Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bed was too big.
Too cold. Too quiet.

Sasuke lay in the hollowed-out space where Naruto should have been, curled on his side with one arm outstretched, hand pressed flat against the cold, empty sheets. The chill of it seeped into his skin, and he didn’t pull away. He let it settle into his bones, let it sit heavy in the space behind his ribs. It was a familiar ache now, dull and persistent. He’d stayed like that for hours, unmoving, eyes open and unfocused, staring through the ceiling as if it might give him something—answers, distraction, anything at all.

But the ceiling gave nothing back. Just the same blank white silence it had the morning before. And the one before that.

He wasn’t sure he’d slept. Maybe he had. Maybe he hadn’t. It didn’t matter. The difference had long since stopped feeling important. Rest was mechanical these days—a ghost of a need, just like eating, just like breathing. He did it out of habit. Survival. Nothing more.

The house was still dark. Outside, the faintest thread of dawn bled into the horizon, painting the world in shades of grey. Light filtered in softly through the paper-paneled windows, a fragile, wintery glow that failed to warm the room.

Inside, the air clung to the walls like fog. Still. Cold.

Naruto used to wake first.

The thought landed hard, sudden and leaden, like a rock thrown into still water. No ripples followed. Just the weight of it, dragging everything down.

Naruto would’ve already been up by now—stretching on the porch with a sleepy groan, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye, hair sticking up in all directions. He would’ve yawned through a greeting, voice hoarse and soft with sleep, and Sasuke would have pretended to be annoyed by it. But he never was. Not really.

There would’ve been the sound of his bare feet slapping against the kitchen floor, the scratch of cabinet doors, the clatter of dishes as he fumbled around, humming some stupid melody that didn’t have a tune. Always off-key. Always too loud. Always… there.

Now, there was only silence. A silence so complete it rang in Sasuke’s ears, sharp and unforgiving. It wrapped around him like a second skin.

He exhaled, slow and shaky, and even that sounded too loud. The breath caught halfway through, snagging in his throat like it didn’t want to leave.

Eventually, he moved. Forced himself upright. His limbs protested the motion, stiff from lying in the same position for too long. The mattress creaked under him, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness. He sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over with his elbows braced on his knees, head bowed, fingers tangled in his hair like he was trying to hold himself together. Like if he let go, he might come apart.

His hands drifted, almost without thinking, to the back of his neck. To the base of his skull.

His scent gland throbbed faintly beneath the skin—once a warm, anchoring presence. Naruto’s mark had been there. Had meant something. It used to ground him, tether him. Now, it just felt like scar tissue. Cold. Numb. Useless.

Like it belonged to someone else.

Thirty-nine days.

It had been thirty-nine days since Naruto left for the mission.

Thirty-nine mornings waking up to this same empty bed, to silence, to cold sheets and a hollow in the mattress that never lost his shape.

Thirty-nine nights without warmth beside him. Without that quiet, steady breathing. Without the way Naruto would shift in his sleep and reach for him unconsciously, like it was instinct. Like Sasuke was something worth holding onto.

He had stopped crossing off the days on the calendar. It felt pointless. Like waiting was some kind of act of faith, and faith had always come hard for Sasuke.

He didn’t know if Naruto would come back. Not really. Not this time.

But gods—he wanted him to.

                                                                               ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The sound of soft breathing echoed from the other room.
Sasuke held his own breath and listened to it— really listened. Arashi, asleep in her crib. Her tiny lungs filled and emptied the air in delicate, rhythmic sighs. Fragile. Inconveniently hopeful. A sound that whispered of life continuing even when the world felt like it had stopped.

It should have brought comfort.
Instead, it hollowed him out.

His other child wasn’t so quiet.

From somewhere down the hall came the muffled, restless thuds of footsteps.
Menma. Awake again. Pacing, probably. Kicking the walls. Sasuke didn’t move right away. He stared at the floor, watching how the morning light crept across the tatami in long, narrow lines—thin and ghostlike, like everything else in the house now.

His stomach clenched tight. A dull hunger gnawed at the edge of him, but it was hard to tell whether it was from not eating or something deeper—something darker. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. The thought of swallowing anything made his throat close up. Still, he knew he had to make something.

Because that’s what Naruto would’ve done.
That’s what Naruto would’ve said.

“They still need you, you know.”

The memory struck like a slap.
Naruto’s voice—so clear, so full of quiet insistence—echoed in his head without mercy. It came from a thousand moments ago, from a hundred quiet mornings and soft touches and lingering gazes. It came now as a ghost, uninvited and too real.

Sasuke rose stiffly. His feet hit the floor with a soft thud. Cold. Bare.
He pulled his robe tighter around himself and moved toward the kitchen, his body acting on muscle memory alone. Every movement was mechanical. Performed. Like playing a role he never auditioned for.

Kitchen.
Rice cooker.
Stove.
Miso paste. Fish. Tea.

He moved through it like a shadow of himself, slicing vegetables with empty precision. The blade whispered through the carrots. Steam curled from the pot. Everything smelled faintly of salt and bitterness.

His hands shook a little when he thought of Naruto again—bright-eyed, always barefoot in the kitchen, poking around with too much noise and not enough grace.

“You’re so serious in the mornings, Sasuke.”

That voice again.
Too real. Too loud in his head.
Sasuke’s grip faltered. The knife slipped. A flash of pain—then a bead of blood welled up on his finger, dark and round like an accusation.

He stared at it, disconnected. It didn’t even hurt, not really. Just another red thing in a world that kept bleeding.

Behind him, the door slammed.
Hard.

“I’m not eating this.”

Menma’s voice—sharp, hostile—knifed through the kitchen like a thrown kunai.
Sasuke’s eyes shut for a moment. His breath went still.

When he turned, Menma stood in the doorway, arms crossed tight, his whole posture screaming defiance. But Sasuke saw more than the anger—he saw the way his son’s jaw trembled. The way his fists curled too tightly. The thin sheen of tears that clung stubbornly to the corners of his eyes.

Naruto’s eyes.
Naruto’s stubborn scowl.

“If Dad was here,” Menma spat, voice cracking like a breaking bone, “things wouldn’t be this pathetic.”

Sasuke’s jaw tensed. He looked at his son and felt the weight of the words slam into him like a punch to the chest.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t defend himself.
He set the knife down carefully, slowly, like it might explode if he moved too fast. His fingers curled slightly against the counter.

“Sit down,” he said, his voice low and flat.

Menma didn’t move. His face twisted tighter. Anger or grief—Sasuke couldn’t tell anymore.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat anyway.”
“I said I’m not—”
“ Menma .”

It came out sharper than he meant.
The silence that followed was instant and awful. Heavy. Shivering on the edge of something dangerous.

Menma flinched, barely.
His throat bobbed. His mouth opened like he might yell something else—but then he shut it again.

And turned on his heel.

The door slammed.
Louder this time. The walls shuddered with the force of it.
Sasuke didn’t move.

His shoulders dropped slowly, like something was draining out of him. He leaned one hand on the edge of the counter, the other pressed briefly to his forehead. His breath came shallow now, chest drawn tight like a vice.

He turned his gaze to the table. Two bowls sat untouched. Steam rising quietly from one, already beginning to fade.

If Naruto had been here—
If Naruto had said something, been something—
Maybe none of this would have—

No.
He pressed his fingers against his temple hard enough to ache.
No more what ifs .
No more ghosts.

This was his job now.
This was his life now.

Outside, the sun crawled higher over the rooftops of Konoha, stretching pale gold light across the village—so gentle, so indifferent.

