inside Shouta’s head. Yamada’s face was neutral and slightly pained—sitting uncomfortably in his wheelchair. The man looked like he barely had his life together, really, just like how it was back in the hospital.

 “Oh, were you looking at the mural?” His tone was casual, yet the slight panic in his eyes that was not amiss from Shouta betrayed it quickly. “Right, uhhh. It must be weird to see your foster son’s eye in it—but it was because I asked him if I could draw his eye. It just…looks very cool?” 

 Shouta’s eyebrow raised in disbelief, the words that were sputtered were almost like a rehearsed speech.

 He couldn’t decide if Yamada genuinely believed Shouta was too dull to not catch on to the bullshit or if he was telling the truth. "His eye," Shouta repeated, voice flat, trying to gauge the sincerity—or lack thereof—behind Yamada’s words.

 Yamada blinked, clearly missing the shift in tone, and gave a small, sheepish shrug interrupted by a regretful wince. "Yeah, you know, that weird eye of his. I always thought it had a really cool design, sooo when I got the chance, I asked him if I could put it in my mural. He was surprisingly fine with it, really.”

 Shouta doesn't know what to make of this entire thing while at the same time not wanting to intimidate the poor kid to an early grave. Yamada might be suspicious, but he's still only a civilian that doesn't deserve Shouta’s unwanted prodding.

So he chose to drop the topic. 

 “Right… I see.” said him, hesitantly nodding at Yamada—which almost immediately appeared to sigh in relief.

 “I didn't know you were the art type.” Shouta continued, pocketing his strained hands. 

 Yamada blinked then grinned with a chuckle quiet in his chest. “Yeah, well. Art’s my real passion; books are more like family’s business than anything.”

  Shouta glanced at Yamada again, slightly taken aback by the honesty in his tone and the sincerity in the man’s eyes—which only added the difficulty on discerning if he was just a rather-insane bookshop owner with too much time on his hands or if there was something darker hidden behind that facade.

 With that, Shouta lightly interrogated the man about his life. Why are you not in college? He dropped out, wasn't his style and such. In turn, Yamada asked trivial questions to the hero. Eye for an eye said him.

 After it was clear the two don't have any more questions to ask and are drifting to silence. Yamada bid his adieu nervously then wheeled inside his shop with slight struggle—Shouta had to step in to help.

 Yamada muttered a grateful, "Thanks," his voice quiet and subdued. Shouta nodded slightly, his eyes flicking back to the mural one last time from inside the shop.

 Swirls of red and black seemed to loomed larger now, as if it was mocking him with the answers Shouta has been dreading to know for years. Slowly, he closed his eyes, and thought to himself: n ext time.

———————

Bonus scene

 Taro barely heard the shop’s door opening, faint as shit—meaning it's probably Katoshi since he's a ninja and all that is mindful enough not to scare poor weak-hearted Taro with his lack of presence, charming.

 “Yo, Hitoshi?” He wheeled from behind the shelves to greet the teen—abruptly stopping to a halt as his mouth dropped in shock—baffled, befuddled and quite possibly, bamboozled.

  “Shisui?!” Taro almost shouted at the other blindfolded teen besides Katoshi who has a shit eating grin plastered on his face.

 “Hey there! I heard you're also an Uchiha?” asked him, like an asshole.

 Taro slammed his head onto a nearby wall with an audible crack. Cursing under his breath using his native language from his previous life, ignoring the puzzled stares—stare? From the two fuckers.

 After a few seconds of questioning the cruelty the universe waved off as a joke. Taro sucked in a breath, faced Katoshi and the unmistakable figure that is Uchiha Shisui or Shisui no Shunshin if you're being extra.

 “What the hell, okay—I’m just going to need some kind of explanation on what the fuck’s going on right nowasdndj—” Taro made a series of gibberish noises that oddly sounds like a keyboard smash vocalised at the end of his sentence to emphasize his current emotional state or something.

“Hitoshi—Kakashi’s here, and then you're here too?!” Shisui pointed at himself innocently, Taro resisted the urge to chuck a book at him. 

“You make it sound like it's bad.” Shisui pouted like a child, meanwhile Katoshi crossed his arms and hasn't yet contributed anything to this conversation.

 “I have no time to deal with you shinobi assholes!” He waved his arms around— mostly pointing—only to finally rest on his face once more. “What's next? Madara’s gonna show up for tea?” mumbled him, wishing for a more peaceful second life than this shit is.

…

 Taro should not have said that two days ago. He jinxed himself hard .

 Stood there leaning by his counter, scanning his surroundings—mostly the mural because Taro fucking painted him ; is a much younger looking Uchiha fucking Madara without his Rinnegan or stupid Hashirama face chest. 

But that wasn't the worst of it.

 No, can't really forget to mention a very alive Izuna who is standing too close for comfort. He had the near hyperventilating Taro’s shoulders in an unrelenting grip. Clearly, personal space is a foreign concept to him. Taro silently entertained the idea of him ramming his wheelchair into Izuna’s shins repeatedly for being such a bastard in his head.

 “—Do you know how to tell if one was touched by the gods, Taro-san?” Izuna look alike finished his riddle or whatever fuck it was, Taro never in his life heard it, but he needs to or else his cover is blown to smitherins. And then what? Public execution by fireball jutsu to the face?

 Taro swallowed back a bile before grinning shakily, gears turning in his head to form an answer—he knows the riddle is referencing the Sharingan, it's not hard enough to figure out. 

 “From their eyes?” his voice pitched an octave higher made him silently cringe inwardly.

 It looks like Taro was right based on Izuna’s reaction. His manic grin widened, stretching his face to an unhinged degree. His laughter echoed throughout the very empty shop in the most unsettling manner ever, it could be just Taro’s biased opinion though.

 “Exactly!” exclaimed the insane man, his grip tightening as if he’d just been handed the answer to the universe. “The eyes are the mark of the divine, of our blood— they show who carries the blessing and the curse, they are what defines us as Uchiha.”

 “Tell me, Taro-san… do you feel it? The fire coursing in your veins? The pull of your bloodline calling for you?” 

 Two bottomless pits bled red with tomoes sprouting to life before his deep browns. 

  Oh god, this is it. I'm in hell for sure.

Chapter Text

“Hatake.”

“Uchiha.”


Those are the names they used to each other when no one was looking. A little taste of their “home” which neither can reach, unless they're willing to die again. And, well, still… The chance of being reincarnated back into their “world” might as well be zero. The universe is that unpredictable, after all.


Such as our local reincarnator for example, does anyone expect him to get thrown into My Hero Academia? Nope. He was just a normal high schooler with two dollars to his name, graphite stained fingers, and a chronic case of procrastinating. Another forgettable face in a sea of other forgettable faces. Nothing special, nothing extraordinary…

  Unlike the other reincarnator.

 That guy? Yeah, his life was destined to be wacky. He was one of the protagonists! What do you expect? You know how authors love putting (and torturing) their characters in scenarios™.  Hell, there are dozens of stories of Hatake Kakashi getting isekai’d. This fandom is old and all, like the dog man himself. Don’t tell Kakashi I said that. That guy might be a sixteen year old now, but I’m pretty sure he could kill me with only a single finger. Damn shinobis.


Cough, anyways—huh? You’re asking me why I’m telling you this? 

 Well, to be honest. I don’t know myself. I was speaking about the names we call each other yet somehow it had turned into an existential crisis about our situation. My bad. Also sorry for switching to first person out of nowhere, that must be a tad confusing to read now that I think about it—

Snap!


“Uchiha.”


Taro blinked at the interruption, his narrowed gaze locking onto the little shit ninja man. How dare he snap his fingers in front of his very face. The audacity.


“The hell you want?”


“You zoned out.”

Kakashi—or rather, Katoshi in Taro’s head because it stucked—leaned back against the cheap plastic chair that is not Taro's—how the hell did he get it—His mismatched eyes carried the same deadpan judgment they always did, like he could see straight through whatever Taro was thinking. Which, considering his—canon Shinsou’s—quirk, isn’t too far-fetched.