Inside, Sasuke stood alone in the kitchen, unmoving.
His back to the door.
His eyes on the tea.
Growing colder by the second.

                                                                               ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The baby monitor crackled in the other room, a faint burst of static rising and falling like a second heartbeat in the quiet house. Then came a soft, hiccupped breath—Arashi turning in her sleep, the gentle sound barely loud enough to register, yet it landed in Sasuke’s chest like a pebble dropped into still water.

He didn’t move at first. Just stood there, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, his body still except for the slow clench of his jaw. Then, as if pulled by some invisible string, his hand drifted down to his stomach, slipping beneath the edge of his robe. His palm pressed flat against the skin, where heat and pain seemed to coil together in tight knots.

Another cramp gripped him—sharper this time. It twisted through his core, forcing the breath from his lungs in a quiet exhale. He closed his eyes for a second and forced the air out through his nose, steady, controlled.

Not now.
The thought had weight to it, iron-heavy. He couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not yet. Not while the baby still slept in the next room. Not while the house remained whole in its fragile stillness.

He moved to the kitchen window and rested his palms on the cold countertop, the chilled stone anchoring him as he stared out into the thinning fog of early morning. His reflection hovered on the glass—faint, fractured by condensation. His hair stuck up in uneven tufts, darker than the gray-pale light outside. His face had gone gaunt, the angles too sharp, the skin around his eyes a bruised sort of hollow. He looked less like a man and more like a memory of one.

Like a ghost, he thought.
Like someone waiting to disappear.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. The light kept shifting, softening, bleaching the sky outside into something washed-out and empty. A breeze stirred through a crack in the window frame, brushing his wrist like a breath.

You’re not dead.
The words came up from somewhere deep, crawling up his throat, pushing between clenched teeth like a prayer, or maybe a plea.
You’re not dead, Naruto.

But the silence didn’t answer him. The kitchen walls held no comfort. The words dropped flat into the air like stones, heavy and untrue. He could still smell the faint trace of ramen broth clinging to a forgotten bowl in the sink. Could still feel the ghost of laughter in the corners of the room, echoes of a voice that used to fill this space like sunlight.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

He could not afford to fall apart.
Not now.
Not yet.

The walk to the Hokage’s tower felt longer today.
Or maybe Sasuke was just slower.

His sandals scraped softly against the stone streets of Konoha, each step a quiet betrayal of muscle memory. His body moved forward on autopilot, but his mind lagged somewhere far behind—caught in the haze of last week, or maybe the week before. Time blurred now, pulled thin and brittle at the edges.

The village bustled around him, unaware.
Unchanged.

Vendors lifted crate lids and arranged vegetables in neat rows. Colorful cloth banners flapped overhead in the breeze. Children shrieked laughter as they dashed through alleyways, their voices light and sharp like birdsong. Above him, shinobi patrols vaulted between rooftops, their movements precise, effortless.

The air smelled of fresh rice, wet grass, and the faint smoke of early cooking fires. Morning dew still clung to the stone underfoot.

It all felt... offensive.
That the village could look so normal. So alive.
While his world bled out quietly beneath his feet.

As he walked, Sasuke noticed the way people’s eyes flicked toward him—then quickly away.

Some gave polite, shallow nods.
Some looked through him like he wasn’t there.
A few whispered behind cupped hands, voices low but heavy with that sickening, syrupy pity. He didn’t need to hear the words to understand them.

That’s him.
Uchiha Sasuke.
The one left behind.

The whispers didn’t need volume anymore.
The silence was enough.

Sasuke kept his gaze forward, sharp and blank. His shoulders were squared, posture perfect—as if sheer discipline could hold the grief inside, keep it from leaking through his skin. His body had long since defaulted to a battle stance. Stoicism molded into armor, fused with bone.

But inside, he was unraveling.

His stomach twisted again. A low, sharp cramp that pulled deep into his abdomen, more persistent now. More telling.

He reached the Hokage’s tower and stood at the base of the stone steps for a moment. His eyes were half-lidded, expression unreadable, his pulse loud in his ears. The building loomed above him, casting long shadows across the courtyard. Once, the tower had meant something: structure, command, clarity.

Now, it looked like a tomb.

His hand hovered near his stomach, just for a second—fingers twitching toward the place where the pain bloomed. He caught himself, forced it down to his side again. His robe rustled faintly in the breeze.

He still hadn’t told anyone.
Not about the nausea.
Not about the soreness in his chest, or the strange, persistent fatigue that clung to him like a second skin.
Not about the subtle shifts in his chakra—too faint to define, but constant, like something beneath the surface had started moving without his permission.

He kept telling himself it was just stress.
Grief.
Sleep deprivation.

But deep down, something didn’t feel right.
And he didn’t know what scared him more—
That it might be nothing.
Or that it might be something .

He inhaled slowly, his throat tight.
Then he climbed the steps.

Inside, the tower was cooler. Still.
It smelled of old paper, fresh ink, and polish that couldn’t quite erase the scent of history. At the front desk, a grey-eyed shinobi looked up. Her hands were ink-stained. Her eyes were too tired to be surprised.

She didn’t ask his name.
She didn’t say hello .
She just gave a tight nod and flicked her gaze toward the office doors.

They all knew why he was here.
He didn’t need appointments anymore.

The waiting room was empty. It always was.

Sasuke moved to the third chair from the left—his chair. The one against the back wall, where nothing could sneak up behind him. He sat with precision: knees bent at exact angles, back straight, fingers laced tightly in his lap. His knuckles turned white from the pressure.

He stared at the floor and let the silence stretch around him.

Minutes passed. Or hours. Or maybe neither.
He measured the time by breath.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Again.
And again.

His mind spun, caught in a spiral of thought he couldn’t silence.
It had been thirty-nine days.
Thirty-nine days since Naruto had left for the border mission.
Thirty-nine days since Sasuke had last felt the warmth of him in bed, the press of a kiss at the back of his neck, the sound of his laughter echoing off the kitchen tiles.

Thirty-nine days since Naruto had leaned over Arashi’s crib, brushed a kiss against her tiny forehead, and whispered:

"Be good for Papa. I’ll be back before you learn to walk."

Sasuke’s eyes squeezed shut.

His throat burned. His chest ached with a pressure that had nothing to do with his lungs. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, held it there, swallowed hard. No sound. Not here. Not now.

The door creaked open.

“Sasuke.”

Kakashi’s voice was low, but it struck like a kunai. Precise. Inevitable.

Sasuke rose, every movement sharp-edged and deliberate. He followed Kakashi without a word, his steps silent as they crossed the threshold into the Hokage’s office.

Inside, the light was worse.

Sunlight spilled through tall windows, warm and merciless, illuminating every detail. Scrolls scattered across the desk. A stack of untouched mission reports. A cooling cup of tea, forgotten. Sasuke’s eyes flicked once to the edge of the desk.

A death certificate form.
Blank, except for the red ink already bleeding across the top.

His stomach turned violently.

Kakashi gestured toward the chair in front of him. Sasuke didn’t sit.

“I’m here for an update,” he said flatly. His voice felt brittle in his throat, too thin, ready to shatter.

Kakashi exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose under the mask. His single eye had softened with something like grief. Or guilt.

“Sasuke… there’s no new information.”

Silence hit like a slap.

Sasuke’s fingers curled at his sides. His shoulders twitched—barely.

“No new information?”
The question came out low. Controlled.
Too controlled.

“We’ve expanded the search grid. Border patrols have checked every known checkpoint, every unmarked trail. We’ve sent out chakra tracers, contacted every sensory unit from the Five Nations. There’s... nothing.”

Sasuke’s jaw locked so hard it made his temple pulse.

“There is something,” he muttered, more to himself than to Kakashi. “I can still feel him.”

Kakashi’s hands folded calmly in front of him.

“Sasuke—”

“I’m bonded to him.”
Now the sharpness came back. Steel in his voice.
“I would know if he were dead. He isn’t.”

Kakashi didn’t argue. His eye dropped slightly, gaze settling on the desk between them.

“I believe you,” he said, so softly it barely registered. “But it’s been—”

“Don’t say the number.”
Sasuke’s voice trembled, just once.
“Don’t reduce him to a number .”

The quiet that followed was a living thing.
It pressed in, heavy and suffocating.

Kakashi’s mask shifted with another sigh.

“You’re exhausted,” he murmured. “You’re raising two children alone. You’re not sleeping. And now…”

“Don’t.”
Sasuke’s tone cut clean through the sentence.

His hands trembled.
His stomach twisted sharply again, a deeper cramp this time. He masked it with a shift of weight, subtle and practiced. His face remained unreadable.

He would not break here.
Not in front of Kakashi.
Not in this place.

“We haven’t given up,” Kakashi said. “I swear it. We’re still looking.”

Sasuke stared at him, eyes burning dry.

He hadn’t cried.
He wouldn’t.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said instead. The words felt splintered on his tongue.

Kakashi’s shoulders dropped.

“Sasuke…”

“I said I’ll come back tomorrow.”

He turned and left before Kakashi could say anything else.

The hallway stretched around him like a tunnel. His footsteps rang too loudly on the floorboards, like they didn’t belong to him. The air was too thick. The walls too close.

Halfway down the corridor, his stomach cramped again—sudden, sharp. He stumbled. One hand flew to his abdomen, pressing flat beneath his robe. His fingers were cold.

The medic-nin at the desk looked up, startled. Her mouth parted—about to speak.

She didn’t.

Sasuke didn’t stop.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

He walked out of the tower, eyes fixed on the horizon, his heart thudding in his chest.
The world outside was too bright.
Too normal.

Children’s laughter echoed from somewhere in the distance. The marketplace buzzed with chatter and the rustle of cloth as vendors adjusted banners in the summer breeze. Above, the banners flapped gently—carefree, like nothing was wrong.

The world kept turning.
Naruto was still gone.

By the time Sasuke made it back home, the sky had faded into a dull, gray haze—the kind Konoha wore like a second skin before the rain. His footsteps dragged up the front steps, slower than usual. His limbs felt heavy. Wrong. His body moved like it belonged to someone else.

A low pulse throbbed behind his eyes. His temples ached. There was a strange fog under his skin, thick and muffling, like he was trying to walk underwater.

When he stepped inside, the house met him with silence.

Menma was still gone for the day. Arashi was napping. The walls pressed in on him, too still, too clean, echoing with everything left unsaid.

He slid the door closed behind him. The soft click of it locking sounded louder than it should have.

He didn’t move for a moment. Just stood in the entryway, eyes unfocused, his sandals still on. A sharp wave of nausea curled up from his gut, but he swallowed it back, jaw tight.

His cloak slipped from his shoulders and pooled on the floor. His fingers moved stiffly, undoing the sash at his waist and hanging it on the hook by the door, like always. Like routine could save him.

His feet led him to the bathroom before he consciously made the choice.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Inside, dim light filtered through the high window, casting long shadows across the tile. Sasuke braced his hands against the sink, his fingers pale against the porcelain. He stared at his reflection.

He didn’t recognize it.

Dark circles painted the skin beneath his eyes. His face had grown sharper, almost hollow. His hair clung to his cheeks, unwashed, uneven. His lips were cracked, the corners raw from biting. Even his scent was off—stale, muted, like something wilting.

He blinked once.
Twice.

You look like a corpse.

The thought passed through him, cold and detached.

Then the cramp hit.

Sudden. Deep. Like a muscle pulled wrong—but worse. It twisted in his gut, sharp and nauseating. He doubled over before he could stop it. His knees struck the tile hard, pain radiating up his shins.

Then came the bile.

Hot. Bitter. Burning up his throat. His body convulsed once, then again. He gripped the cold tile floor, knuckles tight, stomach heaving until there was nothing left to bring up.

He stayed there for a while.

Kneeling. Trembling.
Forehead resting against the rim of the toilet.
His breath shallow. His chest shaking with the effort of holding himself together.

The air reeked of sickness.

His muscles refused to move. His hands felt distant, his pulse thudding through his palms as though his body no longer belonged to him.

Eventually, the nausea ebbed.

Sasuke leaned back against the wall. The tile was cold against his spine. He let his head fall back, eyes drifting shut. He exhaled slowly, jaw tight, throat raw.

His hand drifted down without thinking—fingers brushing lightly over his stomach.

There was a tightness there.

Not pain, exactly. Not a bruise. Just... off. A faint, unfamiliar pressure. His brows knit, his lips pressing into a thin, pale line. It hadn’t been there before—not like this.

He told himself it was stress.
Exhaustion.
Too many skipped meals. Too little sleep.
It had to be.

He’d been working himself to the bone, barely eating, barely resting. That had to explain the fatigue. The cramping. The nausea.

It wasn’t anything else. It couldn’t be.

He shook the thought away, angry at himself for even hesitating. His hand dropped back to his lap.

In the next room, Arashi’s soft breathing crackled through the baby monitor, steady and quiet.

Sasuke closed his eyes. His heart gave a painful twist.

He’d already failed today—burned breakfast, sent Menma off to school late, left the kitchen a mess, unable to look at the empty chair across from him without his throat closing up.

And now this.
Another weakness. Another reason his body felt wrong.

Another failure.

The corners of his vision dimmed slightly. The world tilted just enough to make him feel like he was falling, even while sitting still.

He hated this.
The not knowing. The silence.
The way his own body betrayed him while Naruto was still—

Still gone.

A quiet sound escaped his throat. Not a sob. Not quite.
Too fragile. Too sharp.

His eyes stung, but the tears didn’t come.

The clock ticked somewhere down the hallway.

Sasuke stayed curled against the wall until his legs went numb. The ache in his stomach pulsed again—low, steady, like something asking to be noticed.

But he refused to give it weight.
Refused to let his mind wander down that path.

Not now.
Not alone.

He swallowed hard. And then, barely louder than a breath, he whispered:

“Come home.”

But the silence was all that answered.

Chapter Text

The calendar by the bed was still stuck on last month. Sasuke hadn’t bothered to change it. The dates didn’t mean anything anymore—not really. At first, he’d used it to keep track. He’d scraped lines into the corner of each square with the tip of his kunai, little marks that counted the days since Naruto left for his mission. The first week, the scratches were neat, methodical. The second week, he’d started carving harder, pressing so deep that sometimes the kunai tore through the paper. By the time he hit the end of the first month, the corner of the calendar was shredded, the paper curling up at the edges, little flakes of it scattered on the nightstand like dead skin. He told himself he’d stop counting after thirty-nine days. It felt pointless after that—like keeping track was some pathetic ritual, some empty act of faith. He wasn’t that person. He didn’t believe in luck. He didn’t believe in hope.

And yet.

Each morning, his eyes still drifted toward the wall, toward the useless paper hanging there, faded numbers blurred under shallow scars.

Fifty-three days.

Fifty-three mornings spent waking up alone. Fifty-three nights spent pretending the ache in his chest was something he could sleep off. He sat up now, cold air wrapping around his shoulders, the thin robe sliding off one side of his body. His skin prickled, but he didn’t pull the fabric back up. He let the cold settle in. It was better than feeling nothing at all.