 Taro clicked his tongue, looking away. “I was thinking.”

 “Congratulations,” the fifteen-year-old blandly celebrated, “for thinking. Didn't know you have it in you.”

“I'll skin you alive.”

“Sure you will.” A pause, there's a weird thoughtful expression on his face. “Won’t you tell the class what's going on in that head of yours?”

 Without missing a beat, he simply answered with a: “classified.” Throwback to when Katoshi didn't want to answer how old he was when he'd died because he’s petty as shit.

 A ghost of a smirk flickered across Katoshi’s lips beneath his mask, but it was gone before Taro could call him out on it.

 “Alright, alright,” he said, stretching his arms over his head. “Keep your secrets, Uchiha.”

 Taro didn’t react, keeping his expression blank.

 Because yeah, yeah he would. Alongside the metaphorical pile of bullshits he would bring to his grave.

———————

 Taro stared. Like, stare stare.

 Katoshi stood in the doorway of his tiny bookstore, silver hair catching the glow of the street lights outside. One violet eye, one crimson of a Sharingan, both watching him with mild amusement. His hands were raised in surrender, like Taro was holding him at gunpoint instead of wielding a slightly bent broom.

 Taro’s brain struggled to catch up. What.

 “Pardon?” He’d finally choked out.

 Katoshi sighed, dropping his hands. “You heard me.”

 Taro did. That was the problem.

 Christmas dinner. Christmas dinner.

 It was already bad enough that it was Christmas Eve, and Taro was stuck here, watching dust gather on bookshelves while the world outside twinkled in merry with Maria Carrey playing somewhere torturing some poor retail worker. Another Christmas alone. Two lonely Christmases in a row since his dad passed. He had expected this year to be third…

 But now, here was this man-turned-teenager, standing in his store like an uninvited salesman with an unexpected invite.

 “…You’re joking,” Taro finally said, incredulous.

 Katoshi tilted his head. “Nope.” 

 Taro gripped the broom tighter. “Are you sure you didn't get the wrong person?”

 Katoshi raised an eyebrow, “who else is named Yamada Taro within my very short friend list?”

 Taro opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Well it is a rather common name,” he retaliated. “And, friend list? You have other friends? Since when?”

  Katoshi sighed again, like he was already regretting this conversation. “Look, Eraserhead and Mic invited you for tomorrow's dinner. Homemade dinner. I was told to come and relay this message to you.”

 “You have my phone number, why didn't you just—I don't know. Text me? Like a normal person? Must you really spawn in front of my bookstore at—” he checked his watch. “—nine in the evening like some kind of fucking horror movie character?”

 Katoshi looked away, raising a hand to rub the back of his neck. “Maa… I got lost on my way to here? They told me this afternoon just for your information.”

 “Of course you’d somehow turn a 10 minute walk into a 10 hour walk.” Sighed Taro. He jabbed the broom handle forward because the teen absolutely deserved it. Katoshi stepped back just in time; expression as annoyingly calm as before but there is a hint of sheepishness.

 “Still—!” Taro continued, cutting off Katoshi’s attempt in defense. “It’s just—so sudden?! Why would they even invite me?!”

 Another shrug. “Ask my parents.”

 Taro groaned, dragging a hand down his face. The absurdity of the situation was starting to sink in. Christmas dinner. With the most unexpected family in existence. Yamada Hizashi and Aizawa Shouta invited him for dinner. And sent their cryptid of a son on his merry way to haul him there.

 His stomach twisted uncomfortably. Part of him wanted to refuse. He wasn’t used to this—wasn’t used to being thought of, wasn’t used to being included. It had been easier, before. Simpler. Just another empty Christmas, like the last one and like the one before that.

 “…If I say no, you’re just gonna drag me there anyway, aren’t you?” Taro muttered.

 Katoshi smiled, eyes closed oh so very innocently. “Yup.”

 Taro groaned again, but his grip on the broom slackened.

 “…Fine.”

 Maybe… maybe this year’s Christmas wouldn't be so bad.

———————

 Taro fucking hated this year’s Christmas.

 You wanna know why exactly—?

 “Don't move.”

 Taro fucking choked, that voice, that fucking voice—no way in hell—

 It might've been years since he'd last watched Naruto but the man was his favourite character of all time and it would be a betrayal to his inner fanboy to not know that this was—

 “Itachi—?”

 Oh fucking hell, why does his mouth always moved faster than his survival instinct?

 Taro swallowed hard, very much aware of the pressure of a glare burning a hole through his head. 

 “Okay. So. Uh… can we maybe… do this tomorrow? I kinda have something to attend to…I’m a busy man, you know?” He laughed, light, not nervous at all like there wasn't a murder weapon one movement away from tearing his jugular.

 The kunai didn’t waver nor did the middle schooler behind him despite Taro’s attempt at plea. Man this sucks.

 “What do you know of Konoha?”

 Holy shit. Was Itachi’s voice always this deep? He was supposed to be twelve, at least, since this is clearly ANBU Itachi (based on a glimpse he got before the kid decided to pull out his kunai). Seventh graders weren’t supposed to sound like they work a nine to five and worry about taxes.

 Taro, meanwhile, was trying very hard not to breathe too fast. Or move. Or you know, die.

 Because what the actual hell.

 First Katoshi, now this?!

 He should’ve known. Should’ve seen this coming. It wasn’t enough that Hatake Kakashi was here, alive, with his stupid gravity defying silver hair and Sharingan eye. Nooo, of course not. Because apparently, the universe took one look at Taro’s (supposed to be peaceful) life and decided, hey, wouldn’t it be funny if more Naruto characters showed up?

 And of course the first one had to be this guy. Future mass-murderer of his own clan and the very same reason why his little brother's psyche is fucked.

 Taro let out a slow, measured exhale. “Listen… uh, buddy,” he started, voice light and non-threatening, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

 The kunai pressed just a little closer.

 Yeah no. Abort, abort.

 His brain raced through possibilities. Think, think, think. Denial wasn’t gonna work—not when he had a ginamosaurus Naruto mural in his shop. Fuck. He should’ve taken it down earlier. But noooo, he just had to be sentimental, huh?

 Taro forced a nervous chuckle. “Uh. So. Hypothetically—just, definitely a very hypothetical question if you know what I mean—what would you do if I did know something?”

 “Then you will answer my questions,” he said, voice expectedly calm coming from a trained killer.

 Taro felt sweat slide down his neck. “…Right. Yeah. That’s fair.”

 The kunai remained steady at his throat, but Itachi finally moved his gaze—to the massive mural painted on the side of the bookstore.

 The painting…well, it had started as an impulse project, a desperate attempt to hold onto something familiar in this world full of absurdly strong teenagers (he saw enough manga panels to know that these poor poor high schoolers need a fat amount of therapy) and spandex-wearing adults. It was a comfort; references to his old world which doesn't contain only one show but several others. A piece of his past in which he mourned a long time ago yet still had clinged on the back of his cranium like some kind of fucked up nostalgia driven headcrab.

 Now? Now it was about to get him murked by a kid who barely passed his shoulders.

 Itachi’s crimson eyes traced over every detail—the Hokage Mountain, stopping conveniently at Minato (no space to draw Tsunade but god did it saved Taro and his dead-before-the-massacre lie), the Sharingan looming above the unmistakable figure of Madara Uchiha with arms crossed in front of his armored chest.

 Yeah. He should’ve really fucking put that shit down. After this dinner he will drown this store in white paint. Mark his words.

 Itachi spoke, voice quiet but edged with something sharp. “You know about Konoha. You know about Kyuubi.” His gaze flicked back to the mural, unreadable. “You even know of Madara.”

 “Well. He’s kinda hard to forget. Have you seen that hair? I wonder about his hair routine from time to time—” Oopsies he's rambling again. Okay, okay, shut the fuck up Taro.

 The teenage ANBU is probably not very amused right now. “Where did you learn this?”