Naruto’s side of the bed was still untouched. The pillow on the right dented just the way Naruto had left it—head-shaped, hollowed out, the faintest impression of where his hair used to fall against the case. Sasuke couldn’t bring himself to smooth it over. Couldn’t wash the pillowcase. Couldn’t strip the sheets. He’d tried, once, after the second week. He’d pulled the fabric off the mattress, hands shaking, but the second he lost the smell of Naruto’s skin, his knees had given out. He’d dropped the linens on the floor and sat there with his back against the bedframe, heart stuttering in his chest like something cracked and uneven. Since then, he’d stopped trying. He left everything exactly the same. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend Naruto might come home and crawl right back into the space he left behind.

But he didn’t.

He wasn’t here.

And Sasuke was still alone.

His eyes drifted toward the window. The sky outside was grey again, soft, wintery light bleeding into the room like smoke. The paper-paneled windows caught the dawn glow, but it didn’t warm the walls. Nothing ever did anymore. Sasuke’s body ached the same way it always did when he forced himself upright. His legs protested the motion, stiff from lying too long in the same position. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed, hands tangled in his hair like he was trying to hold his skull together. Like if he let go, he might fall apart at the seams.

His palm drifted, automatic, to the back of his neck. Fingers brushing over his scent gland. The spot where Naruto’s mark had once been pressed into his skin—months ago now, before the mission. Before all this.

It was numb under his touch.

The bond was still there, but faint. Like scar tissue. Like something pressed between two pages of a book he didn’t want to read anymore. It used to be grounding—used to tether him when things got bad. Now it felt like dead weight beneath his skin.

He swallowed, throat tight. His mouth was dry again. His tongue sat thick and heavy behind his teeth, metallic. The nausea came in waves. He’d gotten used to it—ignored it most days. Just another thing his body did without his permission.

The baby monitor cracked softly in the background, static humming like white noise. Arashi was still breathing in the next room, tiny soft sounds filtering through the receiver. Menma’s door was shut, no footsteps yet. Sasuke let his head tip forward, eyes falling half-closed, just listening to the house. The walls creaked faintly under the weight of cold. Somewhere outside, the wind picked up, brushing against the windowpanes with thin fingers.

Naruto used to wake up first.

The thought came suddenly, sharp and leaden, lodging itself under Sasuke’s ribs like a splinter he couldn’t pull out. He sat there, hunched over, letting the memory slip behind his eyelids. Naruto’s voice, rough with sleep, calling out from the kitchen. The scrape of his feet on the floor, too loud in the early morning quiet. The clatter of dishes as he tried to make breakfast, humming something tuneless under his breath. Always off-key. Always there.

Now, there was only silence.

A silence so thick it stuck to Sasuke’s skin, wrapped around his lungs, heavy and suffocating. He breathed in slow through his nose, but it caught halfway through, snagging in his throat like something sharp. He let the air out just as slowly, lips parting around the breath like it hurt to let go.

His hand dropped from his neck, fingers curling into his lap.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

They weren’t supposed to end up like this.

Fifty-three days.

It had been fifty-three days since Naruto left for the mission. Fifty-three mornings waking up to cold sheets and a hollow in the mattress that still held Naruto’s shape. Fifty-three nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if he was even still alive.

Sasuke had stopped checking the mission board. Stopped going to the Hokage’s office every day. Kakashi had stopped giving him updates two weeks ago. There was nothing left to say. The search teams had come back empty. The chakra tracers had failed. Naruto’s trail was gone. Officially, he was still listed as missing-in-action.

Unofficially?

People had stopped expecting him to come home.

Sasuke hadn’t.

But some days—like today—he wasn’t sure if that was stubbornness or denial. Either way, it felt like drowning.

His stomach cramped again, sharp and low under his ribs. He pressed a hand flat against it, palm cold on skin, waiting for the ache to pass. It didn’t. Just stayed there, twisting under his fingertips. His body was breaking down in little ways. He didn’t care. He let it happen.

The sky outside shifted, pale grey light creeping higher.

Sasuke forced his eyes open, shoulders curling forward like he was trying to make himself smaller. The house was still too quiet. His heart beat too loud in his ears.

Fifty-three days.

And Naruto was still gone.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The front door slammed at exactly 9:12 p.m.

Sasuke knew the time because he’d been staring at the clock for the last three hours, counting seconds, waiting for Menma to come home.

He sat in the dark, spine pressed against the kitchen wall, arms wrapped loosely around his knees. The house lights were still off. Arashi had finally stopped crying upstairs, her small body curled in her crib after three hours of screaming. Her bottle sat half-finished on the counter, formula congealing cold in the glass. Sasuke’s head ached. His eyes burned.

When he heard the door, his stomach twisted.

Menma’s footsteps echoed through the entryway, heavy and careless, like he wasn’t trying to be quiet anymore. He kicked his shoes off loud, let his bag hit the floor with a sharp thud, then stomped into the kitchen with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Sasuke stayed still.

His eyes adjusted to the dark slowly, catching the shape of his son in the doorway—the messy hair, the sharp cut of his jaw, the smudge of dirt on his cheek. His lip was split again. There was a purpling bruise forming under his eye, ugly and swollen, but his face was set hard, mouth drawn tight like he was daring Sasuke to say something about it.

Sasuke’s throat clenched.

“Where were you.”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. His voice came out low, scraped raw from disuse, heavy with something between exhaustion and warning. But Menma didn’t flinch.

“Out.”

The answer landed like a slap.

Sasuke’s fingers twitched where they pressed into his knees. He swallowed back the heat rising in his chest, but it settled in the pit of his stomach anyway—cold, sharp, sour.

“Out where.”

“Does it matter?” Menma’s voice cut through the dark, flat and hard. “You don’t actually care.”

“That’s not true.”

“Bullshit.”

The word cracked across the room like a whip.

Sasuke’s stomach coiled tighter.

Menma’s silhouette shifted, arms folding across his chest, chin tilting up in defiance. He looked older like this—like he was trying to stand taller than he was, pretending he wasn’t still a kid. His shoulders were too thin for that kind of arrogance. His eyes, though—those were Naruto’s eyes. Same blue. Same sharpness. But colder now. Hard.

“If Dad was here,” Menma snapped, “this wouldn’t be happening.”

Sasuke’s breath snagged in his throat.

“If Dad was here,” Menma kept going, stepping closer, voice rising, “I wouldn’t have to fight kids at school just to get someone to notice me. I wouldn’t have to do everything myself. I wouldn’t have to—”

“Menma.”

His name came out too soft. A warning. A plea.

But Menma’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“—I wouldn’t be stuck here with you . ”

The words hit like a kunai to the gut.

Sasuke’s vision blurred for a second, hot pressure building behind his eyes, but he blinked it back. His chest rose and fell, shallow and sharp, heart hammering too fast against his ribs.

“I’m trying,” he whispered.

Menma’s laugh was bitter. Hollow. Like he didn’t believe it for a second.

“You’re not trying hard enough.”

“I’m doing everything I can.”

“No, you’re not.” His voice cracked in the middle but he kept going, louder now, teeth bared. “You’re useless! You’re fucking useless! You can’t even feed Arashi without screwing it up!”

Sasuke’s body went still.

The words sliced deeper than any of the others.

His stomach tightened, nausea rising fast, but he swallowed it down.

Menma’s eyes gleamed in the dark, sharp and wet, but his face stayed twisted in anger.

“If Dad was here,” he spat, “he’d make things better. He always did.”

Sasuke’s hand slammed against the floor before he could stop himself. His palm cracked against the tile with a sound too loud for the quiet house, sharp enough to make the walls shiver.

“Enough.”

The word came out broken.

Menma’s shoulders jerked, his breath hitching, but he held his ground.

Sasuke pushed himself upright, knees popping from being locked too long. His body swayed, head pounding, the room tilting slightly on its axis, but he stood anyway.

His hands shook.

“You think this is easy for me?” His voice was shaking now, cracking at the edges. “You think I’m not trying? I’m doing this alone, Menma. Alone.”

“Yeah?” Menma’s voice rose higher, sharper. “Whose fault is that? Maybe if you weren’t so fucking weak, he wouldn’t have left in the first place.”

The words shattered something in his chest.

Sasuke’s eyes burned hot. His throat closed.

“That’s not true,” he whispered.

But his hands were still shaking.

Tears welled before he could stop them. Hot streaks burned down his face, slipping past his defenses, silent at first, then harder. He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood, but the tears kept coming anyway.

Menma’s eyes widened, just for a second.

His mouth opened like he wanted to take it back—but he didn’t.

Instead, he took a step back. His fists unclenched, his arms falling to his sides, but he said nothing.

Sasuke wiped at his face roughly with the back of his sleeve, breath hitching in his throat. The sound of it echoed too loud in the kitchen, ragged and uneven. His heart pounded against his ribs, too fast, too hard.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, voice cracking in the middle. “I don’t know how to be both of us.”

Menma didn’t answer.

His shoulders dropped, his jaw set tight, but his eyes darted away, guilt twisting the corners of his mouth. He looked like he wanted to speak, but no words came out. His chest rose and fell, breath shaking in his throat.

Sasuke’s hands dropped to his sides, useless and limp.

The silence stretched between them, sharp and heavy.

Arashi stirred upstairs, a soft cry slipping through the monitor on the counter. Sasuke’s head turned slightly toward the sound, his eyes glassy, lips parted but too tired to form words.

Menma looked at the floor.

“I didn’t mean—” he started, but the sentence died halfway out of his mouth.

Sasuke closed his eyes, breath trembling, tears still sliding down his cheeks.

“I know.”

His voice was small. Flat. Defeated.

Menma swallowed hard, his throat bobbing.

Neither of them moved.

The house stayed quiet except for the sound of Arashi’s soft, broken cries in the other room.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The crying started again just after midnight.

Arashi’s voice was small but sharp, cutting through the house like a needle sliding under the skin. Sasuke barely heard it at first. His body had already gone numb—limbs loose, head tipped back against the kitchen wall where he’d stayed since the fight with Menma. His eyes were half-closed, staring at nothing, the cold tile pressed against the base of his spine.

The clock blinked at him from across the room.
12:04 a.m.

Her cries rose and fell in thin waves through the baby monitor, little hiccupped sobs between gasps for air.

Sasuke didn’t move.

His chest barely rose when he breathed. His hands rested limp in his lap, fingertips cold, nails pressing soft dents into the flesh of his thighs. His face was still wet from earlier, tear streaks drying tacky on his cheeks.

Arashi kept crying.

Her voice crackled through the monitor like static.
Short, sharp sounds. A helpless noise. No words. No meaning. Just need.

He counted the seconds between each breath.

One. Two. Three. Cry.
One. Two. Cry.
One. Cry.

His stomach twisted, tight and cold.

He pushed himself up finally—slow, mechanical, the way someone might pull a puppet upright by tangled strings. His knees protested. His back screamed. His head spun faintly as he leaned on the counter for balance, heart thudding too fast beneath his ribs.

Arashi cried harder.

Her voice climbed an octave, hoarse from too many nights like this. She’d been inconsolable for days now—clinging to his chest one minute, arching away the next. Her body wanted something he couldn’t give her. She could smell the difference. All babies could.

Sasuke pressed his palm to his temple, eyes squeezing shut.

He hated the sound of her crying. Hated how it cracked through his skin, carved holes in his chest, made him feel like something hollow and raw. Like he was failing twice—first Menma, now her.

His fingers drifted to the base of his neck. The scent gland there throbbed faintly, a useless ache under his skin.

He used to produce milk. With Menma, it had been easier. His body had known what to do back then. The bond with Naruto had kept him stable—kept his hormones soft, his scent warm. His milk had come in fast, heavy, sometimes too much.

Now there was nothing.

His body was empty. Dry.
Omega but broken.

He tried everything the first few weeks. Herbal teas. Pressure points. Heat pads on his chest. Relaxation techniques. None of it worked. Stress killed supply faster than anything else.

And Sasuke was drowning in stress.

He gripped the countertop tighter, breath rattling in his throat.

Arashi’s cries pitched higher.

His stomach flipped. His throat tightened.

He pushed off the counter and stumbled toward the fridge. The formula was still sitting on the top shelf, a small tin that mocked him every time he opened the door. Powdered failure.

He hated it.

Every scoop felt like admitting he wasn’t enough. That his body wasn’t doing what it was supposed to do.

But Arashi was hungry. And no amount of guilt could change that.

Sasuke’s hands trembled as he measured the formula into the bottle, cold water splashing at the edges. His fingers slipped twice on the lid. The bottle fell to the counter once, rolling in slow circles before he caught it again. His stomach lurched at the sound of plastic scraping against tile.

His eyes burned.

He screwed the lid on tighter, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ached.

Arashi’s cries turned into hiccups. Her voice cracked at the edges.

Sasuke’s chest tightened.

He carried the bottle upstairs with cold fingers, each step heavier than the last. His feet dragged on the wooden stairs. His breath barely made it past his lips.

When he pushed open her door, the nightlight cast everything in soft blue shadows.

Arashi lay twisted in her blanket, tiny fists clenching and unclenching against the mattress, cheeks wet, eyes swollen from crying. Her mouth opened again, but the sound caught in her throat this time—hoarse and pitiful, like she was too tired to keep screaming.

Sasuke’s heart cracked wider.

He scooped her up slowly, carefully, pulling her against his chest. Her body was so small. So warm. Her scent hit him in waves—baby powder, sweat, faint traces of Naruto’s chakra still lingering in her skin like static electricity.

His eyes burned harder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against her hair. His voice broke halfway through.

He sat in the rocking chair by the window, holding her close, the bottle warm in his hand. She nuzzled against his chest first, rooting instinctively, mouth searching for something that wasn’t there.

The bottle bumped against her lips.

She turned her face away. Tiny fists beat weakly against his collarbone.

Sasuke swallowed the lump in his throat.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know it’s not what you want.”

He pressed the bottle back again, gentler this time. Her mouth latched after a few seconds, but her eyes stayed wet, staring up at him with that wide, helpless look that made his stomach twist sideways.

His own tears started again, silent this time, slipping down his cheeks in slow, hot streaks. He let them fall, lips pressed into the crown of her head.

“I’m trying,” he whispered.

His hands shook as he cradled the bottle, the formula sloshing faintly inside.

“I’m trying. I’m sorry.”

The chair rocked beneath him, creaking softly in the dark.

Arashi drank in small, tired gulps, her lashes sticking to her cheeks, little breathy whimpers between swallows. Her body curled tighter against his chest, one hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

Sasuke stared out the window, vision blurred.

There was no moon tonight.

Just black sky.

Empty.

Like everything else.

Chapter Text

Sasuke stared at his reflection and didn’t recognize himself.

The bathroom mirror was streaked with condensation, a thin film of fog still clinging to the glass from the shower he’d taken hours ago. He hadn’t wiped it away. He didn’t want to see too clearly.

But his eyes found the image anyway, blurred and pale in the dim light.