 Taro could’ve lied. He really could’ve. He could’ve said he saw it in a vision or a weird prophetic dream—he could’ve pulled something out of his ass like how he did it with Katoshi.

 But… that's just pure bullshit that anyone can see through. Itachi would actually dropkick him if he even dared to try. And then Taro would find out of kunais were a perfect tool for lobotomy.

 So. That left him with one option.

 Taro sighed, feeling the warmth of humiliation creep up his ears as he prepared his rehearsed tragic Uchiha backstory™

 “Okay, uh… funny story,” he started, glancing anywhere but at Itachi who was still chilling behind him. “I, uh. I was an Uchiha.”

 Itachi didn’t react.

 Taro grimaced. “And I kinda died.”

 Silence.

 “…By shanking,” he added, because apparently, he was incapable of shutting up when nervous. “Dunno who did it, though. Was just strolling in the village and boom. Woke up as a toddler in this world.” Okay now he's just over sharing.

 He might’ve not been able to see Itachi from this position but he could hear the eyebrow raise from there; yeah it does sound fucking absurd doesn't it? 

 “You were an Uchiha.”

 “Yeah.”

 “And you died.”

 “Yep.”

 “In Konoha.”

 “That is where Uchihas tend to live.” Taro dryly remarked.

 Itachi remained eerily silent as he lowered the kunai, but Taro could practically hear the thoughts racing through his head. If he was still in the anime, there's bound to be an inner monologue somewhere, Death Note style maybe.

 As the blade finally isn't hovering inches anywhere from his body, Taro let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding onto all this time. Holy fucking shit.

 For a few moments, no words were spoken as they both stare each other down (with Taro already in a stance that screams “I will bolt once you start looking at me funny”); until, finally, the younger boy asked the million dollar question. That is:

 “Then why did you lie?”

 Taro did not flinch at all, no sir.

 Meanwhile Itachi continued, tone steady. “I am the clan heir—and you appear to have recognized me in a second—” Oh wait, Taro did blurt out Itachi’s name didn't he? “—You should have had no reason to hide the truth.”

 “Oh, I dunno,” he drew an excuse, putting his hands up in an exaggerated shrug before putting them on his waist. “Maybe because you popped up behind me with a knife? Have you ever considered that it might make someone a tiny bit reluctant to be honest?”

 The pint-sized child soldier stared back, unimpressed.

Taro groaned. “Okay, let’s just… table that conversation for now, yeah? Instead, let’s talk about you.” He jabbed a finger in Itachi’s direction. “How the hell are you here?”

 Itachi blinked, clearly thrown off by the sudden shift. But to Taro’s relief, he didn’t press the matter further.

 Instead, he answered plainly, “I arrived here thirty hours ago.”

Taro blinked. That's like, a day and 6 hours? Wow, this kid got his bearings real quick. ANBUs really were built differently.

 “I realized quickly that I was no longer in the Elemental Nations nor the same world to be exact,” Itachi continued, tone measured. “Until I saw that.” He inclined his head toward the mural before returning to Taro. “Which is why I came to confront you.”

 Ah yes, confront. Definitely did not break in and threaten him with a kunai at all. Totally different.

 Taro exhaled slowly. Fucking shinobis.

 “Well, uh, that’s great.” He muttered, before adding, “congrats on getting isekai’d, I guess.”

 Itachi blinked. “Isekai’d?”

 Taro ignored him. “Oh, by the way, Hatake’s here too.”

 That finally got a reaction.

 “…Pardon?”

 Taro grinned.

 Merry fucking Christmas everybody.

———————

 Hitoshi felt his phone buzzing just as he had finished helping in chopping some vegetables. Wiping his sticky hands with a towel, he finally fished the insistently vibrating phone, swiping the screen to answer the call—barely even glancing at the ID.

“Haha…hey, Hatake…so—” from the tone immediately, Hitoshi felt his eye twitch.

 He sighed, “you better not be bailing—”

 An offended gasp. “Do you really think of me that low?” 

 “Yes,” answered him without hesitation.

 “Okay, rude.” A beat, and a sound that suspiciously similar to footsteps—is he pacing? “But, anyway. Just sayin’ that I'm going to be very late.”

 Hitoshi rolled his eyes. “Any reason why?”

 “Because, uh. Itachi's here—NOT the uh, ya'know-what-I-mean-version-of-Itachi. I think, hopefully. Because he's in ANBU, and looks twelve.”

 Hitoshi froze, his mind processing the word—had he misheard that?

  “...Pardon?”

 “I know, I know. Sounds bad, I'll explain the whole shitshow later.” Grumbled the man from behind the line. “But I'm bringing him to The Dinner, I can't just—leave a twelve-year-old kid alone in my store for the whole night—however responsible he is—okay? I'm not irresponsible, so uh, byeee—”

 There was a distinct sound of rustling and a faraway: “wait—hey, Itachi! Don't take my phone, you—”

 As the rustling sound stopped, the line crackled with static before a new voice came through—clear, familiar—

 “The silver bird’s catch.”

 Hitoshi feels as if he was drenched in ice water, his grip onto the flimsy phone tightened involuntary. Those words—oh how he’d heard them countless times during his ANBU days. One of the many call-response phrases, something used to confirm a fellow ANBU’s identity. It had been years since he’d heard it, and the follow up fell into his mouth like an old friend.

 “Where the leaves rest, under the oak's watch.”

  The familiar voice on the other side softened, a smallest hint of relief leaking in the tone. “Senpai…”

 “Itachi.” Hitoshi swallowed, voice steady though there was a weight to it that surprised even him. It was the first time in years he'd spoken to the boy—Sage he was only a boy—yet it felt like no time had passed at all.

 He’d pulled the phone from his ear. “I need to take care of something.” Informed him, turning to the two pro-heroes who were bickering about fried chicken, his gaze meeting Aizawa’s pointed look across the room. Hitoshi shaked the phone in his hand to indicate his reason, Aizawa seemed to be satisfied and didn't press.

 “Go on along kiddo! We can manage by ourselves.” Yamada’s cheery voice assured.

 He slipped away from the room, onto the secluded hallway where the various noises from the kitchen barely passed through the walls.

 “Report, Itachi.” Hitoshi said, a quiet authority slipping into his tone. Despite how long since it had been since he’d spoken in this capacity—the words felt natural. At the end of the day, he was an ANBU Captain, no matter the world he is in.

 Itachi didn't hesitate. “A seal malfunction transfered me to this world thirty hours ago.” Explained him with a measured tone—not reincarnation like his and Taro’s case then—“Discovered Yamada’s Corner via the mural civilian Yamada Taro painted. No further immediate issues.”

Of course the mural. Hitoshi himself had found Taro’s existence and the fact he was not alone in this very situation in the same way.

 “Received.” Hitoshi replied, pausing briefly. “You are now to follow Yamada Taro’s lead. Do not disobey his orders, am I clear?”

 “Understood.” 

 “Good.”

 The line went quiet for a moment, nothing but the faint crackle of static between them. Hitoshi leaned against the cool wall, his thumb brushing absently along the phone’s edge. Part of him almost expected the call to cut off, for the fragile thread connecting two worlds of his past to simply snap.

 But it didn’t.

 Itachi’s voice carried again, calm as ever. “Senpai… how long have you been here?”

 Hitoshi closed his eyes briefly. That single question carried weight he didn’t want to unpack right now. “Long enough.”

 There was a pause, but Itachi didn’t push. He never had. Always the obedient weapon he is.

  “We’ll talk more after dinner. Until then, do as Taro says. Trust him.”

“…yes captain.”

 The formal answer tugged at something old and sharp in Hitoshi’s chest, but he forced it down.

 There were more sounds of fumbling from the other end, and this time Taro’s voice went through.

 “Alright, uhh, tell your parents I'll be late because my…nephew just spontaneously came… because uh, uhhh my cousins just dropped him off at my place so they can spend Christmas alone.”