His skin looked thinner now. Hollowed out in places where it used to be sharp. Cheekbones sharper, shadows deeper, eyes rimmed dark from nights without sleep. His lips were pale. His mouth, tight. There were lines in his face he didn’t remember earning.

His stomach clenched again.

For weeks, he’d told himself the nausea was from stress. That the dizziness was just exhaustion. That the shaking in his hands, the tightness in his chest, the hot flashes that burned under his skin—those were just byproducts of grief. Of trauma.

But now his scent was shifting.

And there was no denying what that meant.

He pressed his palm flat against his belly, fingertips cold against skin that felt too soft, too warm, too foreign.

No. He wasn’t ready for this. Couldn’t be.

His throat tightened, dry and raw, but he didn’t look away from the mirror. His reflection stared back—static, silent, useless. His body looked the same as it always had from the outside. But inside, something was happening. Something he couldn’t stop.

His scent gland pulsed faintly at the base of his neck. The faintest trace of new omega hormones whispered beneath his usual chakra signature, mixing with something bitter, something sour. His body was changing in ways he couldn’t control. Ways he didn’t ask for.

He pressed his fingers harder against his stomach.

Underneath the robe, his abdomen was soft. Swollen in a way that wasn’t quite visible yet, but noticeable to him. His hand remembered what this felt like from the last two pregnancies—the faint stretch, the shift in his center of gravity, the way his body hummed low and constant beneath his skin, preparing itself for something he didn’t have room for.

Not now. Not alone.

He closed his eyes and leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the mirror.

His breath fogged the glass again, white mist smudging the reflection into nothing. His stomach twisted—nausea rising fast in the back of his throat.

He swallowed hard.

The scent of the house clung to him still. Baby powder from Arashi’s room. The faint, sour scent of Menma’s sweat from his uniform. Milk formula. Old tea. Cold sweat. His own pheromones were muddied now, no longer clean, no longer calm.

Naruto’s scent was fading.

That was the worst part.

He could still smell it sometimes in the bedsheets, ghost-thin, hiding beneath the layers of other things. But the bond had dulled. The warmth had gone flat. His body didn’t have a tether anymore, and it showed.

His hands gripped the sink until his knuckles went white.

He wanted to be sick again, but there was nothing left in his stomach to lose.

Only the ache stayed.

He counted his breaths in the quiet.

One. Two. Three. Four.

No chakra to stabilize his hormones. No partner to ground the bond. No solution.

Just another child growing inside him when he could barely take care of the ones already here.

He thought of Arashi, soft and small in her crib, her little mouth rooting against his chest for milk that wasn’t there.

He thought of Menma, upstairs behind a closed door, bruises on his face, fists clenched in anger because there was no one left to blame but Sasuke.

His stomach tightened again.

He pressed his hand harder against it, eyes still closed, forehead against the cold mirror.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered.

His reflection said nothing back.

The clinic lights were too bright.

Sterile white panels buzzed overhead, humming softly, flickering just enough to set Sasuke’s teeth on edge. The air inside the room was sharp with antiseptic—bleach, alcohol, chakra sterilization seals—all woven together into something cold and chemical. The kind of smell that clung to his clothes afterward, following him home like guilt.

He sat on the edge of the examination table, stiff-backed and tense, his hands pressed flat against the crinkled paper beneath him. The paper shifted when he breathed, rustling too loudly in the sterile quiet. His stomach rolled again, twisting low in his gut, but he kept his face expressionless. His palms were slick with sweat.

The nurse moved quietly near the corner of the room, rifling through a thin file. She was younger than he expected—early twenties, maybe. Hair pinned back neatly. Uniform spotless. Her chakra was calm, clipped at the edges like she’d trained herself not to flinch around grieving people anymore.

Her eyes stayed on the papers. Her voice was soft but detached. Professional.

“Sasuke-san,” she started, lips tightening slightly as she flipped another page. “Your results came back.”

Sasuke kept his gaze fixed on the floor.

He already knew.

The nausea wasn’t a coincidence. The sharp shifts in his scent—sweet one day, sour the next—weren’t just stress. The fatigue. The hot flashes. The ache deep in his pelvis.

He’d known what the bloodwork would say before she even called him in.

Still, hearing it out loud would make it real.

The nurse exhaled quietly through her nose, clipboard held stiff in her hands.

“You’re pregnant,” she said, voice steady. “Seven weeks.”

Sasuke’s chest locked tight.

His stomach pressed harder into itself, like his body wanted to cave inward.

Seven.

He thought of the calendar on his nightstand. The tally marks he’d stopped scratching in after the thirty-ninth day. Naruto had been gone eight weeks now.

The math lined up.

Sasuke’s throat clicked when he swallowed. His fingers pressed harder into the table, crumpling the paper beneath his grip until it tore slightly at the edge.

The last time they’d been together had been rushed—half-dressed, clumsy with exhaustion and worry, hands shaking but mouths desperate. Sasuke had held Naruto too tightly, fingers bruising his shoulders, like he could make the moment last longer if he just didn’t let go.

“I’ll be back before Arashi can walk,” Naruto had whispered into his neck, voice warm and breathless.

That had been almost two months ago.

Now Sasuke was here. Alone. Carrying another child.

His body was already changing. His scent profile had shifted—omega hormones curling just beneath the surface, muddying his chakra signature. His chest ached sometimes in the middle of the night, phantom pains of something preparing to nurse. His stomach felt heavier every morning, just slightly. Not enough to show. Just enough to know.

The nurse set the clipboard down and pulled on a pair of gloves. The latex snapped softly against her wrists.

“I’ll need to do a physical assessment today,” she said, voice smoothing into the rhythm of medical routine. “Standard prenatal check.”

Sasuke said nothing.

She stepped closer, warm hands pressing briefly against his forearm to check his pulse. Her fingers were cool beneath the gloves, but her touch was gentle.

“Heart rate’s elevated.”

Of course it was. He was barely holding himself together.

She unwrapped the blood pressure cuff next, looping it around his bicep with mechanical ease. The Velcro rasped loudly in the small room.

“Breathe normally, please.”

Sasuke forced air in and out of his lungs. Shallow. Stiff.

The cuff tightened around his arm until his fingers tingled.

The nurse scribbled numbers onto her chart.

“Blood pressure’s high. That’s expected with recent trauma.”

Her voice was clinical, but her eyes flicked toward him briefly, searching for cracks.

He gave her nothing back.

She picked up the doppler wand next.

“Lie back for me, please.”

Sasuke’s stomach twisted again, but he obeyed. He leaned back slowly, his spine stiff against the cold metal of the examination bed, paper crinkling loud in his ears. The nurse lifted his shirt with careful hands, exposing pale skin stretched across his abdomen. It wasn’t noticeably different yet. Flat enough to pass. But the omega scent was there now, soft at the edges, curling around his chakra like a secret he couldn’t hide.

The cold gel splashed onto his stomach. He didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened.

The wand pressed against his skin, slow circles as she searched.

Static buzzed softly from the monitor. White noise filled the room. For a moment, there was nothing but the hollow crackle of sound.

Then—

A faint, fluttering rhythm.

Too fast to be his. Too soft to be ignored.

The heartbeat wasn’t fully stable yet—too early for clarity—but it was there.

Alive.

Sasuke’s throat burned.

The nurse smiled faintly, but her eyes stayed distant.

“Fetal heart tone is present,” she murmured, wiping the gel from his skin with a practiced hand. “Seven weeks aligns with your last reported cycle.”

Sasuke didn’t respond. His arms twitched slightly at his sides, but he stayed still.

The nurse peeled off her gloves, tossing them into the bin.

“I’ll set you up with prenatal vitamins,” she continued, flipping through more papers. “You’ll need regular scans. Given how soon this is after your last delivery, you’re at higher risk for fatigue, hormone instability, and bonding complications.”

Her eyes flicked up at him again.

“And given your… current situation,” she added, voice tightening at the edges, “it’s especially important to stabilize your health for the baby.”

Sasuke’s fingers curled in the fabric of his cloak.

“I don’t want supplements.”

His voice was quiet. Flat. But final.

The nurse blinked, surprise flashing briefly across her face before professionalism snapped back into place.

“I understand this isn’t ideal,” she said, her tone softening but the steel underneath didn’t vanish. “But the village needs you stable, Sasuke-san. You have children depending on you.”

His stomach knotted tighter.

“You’ll need to take care of yourself.”

Her voice dropped lower, like she thought it would make the words kinder.

“We all understand what happened to Lord Seventh was tragic, but—”

Sasuke’s eyes snapped up, sharp and black.

“He’s not dead.”

The air in the room chilled instantly.

The nurse swallowed hard, chakra thinning slightly at the edges. Her hands twitched toward her clipboard.

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, eyes widening briefly.

Sasuke looked away again, his jaw locked so tight it hurt.

The nurse shuffled back, footsteps small and stiff. She reached for the door, her clipboard clutched against her chest like a shield.

“I’ll… give you a moment to dress,” she said, her voice wrapped in pity now. That awful, soft tone people used when they thought you were broken beyond repair. “Konoha needs you strong, Sasuke-san. For the children. For the clan.”

The door clicked softly behind her.

Silence swallowed the room whole.

Sasuke stayed where he was, still lying flat, eyes locked on the ceiling now. The lights above buzzed faintly, the glow blurring at the corners of his vision. His chest rose and fell in shallow, mechanical breaths.

His fingers drifted toward his stomach.

Still mostly flat. Still the same. But not really.

There was something alive in there now.

Something he hadn’t asked for. Something he wasn’t sure he could love.

His throat tightened until it hurt.

He closed his eyes but couldn’t stop the image in his head: Naruto standing by the door, hitae-ate crooked, jacket half-zipped, promising—

“I’ll be home before Arashi can walk.”

Sasuke pressed his palm harder into his abdomen, cold sweat sliding down his temples.

The overhead light kept buzzing.

His body felt like a trap.

 
                                                                                ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The sun was low in the sky, a dull orange glow bleeding through the Hokage’s office window. The air inside was stale and still, touched by the faint scent of old parchment and dust. Sasuke stood awkwardly near the door, his hands tucked deep inside his cloak’s sleeves. He could feel the weight of the secret pressing against his ribs, making it hard to breathe.

Kakashi looked up from his desk, eyes soft but alert beneath the familiar slant of his forehead protector. The ever-present mask hid most of his expression, but the slight tilt of his head, the quiet settling of his gaze, told Sasuke everything he needed to know.

“You’re late,” Kakashi said quietly, a faint humor in his tone that didn’t reach his eyes.

Sasuke swallowed, feeling the dryness spread through his throat. His mouth was suddenly too tight, too full of things he couldn’t say.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the floor cold beneath his boots. The cloak felt heavier than usual, as if it had absorbed all the weariness in the world.

“I’m pregnant,” Sasuke said finally, the words tumbling out like shards of glass.

His voice was hollow and brittle. No pride. No relief. Just a raw admission that carried more weight than he could bear.

Kakashi’s one visible eye narrowed slightly, the sharp intelligence behind it flickering with a quiet understanding.

“I thought as much,” Kakashi said, voice low and steady.

Sasuke’s gaze dropped to the floor, tracing the cracks in the tile like a lifeline. His fingers clenched at the hem of his cloak, nails biting into the fabric until his skin stung.

“I haven’t told anyone else,” he added, barely above a whisper.

The room was silent except for the distant sound of the wind brushing against the paper walls. Time seemed to stretch and twist around them, heavy and slow.

Kakashi leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk, his posture relaxed but careful.

“You don’t have to,” he said softly.

There was no judgment in his voice, only the barest edge of sympathy.

Sasuke’s throat tightened. The hollow ache in his chest deepened, and the fragile mask he’d been holding cracked a little more.

“I’m not ready,” he admitted, the words fragile as glass.

Kakashi’s eye softened, and he gave a slow nod.

“Who would be?” he murmured. “You’re carrying more than just a child. You’re carrying the weight of everything left unsaid.”

Sasuke’s mind spiraled, dragging him back to the morning when Naruto had left.

The dawn was just breaking when Sasuke woke to the soft rustle of fabric and the faint murmur of Naruto moving around the small room they shared.

Naruto was fumbling with his hitae-ate, tying the worn cloth awkwardly around his forehead. His fingers were clumsy but determined, the knot uneven and loose.

Sasuke watched quietly from the edge of the futon, the sheets tangled beneath him. His gaze traced the soft curve of Naruto’s jaw, the way his messy blond hair caught the early sunlight, gold and wild.

“You’re tying it wrong,” Sasuke said softly, voice rough from sleep.

Naruto grinned without looking up.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s my signature look.”

Sasuke reached out before he could stop himself, fingers hovering near Naruto’s forehead. But instead of fixing the knot, he let his hand fall back to his lap, clenched into a fist.

Naruto caught his hesitation.

“Hey,” he said, voice gentle. “Don’t worry.”

He stepped closer, the scent of his skin—a heady mix of salt, sweat, and warmth—filling the small space between them.

Naruto leaned down, resting a hand lightly on Sasuke’s shoulder and pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.

“I’ll be home before Arashi can walk,” he whispered.

The words hung between them, fragile and bright, like a promise made on the edge of a storm.

Sasuke swallowed hard, eyes brimming with unshed tears.

“You better be,” he whispered back.

Naruto smiled, eyes shining with hope and something fierce.

The moment was small, perfect—an island of light before the darkness swallowed it whole.

Sasuke’s fingers curled into his cloak as he stood in the quiet office, eyes fixed on the floor.

The weight of the secret pressed down like a stone.

Kakashi watched him for a long moment, then said quietly, “I’ll cover for you. No one has to know.”

The offer was a lifeline, but it came with a price: isolation. A deeper loneliness.

Sasuke nodded, swallowing the lump rising in his throat.

His hand drifted to his stomach—soft, unyielding, and terrifyingly alive beneath the fabric.

“I’m not ready,” he said again, voice barely audible.

Kakashi gave a slow, understanding nod.

“Take your time. You have my support.”

Sasuke’s jaw clenched tight.

Time was the one thing he didn’t have.

Chapter Text

The Hokage’s office was too quiet.

Sasuke stood just outside the door, back pressed against the cold wall, arms folded tight across his chest like a shield. His fingers flexed and curled under the fabric of his cloak, nails digging crescent moons into his skin where no one could see.

He hadn’t planned to come. He’d ignored the summons at first, letting it sit on the kitchen counter for hours beside half-finished bottles and uneaten rice. But in the end, he was here anyway, dragged by something heavier than duty. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was some awful sense of obligation, like he had to stand in this hallway and listen to them say it out loud.

Official.

The word buzzed in his skull, static loud beneath his skin.

Inside the office, muffled voices murmured—soft, bureaucratic tones, the kind people used when grief was paperwork and tragedy had to be filed in triplicate. Sasuke’s stomach twisted.

His gaze stayed locked on the floor tiles. His reflection ghosted faintly in the glass of the window beside him—pale skin, hollow eyes, lips pressed into a thin white line.

It had been raining since dawn.