 “I’ll relay that to them.” To be fair, it was actually a solid cover story. But the old paranoia twisted in Hitoshi’s gut. What if Aizawa dug into it? What if he put the pieces together? Aizawa had always been suspicious of Taro due to their rather close relationship, he's not that stupid to dismiss the looks.

 The line clicked dead, and Hitoshi tucked the phone into his pocket, schooling his expression before stepping back into the kitchen.

 Aizawa was already watching him with that perpetual exhausted look. Yamada was too busy turning the fried chicken around to get the perfect crisp.

 “Taro’s running late,” Hitoshi said. “His cousins dropped off their kid at the last minute. Nephew. He couldn’t just leave him alone, so… he’ll bring him here after they settle in a bit.”

 Yamada’s face lit up instantly. “A kid? Oh, that’s adorable! What’s his name? Should we set another plate? Shouta, we should set another plate, right?”

 “Mhm,” Aizawa agreed, already reaching into the cupboard for a dish .His eyes narrowed just slightly. “His cousins left their kid on Christmas night?”

 “I know, they sound like assholes.”

 “Hitoshi!” Hizashi gasped, spinning toward him with his tongs raised like an accusing finger. “Language!”

 “He’s not wrong,” Aizawa muttered under his breath, setting the plate down with a clink.

 “Shouta! Don’t encourage him like that!” Hizashi huffed, puffing up like an offended bird—which wasn't too far-fetched. “We’re supposed to be good role models, not a bad influence!”

 Aizawa gave him a flat look. “I’m not a role model. That’s your job.”

 Hizashi spluttered, but he didn't have any other retort so then turned on Hitoshi with wide, eager eyes. “Okay, but wait—what else did Taro say about the kid? Does he have a favorite food? Favorite snacks? We gotta make sure he feels at home, y’know?”

 Hitoshi stiffened for a fraction of a second. The answer rose in his throat before he could stop it. “...Dango.”

 Both Aizawa and Hizashi blinked at him.

 Hitoshi cleared his throat, smoothing over the slip as casually as he could manage. “Taro told me. Said the kid likes dango. Probably best if we have something sweet around.”

 “Awww, that’s cute! And easy! I'll order some riiiight now.” Hizashi beamed, already pulling out his phone and tapping on the screen rapidly. “That kid’s gonna have the best Christmas ever!”

 Aizawa just hummed. “As long as he eats real food first.”

 Hitoshi exhaled quietly through his nose, relief hidden under a mask of indifference. “He will.”

 “Good!” Hizashi grinned, spinning his phone in his hand like a man on a mission. “Because no one should spend Christmas here all alone and without a full belly!”

———————

 Meanwhile, Taro was on the verge of tearing his whole closet apart. Old clothes were piling up on the bed like discarded evidence—most too small, too big, or too damn ugly to ever see the light of day again. He snatched up a sweater with a horrid green-and-brown zigzag pattern that looked like it crawled straight out of a thrift store horror story and hurled it at Itachi.

 “Put that on. And this.” He dug up an old coat that had long since stopped fitting him, two mismatched scarves, and one knitted hat with a floppy pom-pom that sagged to the side as if it had given up on life.

 Itachi caught the items with an ease that made Taro grimace. The boy didn’t even blink before unclasping his ANBU gear and folding it away with neat, efficient movements, then began layering on the clothes.

 Wow, he looks like an absolute disaster of hand-me-downs. This was supposed to be the legendary Uchiha prodigy, ladies and gentlemen.

 Taro scrubbed a hand down his face, okay, focus. “I know this seems excessive, but your mission now is to act like a pre-teen civilian boy. Okay? Civilians here are… different. The people you’re going to meet are heroes, and they won’t like it if they see you pulling any ninja crap. You gotta blend in, that’s just how it works in this world.”

Itachi tugged at the sweater sleeve, which hung past his fingers, then adjusted the scarf around his neck. He didn’t complain. “...May I ask a question?”

Taro flopped onto the bed. “Shoot.”

“How is Hatake-senpai here?”

 “Ah, well. He also died and reincarnated here. Don’t know how he died—fucker never told me—but definitely sometime after I did. He mentioned there’s a Fifth Hokage, so yeah… future stuff.” He kept it vague, carefully vague. No way in hell was he about to insinuate any form of him being able to recite the Naruto Lore by heart (though to be honest he’s starting to forget some shits).

 Itachi tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in thought. “Is Hatake-senpai still the same?”

 Taro forced his face blank. “Uhh, don’t ask me, bro. I didn't even know him before our ultimate Isekai arc. Civilian, remember?” He flapped a hand dramatically, as if to say look at me, average guy. Then, more quietly: “But he’s not very ANBU-ish, to be honest. More like… a little shit that may or may not be able to snap my neck if he felt like it. Also, he’s younger. Sixteen now.”

 That earned him the tiniest flicker of expression across Itachi’s face—something caught between disbelief and something unreadable.

 “Yeah, yeah.” Taro waved it off. “If that’s all, then let’s get to the important part. Building your cover story.”

 He cleared his throat, trying to make this sound as official as possible, a little bit hypocritical since he literally said 3 minutes ago that Itachi needs to act normally. “Okay. Your new name is Yamada Itachi. Your parents are Yamada Fugaku and Mikoto—yeah, yeah, I know those are your real parents’ names—don’t look at me like that! It’ll be easier to remember, okay?! And no one here knows that name either so you'll be fine.”

 Itachi’s brow twitched but he said nothing.

 “Anyway, you’re twelve, homeschooled. Your family’s suuuper traditional, which means no phones, no laptops, no internet until you’re like… eighteen. That way nobody’s gonna grill you too hard when you look confused at tech stuff. Just nod, smile, and blame your parents.”

 “…”

 A blink, a second blink. Realization creeping in. He sighed and muttered, almost to himself, “man, this is starting to sound like the worst family ever.”

Itachi, still swaddled in scarves, didn’t disagree.

———————

 Shouta’s first impression of the two black-haired boys was…

 Huh. Taro wasn’t lying.

 They really did look almost identical—same black hair, same dark eyes, same sharp face shape. If he didn’t know better, Shouta might’ve thought the shorter boy was Taro’s younger brother. The resemblance was uncanny, almost uncomfortable.

 The only difference was in how they carried themselves. The shorter one looked like he was drowning in layers of fabric—sweater, scarves, a hat that was slowly sliding off one side of his head—and somehow still gave off the aura of someone ready to kill a man. Meanwhile, Taro only had a coat thrown over his shoulders and looked more like he was the one about to be executed.

 Shouta’s brow ticked. “Are you not cold, Taro-san?”

 Taro straightened a little too quickly, his laugh brittle. “Oh, no. I run rather hot, so a coat and a sweater’s fine.”

 Unbeknownst to everyone else, Hitoshi—hovering ‘round the dining table—twitched almost imperceptibly at those words.

 “Oh! They’re here already?” Hizashi’s voice rang from the hallway, bright as always. He nudged Hitoshi lightly with an elbow. “Come on, kiddo! Greet your friend!”

 Hitoshi sighed, but his steps were smooth as he slipped past his father and came to the front door.

 The shorter boy finally moved. He stepped forward, his movements deliberate, and dipped into a neat bow that looked almost rehearsed. His voice was too deep for a pre-teen (damn that’s one hell of puberty) yet still formal.

 “Good evening. My name is Yamada Itachi. Thank you for welcoming me into your home, Aizawa-san, Yamada-san.”

“…”

 Shouta caught the faintest shift in Taro’s face at those words—like the man had just swallowed a lemon whole.

 Hizashi, though, just beamed, clapping his hands together. “What a polite boy! And isn’t it kinda funny that we’ve got the same last name? Hah! What’re the odds?” His laugh had an edge of nervousness to it, the kind that came when he was trying way too hard to make everyone feel comfortable.

“To be fair it is a common Japanese surname,” Shouta mentioned, eyeing the two other Yamadas.

 “I—uh, Itachi’s family is very traditional,” Taro added hastily and suddenly, as if trying to patch over the awkwardness.

 “Ohhh, that explains the bowing!” Hizashi’s grin widened, completely unfazed. “Don’t worry about that here, kiddo! You don’t need to do ceremonies in this house. Tonight, you’re family.”

 Itachi straightened again, expression unreadable beneath the knitted hat and bangs.

 Meanwhile, Shouta’s eyes narrowed slightly. Not at the bowing, not at the name. At the way the boy had turned his gaze toward Hitoshi.

It wasn’t the look of a polite guest acknowledging his host’s child. No, the two of them were staring at each other like cats on opposing fences—silent, taut, weighing each other with unblinking precision. Neither moved, neither flinched.

“…I’m Hitoshi,” his son finally said, voice low, neutral. “Shinsou Hitoshi.”

“It is an honor to meet you, Shinsou-san.” Itachi finally broke eye contact, gaze shifting to wander around the house with quiet interest, as if cataloguing every detail.

Before Shouta could decide how he felt about that, Hizashi clapped his hands again with his usual bright energy, cutting through the heavy air like sunlight through clouds.

“Alright! No more standing around in the hallway—come in, come in! Dinner’s ready, and the food’s getting cold!”

Shouta let his gaze linger just one more moment on the strange boy in the oversized sweater, then at Hitoshi, who was still as a statue. Weird. Definitely weird. But for now, he let it go.

 “Ah, right. I didn’t have much. So I just… here’s some presents.”

 Taro fumbled with his coat pocket, tugging out an actual well-wrapped object, the rectangular silhouette instantly betraying its contents. Books.

 Of course. Bookstore owner. Figures.

 Beside him, Hizashi was already making delighted noises. “You didn’t have to bring anything, Taro-kun! Just having you here is more than enough!”


Taro’s awkward smile said otherwise.


But Shouta’s attention snagged elsewhere. The smaller boy—Itachi—wasn’t hovering idly by. He was inching closer to Hitoshi with every passing second, subtle as a shadow but unmistakable. His dark eyes flicked from Hitoshi to the kitchen beyond, landing briefly on the knives resting in their block, the sharp utensils gleaming under the light.


Oh.

Oh no.

Fuck.

No.


Shouta’s chest went tight. He knew that look. He knew it far too well. He had seen it before in another boy—a boy he and Hizashi had dragged into their home, wary and brittle, eyes flicking to anything—lnives. Utensils. Anything sharp, anything with weight, things that could be turned into a weapon.


Fuck.


This wasn’t the nervous fidgeting of a homeschooled kid unused to company. This was an assessment. Measurement. Survival.


And suddenly, the picture clicked in Shouta’s head.


Yamada Taro, fidgeting, fumbling, stuttering, artistic, sarcastic, insane bookstore owner—he wasn’t a soldier. That much was obvious. But the boy beside him? The too-still one, the polite one who bowed like he’d been drilled to do it since birth? That boy had the same edge that Hitoshi once carried like a second skin.


Child soldier. The term burned against the back of Shouta’s mind.


So what was Taro? Not one of them, no—his body language was too off. But he was something adjacent. A caretaker. A handler. Someone who kept the kid tethered, who made sure he didn’t go off the rails. Shouta’s jaw tightened at the thought. The pieces fit too well, and he hated it.


He swallowed down his suspicion, forcing his face flat. Not here. Not now. Hizashi’s bright laugh rang out, full of light and sound, chasing tension out of the room. Shouta let it wash over him like static, smothering his first impulse to lunge. He couldn’t rip into Taro now—not when his husband was bouncing in place and Hitoshi was unreadable as stone. He’d watch. He’d wait.

 “Is it, you know?” Hitoshi broke the silence, one brow arched, his voice deceptively casual as he gestured to the gift. He even wiggled his eyebrows, subtle mockery playing at his face.


Taro just stared back at him, deadpan, unimpressed. “Your dads will kill me if I did, no. It’s the second version of The Adventure of Duck on Asteroid.”


Shouta blinked, caught of guard. That… that fucking children’s book Hitoshi had randomly brought home months ago? The one he hadn’t even read, just left sitting on the shelf gathering dust?


“Marvelous,” Hitoshi replied, tone so dry it could’ve been either sarcasm or genuine amusement. Hard to tell with him.


Taro didn’t miss a beat. “Thought you might like the second book.”


“Oh, yes. I surely will.”

The corner of Hitoshi’s eye twitched—the tiniest crack in his stoic mask.


And that. That was what threw Shouta off balance.


Because if Taro really was what Shouta suspected—a handler, some cog in the machine that chewed children up and spat them out as weapons—then why the hell was he standing here, buddy-buddy with Hitoshi? Why did his son, who had taken months—even maybe years—just to lower his guard around his parents, trust this awkward skittish, probably a monster, bookstore owner like he’d known him forever?



It had been months since the friendship started, but Shouta remembered the timing perfectly. Two weeks after Hitoshi met Taro, the softness Hitoshi showed around the older boy after he’d went up and got fucking stabbed.


And now, watching them banter like this—too close, too knowing, too damn familiar—Shouta felt the gnawing unease crawl higher in his chest.


Because this didn’t make sense.

It didn’t fit with the picture of Taro as some manipulative handler.

But then—what did that leave him with?

He dragged his gaze back to the boys: one too watchful, drowning in fabric but radiating danger; the other calm but unreadable from that mask of his. Both of them tethered to Taro in ways Shouta didn’t yet understand.

And he hated not understanding.

Chapter Text

Katoshi, Kakashi, Hitoshi, the sentimental bastard that he is would not admit his frequent visits in the bookstore was because of Itachi. All they did really was just…staring and some few clipped words exchanged together and Hitoshi would be a little shit again towards Taro while Itachi does his own shit.

But, one day, it all started with Taro cornering the local Hitoshi in the bookstore one late afternoon. The bell above the door had barely jingled before Taro swooped in, looking harried, sleep-deprived, and about two seconds away from ripping all of his hairs off.

“I need a favor,” he said without preamble.

Hitoshi raised a brow, sliding his hands into his pockets. “What kind of favor?”

“The kind where you forge some documents for a certain someone before I get arrested for kidnapping.”

“…What.”

“It’s been a week, Hitoshi.” Taro hissed, gesturing vaguely toward the ceiling where Itachi was, presumably, upstairs. “He hasn’t gone back, the seal malfunction thing probably permanently sent him here, my quirk may be fūinjutsu but it’s only good for explosions! And he’s not a fūinjutsu master either, to make a seal himself—he said that he didn't even get a good look at it so he doesn't know how to copy it. So if this keeps up, I need him on paper as an actual person or else—”

“Or else what?” Hitoshi asked.

“Or else I’m going to get charged with trafficking and harboring a minor that isn’t actually related to me!” Taro snapped, shoving a hand through his hair. “What if they think I’m a creep?!”

“Hm, that does sound bad.”

“You think?!”

Itachi, who simply was arranging back books somewhere in between the shelves merely turned his head slightly due to the volume but resumed to his tasks afterwards.

Hitoshi blinked once. Twice. Then leaned on the shelf, unimpressed. “What’s in it for me?”

“You—what? You don’t want to help your god dang poor, documentless kouhai?”

“Mmm…” Hitoshi tilted his head, eyes narrowing just enough to make Taro want to throw something at him.

“Ugh, fine! I’ll give you access to upstairs. And—and a 50% discount on two books.”

“Make it free.”

“Fine! Two free eroticas for your highness, Shinsou Hitoshi!”

“Then we have a deal!” Which was how, inevitably, the three of them found themselves skulking around in the dead of night.

Taro tugged the hood of his sweatshirt lower over his face, heart hammering in his chest. He glanced sideways at the others and immediately regretted everything.

Because this wasn’t discreet at all. They’re all so fucking suspicious it’s not even funny.

Hitoshi, ever the edgy bastard, had that fuckass black mask covering the lower half of his face 24/7, the kind that made him look like he was two seconds away from robbing a convenience store now that he’s dressed out of his UA uniform. Itachi, meanwhile, had apparently picked up his ANBU mask—white ceramic, red paint, blank stare; it’s giving serial killer.

Taro wanted to scream.

Two menaces looking like they walked straight out of a crime syndicate’s recruitment poster, and him. Just Taro. Civilian. Face completely uncovered because he didn’t have a stash of spooky masks lying around. He was going to get arrested. Or shot. Or both. Or recorded by some civvie while his ass gets thrown around by some hero.

Should’ve probably bought a medical mask while he’s at it…

“Where are we going exactly?” Taro asked nervously, hands shoved deep into the front pocket of his hoodie like that would somehow make him less of a target. “Because I’d like to know if I’m about to die tonight, thanks.”

“Relax,” Hitoshi drawled, carrying that irritating calmness. “It’s not like I’m going to lead you to your death.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Taro hissed immediately.

And of course, he jinxed it.

It was too loud for Taro’s liking.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke, booze, and that particular brand of bad perfume that made his eyes sting. The din of voices—shouts, curses, laughter that was more bark than joy—spilled out of the crowded den. Chairs scraped, dice clattered, cards slapped down on tables, and the sound of a bottle shattering somewhere in the back drew a chorus of groans and jeers.

Gambling, drinking, and yelling—yeah, this was definitely the kind of place where criminals hung around. Which meant, unfortunately, it was also the kind of place where their mysterious forger was rumored to make appearances.

Taro stuck close to the wall just outside the main room, tugging at his hood like it would somehow shield him from the noise. His nerves were screaming. He didn’t belong here—hell, even Itachi, who had zero idea how this world worked, carried himself with more ease.

“Taro-san,” came the quiet voice beside him, smooth and careful.

He glanced down at the boy—because no matter how fucking deep and calm his voice is, Itachi was still just a boy, hood shadowing sharp eyes behind that blank weasel mask that honestly does not look like a weasel at all.

“You know you don’t have to tag along, right?” Itachi tilted his head, almost too casual. But his tone carried a faint note of reassurance, like you don’t have to force yourself.

Taro opened his mouth, ready to argue that he had to come, that he was his responsibility, that he’s fucking twelve; but he faltered. Because let’s be real: Itachi was eighty percent more mature than he was.

So instead, he scowled and stuffed his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket. “…Fine. I’ll stay outside. But don’t cause any trouble, okay? Especially you, Hitoshi. Your dads will absolutely have my head if this goes sideways.”

Hitoshi’s eyes crinkled above his mask in that smug little smirk that made Taro want to deck him, he did deck him though in his head as per usual.

And with that, the two shadows slipped inside, leaving him to stew by the door, shuffling his feet and trying not to look like bait.

And then, because the universe hated him, Taro made the mistake of existing and turning into a corner as he looked up—

Right into the narrowed eyes of Aizawa Shouta.

Fuming.

Taro’s stomach dropped into his shoes.

Fuck.

His instincts screamed, run, and he obeyed before his brain could even process what the hell was happening. He spun on his heel and bolted down the alley, sneakers slapping against the damp pavement, hood flying back as his heart leapt around his throat.

But he didn’t make it far.

A weight slammed into his back, driving him down hard. His chest collided with the concrete, air exploding out of his lungs as his head rang from the impact.

Pain flared down his side, his ribs screaming as a knee pressed into his back, pinning him down.

Taro wheezed, vision flickering at the edges. His breath came too fast, shallow, scraping. Panic clawed up his throat, chest tightening until it felt like he was suffocating.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He tried to move, but the hold was iron clad.

His brain spiraled. Images, possibilities, all of them bad—arrest, interrogation, suspicion. And worse: the look in Aizawa’s eyes.

Anger. Distrust. Disgust.

His hands trembled against the rough pavement, and the thought repeated over and over through the roar of his pulse:

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKSHITFUCKfUCKFUCKAREYOUFUCKINGKIDDINGMEFUUUCCCKKK—

Taro’s body locked up. His chest seized, breath refusing to come properly. He couldn’t tell if it was the weight pressing down on him or his own stupid brain spiraling, but every inhale stuttered and caught halfway. His vision buzzed. His palms went clammy against the grit of the pavement.

“Yamada Taro, what were you doing here… in this place, with two minors at two fucking in the morning?”

Aizawa’s voice was a low snarl, too close to his ear, heavy with restrained fury.

He couldn’t tell him. He couldn’t tell him. Forging documents was not exactly the sort of answer that would smooth things over. What the hell was he supposed to say? What excuse could possibly dig him out of this hole?

His thoughts stuttered, derailed, and scattered.

Breathe, fuck, breathe, breathe—

And then his mouth, the traitor that it was, decided to operate independently of survival instinct. Again.

“I have the right to remain silent!” Taro blurted, voice too high, too sharp.

…

Silence.

Utter silence, except for his own ragged, uneven breaths.

Aizawa didn’t move, didn’t release him, but the weight shifted—subtle, calculated, just enough to stop crushing the air completely out of him. The man’s hair curtained around his face, and Taro didn’t need to see it to feel the stare burning into the back of his head.

“You’re not under arrest,” Aizawa said finally, his voice flat but quieter. "Yet."

“But you are a suspect. So choose carefully, Yamada—talk, or stay silent and let me fill in the blanks myself and make the charges even worse for you.”

Taro’s throat bobbed. He wanted to speak, to say something clever, something deflecting, anything, but the words tangled up behind the tightness in his chest. He opened his mouth—nothing. Closed it again. His whole body trembled, lungs wheezing against the vice grip of panic.

“I—” His tongue felt thick, clumsy. “I—”

Aizawa exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp, frustrated, but underneath—controlled.

A pause stretched, and then the weight lifted off him, just enough that Taro could roll onto his side.

The night air hit his face, cold, damp, but it didn’t help. He dragged in another breath, too shallow, too fast. His fingers twitched to hold onto his sleeves—rubbing and tugging on the fabric to calm himself down.

“Yamada,” Aizawa’s voice cut through the ringing in his ears, “look at me.”

Taro squeezed his eyes shut tighter. He couldn’t. He couldn’t meet that look, not when his brain was screaming caught, caught, caught. His hands curled into fists against the cloth, preventing his nails from digging into his palms.

Another long silence. Then, softer, but with no less stern—

“What the hell are you hiding?”

“I’m—” the words cracked apart in his throat, useless. “I can't—I can't say—"

“Are you in danger?”

The irony hit Taro so hard and fast he barked out a laugh. A manic, breathless sound that skittered too close to hysteria. Are you in danger? Oh, that was rich. You are the danger, Aizawa! His shoulders shook, laughter spilling out against his will, high and uneven, burning his throat.

This wasn’t helping his image, oh god this wasn’t helping at all. This is exactly like the stabbing incident!

“Yamada.” Aizawa’s voice cut sharp, the single word a whipcrack in the dark. “Stop laughing and answer my questions."

His hood got yanked up in one swift tug, jerking his head back. The next thing he knew he was being hauled into a sitting position like a ragdoll.

“Okay, okay—fine!” Taro blurted, his laugh choking into words, tumbling over themselves in a rush. “I’m lying! I lied about Itachi being my nephew and—and a lot of other shits, alright?! And—”

Too much! too fast. His brain screamed at him to shut up, to clamp down before he vomited the whole truth about reincarnation and the existence of multiverse and the ridiculous mess they were tangled in.

“And?”

“…” Taro clamped his mouth shut so hard his jaw ached.

“Yamada, look at me.”

Nope. Not happening. Nuh uh. Not with that glare boring into him. His eyes stayed glued to the cracked pavement.

“Yamada—”

Fingers, firm and unrelenting, caught his chin, forcing his head up. The movement was controlled, not cruel, but it pinned him just as effectively as before. Taro’s heart stuttered.

—!

What the fuck. Taro’s brain screeched to a halt.

Because suddenly, there was paper. A creased page shoved right up to his face. His eyes stuttered over the ink, the lines—

“Konoha?” he slurred, stunned. The word stumbled out before he could stop it, confusion bursting through his panic.

How the hell did Aizawa get this—oh. Right. He painted it, big and bold, on the bookstore wall like a goddamn idiot beacon. But why was it being shoved at him now?

Aizawa exhaled through his nose. “I know Hitoshi is a child soldier.”

The words landed like a hammer blow despite the obviousness—yeah, well, it's not exactly difficult to come to that conclusion…and he really was a child soldier.

Aizawa’s eyes burned through him. “I know Itachi is also a child soldier. Now that you’ve told me you lied about the ‘nephew’ thing.”

Ah shit.

“Ah, that’s—”

The sharp look Aizawa leveled at him sliced his babbling off mid-word. It was the kind of look that said don’t even think about backpedaling out of this.

“Yamada Taro.” The man’s tone was low. “Are you involved in this organization?”

“And are you here right now, in this… place. with Hitoshi and Itachi, because of it?”

Taro’s brain whirred, screeched, clicked—pieces tumbling into place all wrong and all right at the same time.

Oh.

Ooooooh.

Holy shit.

Everything snapped together like a twisted puzzle. Of course he doesn't know about the village, or the other world thing. Aizawa has only scraps but it built the worst possible ever picture.

He thought Konoha was a goddamn fucking underground child soldier ring. A secret syndicate. And the symbol—the stupid swirly leaf—was their brand.

…

Well, to be fair. That wasn't an inaccurate take.

But he didn't fit in any of the roles! How the fuck does he even be involved?! Like—he’s a civilian and acts like a civilian, except for that one time maybe when he's manic—but never a villain! Or villain-like!

Though, Aizawa does have the rights to be suspicious of him, being close with two fucking child soldiers. Ah shit.

“Yamada.” Aizawa’s voice sliced through his spiral again, low, commanding. “Speak.”

"Fine," Taro croaked, throat dry as sand. His palms were slick, knees trembling as they folded before his chest. "What do you want to know?"

Aizawa’s gaze didn’t waver. “Why are you and the kids here?”

Taro’s mouth moved before his brain could veto it. "Forge documents... Itachi doesn’t technically exist here, you know."

The sharp inhale from Aizawa hit him like a sucker punch. His whole frame went rigid, shoulders tight, eyes narrowing. “…So you brought my son into this mess?”

“I know he’s involved in shady shits outside Konoha, so like—” Taro’s hands flailed, grasping for something—anything—that would soften the blow. “I asked him for help!”

“You’re supposed to be an adult. He’s a minor, Yamada. And you’re endangering him.”

The words cracked against him harder than any fist could. Taro winced, guilt flooding hot in his chest. “I know! But what am I supposed to do?!”

“Go to the police?”

Taro froze.

His mouth hung open. His brain did a hard reset.

Wait. Wait, that's… actually… yeah. That’s what a reasonable adult would do.

“…I’d rather not.” He shrank into himself, forcing his shoulders to hunch, eyes darting away.

“Yamada,” Aizawa said, voice low, “are you Itachi’s handler?”

Huh. What.

Taro blinked at him, dumbfounded. “…What? No? Do you think I look like I can train someone?!” He waved at himself to make a point. “I can barely do five push-ups without wanting to puke!”

“Then what are you?”

And there it was.

Taro’s heart slammed, but his mind forced gears to turn, clunky and desperate. Fine. Since he already thinks you’re tangled up in this child soldier crap, might as well ride the misunderstanding until its bitter end.

“I’m…” He let his breath stutter, let his words stumble out in uneven chunks. “…Shit. Okay. Okay. When my dad died, I didn’t really know how to manage the shop nor get profit, so I took a gig job.” His hands shook, pressing against his knees. “I thought it was… it was some underground heroes’ agency at first, okay?!”

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed further.

“But I realized—” Taro pitched his voice higher, cracked it like he was about to fall apart. “There were a lot of children. And most of them covered in—” He cut himself off abruptly, dragging a shaky hand through his hair, forcing his breaths into panicked, uneven pulls.

Feign panic attack. Breathe in. Breathe out. Look stressed. Make him see you as harmless.

It worked. Aizawa’s stare softened, the faintest shift in his expression—still guarded, but no longer sharp enough to cut.

“What was the job?”

“Kind of like… like… errand boy?” Taro mumbled, eyes darting to the side. “I dunno, I did errands there. Ran stuff for the… people and the...kids.”

The silence that followed pressed down on him, suffocating. Aizawa’s stare didn’t budge, didn’t blink, didn’t let him look away. And then the million-dollar question dropped:

“Where is this organisation located?”

Oh, shit.

“…It, it’s not here," he blurted out.

One dark brow lifted. “Outside of the city?”

“No!” Taro tried to fix his mistake, “I mean—it doesn’t exist… not anymore.”

Aizawa tilted his head slightly, weighing the answer.

“It doesn’t exist,” Taro pushed on, voice cracking just enough to sound believable. “It… it’s gone now. I don't know what happened to the guys that has command over it—there was a fight, I think, a uh, civil war." Why is he referencing the Uchiha coup if it had happened. "But, the children are all probably scattered around after its fall.”

He sucked in a ragged breath, forcing his hands to clench in his lap. “That’s why I painted the symbol. So these kids could find me...? I mean, I really feel bad but I couldn't really go to the police since I'm afraid some that knew were in the force and they'll do... shits to me, ya know? I just wanted to help them… or have the knowledge some of them are doing fine after everything."

"And, then Hitoshi and Itachi found it and I along with it. So now…well, we're here, I guess."

He let his voice taper off into silence, every nerve screaming that he was balancing on the thinnest edge. The story was half-truth, half-lie—honestly the lie was about 72%—but slipping in half-truths were always better. The realness will hide the smell of a lie well enough, hopefully.

Now he just had to pray Aizawa believed it.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile…

Hitoshi had been watching the entire disaster unfold from the broken window above, balanced in the shadows like a stray cat with too much patience. Taro's stutter, nervous tics—it all painted the picture of a normal person who’d stumbled too close to something ugly even though all of it was bullshit. But honestly? For a civilian, Taro spun a damn good story. If Hitoshi hadn’t known better, he would’ve bought it too.

Hell, Aizawa looked like he was buying it. That was the part that punched something sharp in Hitoshi’s chest. His dad—the man who saw through lies as naturally as he breathed—was actually swallowing this cobbled-together excuse whole.

Taro really knows how to pull all the heart strings. He truly was a good liar when his back was against the wall.

Almost too good.

Well…it could be that, despite everything, Taro was a Konoha citizen, an Uchiha. The sheer amount he had to deal with shinobis, their habits must have had rubbed on on him a bit.

Hitoshi had left Itachi inside the building, off with the forger to get his pictures taken. The kid could handle himself; ANBU trained or not, he was obedient enough to sit still for a few shots without drawing attention. Besides, this scene outside demanded more immediate attention.

He should’ve interfered earlier, probably. Watching Taro hyperventilating on the pavement with Aizawa’s knee on him—it made Hitoshi’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t want to examine. He wanted to step in immediately, pull Taro out of this corner, but the second the bookstore idiot started to pull the most batshit insane explanation ever well…it was almost amusing. Impressive even.

Hitoshi almost laughed. Seeing his dad eating this up. About Itachi and himself being “former soldiers,” about Konoha being a dead ring organization from somewhere underground… it all fit into the puzzle Aizawa had already built in his head. Hitoshi knew of his conspiracies, he wasn't dumb.

Ah, maa. He’d let his future self deal with the fallout.

But now? Now it was too quiet. Aizawa’s silence was dangerous silence—measuring, weighing, deciding—and Taro’s silence was the kind that meant he was two seconds away from spiraling into either more truth or more self-destruction. Neither would end well.

Perfect timing for an entrance.

Hitoshi pushed himself up, dusted off his hands, and with the casual grace of someone who’d done this a hundred times, slipped through the shattered frame. His shoes hit the pavement with a muted thud. Both heads snapped toward him immediately.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “What he said was the truth, Aizawa-san," said he. Because honestly? Between telling his dad he was a reincarnated ninja from another world, or backing up Taro’s half-believable cover story, there was really only one option.

And just like that, the weight shifted again. Aizawa’s jaw tightened, suspicion warring with a flicker of worry—because if Hitoshi was saying it, there was no angle, no bluff. His son didn’t hand out reassurances lightly.

Good. Sympathy really was every hero’s weakness.

Taro was staring at him, wild-eyed, a mess of gratitude and terror in equal measure. He probably had no idea whether to thank him or curse him later.

Aizawa straightened slowly, his scarf shifting as his shoulders squared. “You two will explain,” he said at last, leaving no room for argument. “But get the other kid here first.”

“I’m present,” came a voice from behind, quiet but carrying the kind of sharpness that made the hair on Taro’s neck rise.

All three turned.

Itachi was standing just a few paces back, ANBU mask not clipped on his face anymore and he's holding a fucking pink totebag probably full of those forged documents, his dark eyes scanning the scene. He tilted his head, gaze landing squarely on Taro slumped against the pavement.

“Taro-san,” he asked mildly, like he was commenting on the weather, “why are you on the floor?”

"Long story," he deflected before groaning.

“Right,” Aizawa said after a long pause, his tone flattening back into something more...calmer, though the edges hadn’t softened entirely. “I… apologize too, for being harsh on you just now, Yamada. But to be fair—you did try to run, and I had no choice but to subdue you.”

He coughed, a shaky little sound, and waved a hand weakly. “Yeah, sure, apology accepted. Five stars, would get tackled again.”

“Don’t joke,” he sighed, somewhat-kneeling down so that the curtain of his hair fell into Taro’s vision, cutting away the streetlights above. His tired eyes were steady, unblinking, the way they always were when he was trying to peel someone apart. “Look. Running only makes you look guilty. I need you to understand that. If you want me to believe you’re not the enemy here, stop acting like one.”

"…Noted."

Aizawa studied him for another moment before leaning back, giving him space, as though testing whether he’d bolt again. His gaze flicked over his shoulder toward Hitoshi and then to the quiet figure of Itachi, who was still standing with perfect composure, the fucking totebag dangling in his hand.

“Both of you,” Aizawa ordered, “help him up. We’re not continuing this conversation in the middle of the street.”

Hitoshi moved first, crouching down and offering a hand to Taro, his eyes a little too amused for the situation.

Taro shot him a glare, but his hand still found Hitoshi’s, grip clammy and trembling. With a grunt, he was pulled upright.

“Better,” Aizawa muttered, straightening as well, his scarf tightening once more across his shoulders. His eyes returned to Taro, sharp again but no longer crushing. “Now. We’re going somewhere quieter. And you’re going to talk. All of you.”

Taro swallowed, his heart thundering in his chest. “…Yeah. Okay. Sure. Let’s… talk.”

Beside him, Itachi tilted his head again, studying him with a faint crease of curiosity—as if silently asking why Taro looked like he’d just been run over by a truck. Oh, honey, the truck is just a few feet away from you and he's a sleep deprived king.

"We're not going to the police, aren't we?"

“…No,” Aizawa said finally, tone clipped. “Not yet. The police don’t need to be involved until I know exactly what this is.”

Taro let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, shoulders sagging with visible relief. His knees nearly gave out again, but he locked them fast and forced a laugh instead, shaky and hollow. “Right. Good. ‘Cause, uh, I don’t think I’d do too well in interrogation. You already got the proof of that.”

“That’s exactly why you’d do well avoiding this kind of situation in the first place,” Aizawa retorted, his voice edged but quieter than before. He stepped closer, close enough that Taro could see the fine lines of fatigue carved into his face, the perpetual exhaustion that made the man both terrifying and oddly human. “You need to understand something, Yamada. My patience isn’t infinite. If I suspect you’re putting those two through more than they can handle, I will go to the police—or worse I'll handle it myself.”

"Yes sir. Loud and clear, uhuh, yep." Taro nodded frantically as he agreed.

Hitoshi snorted softly, though he quickly schooled his expression when Aizawa glanced his way. “You’ve got a funny definition of reassurance, Aizawa-san."

“Quiet,” Aizawa muttered, though not without a flicker of something like reluctant fondness in his eyes.

Itachi, ever the observer, tilted his head slightly and asked with unshaken calm, “If not the police… then where?”

Aizawa’s gaze shifted to him, calculating. “…Home. Somewhere I can keep an eye on all of you, and away from this district."

“…Do I get a say in this?” Taro asked, weakly hopeful.

“No.”

“…Figured.”

———————

"...Aizawa-san, this is the police station," Taro croaked, his voice wobbling somewhere between disbelief and despair as he stared at the ugly building with its glowing sign that might as well be his gallows. The automatic doors hummed open and shut close behind them when they entered.

“Yes,” Aizawa answered without missing a beat. His eyes didn’t so much as flicker in Taro’s direction as he continued with, “I lied.”

aro swore under his breath, tugging at his hood like it might shield him from the reality pressing in. “You—you can’t just lie like that! That’s—that’s illegal, or immoral, or—”

“I can,” Aizawa cut in, calm as stone. “And I did. You’ll live.”

Taro’s stomach sank further when Aizawa continued, voice as steady as the gallows. “To kill two birds with one stone, I’ll submit a request to put Itachi in the database while we’re here. No need for forged documents. And I’ll need statements from all three of you.”

Taro pressed a hand to his face, nauseous already. “Hitoshi, hold me, I’m going to crash.”

Hitoshi did not, in fact, hold him. The little traitor merely stood there, shoulders relaxed, mask hiding any twitch of amusement in his mouth.

Instead, Itachi silently stepped forward. The boy’s movements were fluid as he placed a steadying hand under Taro’s elbow, holding him upright like one would with an invalid. It made Taro feel a little guilty despite knowing Itachi won't fold just because he's on him.

“Thanks, Itachi…” Taro muttered, sagging against him for dramatic effect before glaring past his bangs at Hitoshi. “Bastard, I asked you for help.”

“Maa. You have alley germs on you,” Hitoshi replied flatly, not bothering to hide the smirk in his eyes.

“You’ve dealt with worse shits than mere possible piss,” Taro hissed back.

Aizawa twitched, the faintest movement in the corner of his jaw, but he didn’t interrupt.

Itachi, however, remained unnervingly steady, calm as still water. His dark eyes gave nothing away, but he shifted minutely closer to Hitoshi as though aligning himself without thought. In that quiet moment, subtle enough to be missed, Hitoshi reached back and gripped Itachi’s shoulder. His thumb tapped a sequence, a code only they would understand as two ANBUs.

T A R O, lie, child, soldier, us, organization, is, konoha, gone, keep, story, as, truth.

Itachi blinked once, slow, absorbing it all. He didn’t nod, didn’t speak, but something in his stance shifted—slight, like a blade sheathed but ready. He understood.

Taro swallowed his protest, throat bobbing. "I'm going to die."

Itachi’s grip tightened faintly on his elbow, silent reassurance.

Hitoshi, ever the bastard, muttered just loud enough for Taro to hear, “Hopefully.”

The door clicked shut behind them, sealing Taro’s fate forever.

———————

Extra:

“Name?” the officer asked.

“Itachi,” he answered smoothly, then added after a pause, “Uchiha Itachi.”

The officer scribbled that down. “Age?”

“Twelve.”

“Alright, Itachi. Your… acquiantance?—Yamada Taro—has he ever hurt you in any way before?"

"No, he is a nice person."

"Thank you for telling me. Now, he mentioned something about a group called Konoha. I need you to explain that to me. What exactly was it?”

Itachi’s expression didn’t flicker. “It was an organization. They took children. Trained them.”

The officer’s pen stilled. “…Trained them for what?”

“To ensure Konoha is safe.”

"And how does this...works?"

"Executing enemies." He paused. "Some does menial work such as catching lost pets or paint fences, it depends on the rank."

....

silence.

"Uhm, okay. Alright...? Uh..."

Well this is going to be a long night,