Outside, gray clouds sagged heavy over the Hokage Monument. Thin ribbons of rain streaked down the window, tracing over his reflection like scars. The village streets below were slick with puddles. He could see the people moving under umbrellas, their footsteps small and blurred, like ants from this height.

Fifty-three days.

That’s how long it had been since Naruto left.

Sasuke had counted every one.

First the days. Then the nights. Then the hours between. He’d stopped sleeping somewhere along the way, but he didn’t remember exactly when.

The door opened.

“Sasuke.”

Kakashi’s voice was low, soft at the edges, but there was no hiding the heaviness in it.

Sasuke didn’t move at first. His pulse thudded hard behind his eyes.

Kakashi stepped back from the doorway, giving him space to enter.

“Come in.”

Sasuke pushed off the wall slowly, like his limbs didn’t quite belong to him. His boots clicked softly against the tile. The air inside the Hokage’s office was stale, thick with ink, paper, and rain-soaked cloth. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the cold.

He didn’t sit.

His feet planted him near the desk, arms still folded tight. His cloak clung to his shoulders like lead.

Kakashi didn’t waste time.

“It’s been decided,” he said, voice quiet. He tapped a stack of papers on the desk—mission logs, casualty reports, intelligence briefings stamped with the village crest. “We’re declaring Naruto Uzumaki missing in action. Presumed killed.”

The words landed like stones in Sasuke’s stomach.

His throat locked.

His jaw tightened until his teeth ached.

“Fifty-three days,” Kakashi continued, his one visible eye softening. “There’s been no contact. No intel. No sightings. No survivors from his squad.”

Sasuke’s fingers curled harder into his cloak.

“I don’t care.”

His voice came out low, but it cracked near the end. His vision blurred for half a second, but he forced the sting back.

Protocol. That’s all this was.

Official declarations. Statements for the public. Memorial services with scrolls and lanterns and incense.

It wasn’t real.

Naruto wasn’t dead.

Sasuke would know if he was.

His scent would’ve vanished from the world.

His mark would’ve faded from Sasuke’s gland.

He would’ve felt it—the severing, the cut. But it wasn’t there. The bond still sat under his skin like a frayed thread, thin but not broken.

Kakashi watched him for a long moment.

“We have to notify the village,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “The council’s expecting a formal announcement by noon.”

Sasuke’s stomach twisted hard.

“I’m not going.”

Kakashi’s gaze dropped to the desk.

“I won’t make you.”

The room held a heavy silence. Outside, rain tapped harder against the windows, soft and relentless. Sasuke’s throat burned.

His mind reached for Naruto automatically, the way it always did in moments like this.

He pictured the last time he’d seen him—jacket half-zipped, hitae-ate crooked, eyes too bright for how exhausted he was.

“I’ll be home before Arashi can walk.”

The words clawed through his chest now.

Sasuke pressed his lips together until they went numb.

He could feel Kakashi watching him, but he didn’t lift his gaze. He stood there, rooted to the spot, hands trembling faintly beneath his sleeves.

The paper on the desk fluttered slightly as Kakashi signed it, the ink still wet.

Sasuke’s knees locked.

Naruto’s name was written at the top of the page.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The village gathered under gray skies.

By midday, the rain had thinned into a soft, cold drizzle—just enough to soak through clothes, enough to sting skin, but not enough to cancel the ceremony. Umbrellas bloomed across the crowd like wilted flowers, black fabric unfurling against the pale sky.

Sasuke stood at the window of his house, eyes fixed on the square below.

He hadn’t changed clothes since the morning. His cloak still clung to his shoulders, damp at the edges, sleeves heavy where his hands hung useless at his sides.

The world beyond the glass was blurred slightly by condensation, but he didn’t wipe it away.

He wanted it that way.

It made everything softer, like a painting smudged at the corners. Lanterns swayed in the breeze, their flames small and fragile, flickering under the weight of the wet air. Paper talismans fluttered from strings tied across the memorial archway, soaked through, ink bleeding at the edges.

Someone was speaking into a microphone, but the words didn’t reach this far.

Sasuke’s mouth tasted like metal.

His heart pressed sharp against his ribs, but his face stayed blank.

He’d refused to attend.

Kakashi had told him it was his right. “You don’t have to stand in front of the crowd,” he’d said gently. “You don’t owe them that.”

Sasuke wasn’t sure if it was kindness or pity.

Either way, he hadn’t gone.

Instead, he watched from the window, frozen in place while the entire village mourned the person he refused to believe was gone.

A tall figure held Naruto’s Hokage cloak over the platform, letting it catch the breeze—white fabric heavy with rain, the red fire kanji darkened by water. It looked wrong without Naruto inside it. Like an empty shell. A hollowed-out skin.

Sasuke’s hands twitched at his sides.

His fingers ached to reach for something. His stomach clenched, cold sweat sliding down his spine.

Below, the crowd shifted as incense was lit.

White smoke curled upward, fragile and slow, disappearing into the wet sky. The smell of sandalwood and crushed cedar leaves floated faintly through the open window. It coated Sasuke’s tongue, bitter and sweet at the same time.

He pressed his palm flat against the windowpane, cool glass beneath his skin. His breath fogged the surface, but he didn’t move.

Lanterns drifted in the air now, released by small hands and solemn faces.

Each one was a prayer.

Each one carried a name.

Sasuke’s throat burned.

He stayed silent, watching his own reflection in the window blur and sharpen with each breath.

In the crowd below, he could just make out familiar figures—Shikamaru standing stiffly near the front, head bowed. Sakura with her hands pressed together in front of her chest, lips moving in quiet prayer. Kakashi’s silver hair caught the rain, his shoulders squared under the weight of his cloak.

Someone whispered Naruto’s name into the sky.

The sound carried just far enough for Sasuke to hear it, slicing through the fog in his ears.

His nails scraped softly against the glass.

Outside, the villagers bowed their heads in unison, a sea of black and gray cloaks shifting together.

The square held hundreds of bodies.

Sasuke felt more alone than he ever had in his life.

The rain picked up again, soft but steady.

His chest tightened until it hurt.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The front door slammed so hard the walls shivered.

Sasuke blinked, but he didn’t turn away from the window. His palm stayed pressed against the cold glass, rain still streaking outside. His reflection stared back at him—gray skin, black eyes rimmed with red. His lips barely moved when he whispered Naruto’s name again under his breath.

Behind him, footsteps stomped through the house.

Wet sandals squeaked on the wood floor. A backpack hit the wall with a loud, angry thud. Menma’s chakra was sharp, loud in the air, sparking off the walls like static. His mood came before his words. Hot. Bitter. Electric.

Sasuke closed his eyes for half a second.

He’d known this was coming.

“You didn’t even show up.”

Menma’s voice cracked, loud and cold from behind him.

“You didn’t even come, Dad.”

Sasuke’s jaw tightened. His throat burned.

He stayed facing the window, eyes half-lidded, body stiff.

“You should’ve been there.” Menma’s voice rose, sharp like a blade. “The whole village was there. Even Kakashi-sensei. But you—”

The boy’s breath hitched, but he swallowed it down and forced his words out anyway.

“You’re pathetic.”

Sasuke’s heart twisted in his chest. His fingers twitched against the glass, but he didn’t turn.

His voice came out low, soft enough that it almost disappeared into the sound of rain.

“I told you. I’m not going to that.”

“You’re a coward.”

Menma’s chakra spiked again, hotter this time, his fists clenching at his sides.

“They burned incense for him today.”

Sasuke’s eyes stayed on the window, blurred lanterns still floating in the sky outside.

“He’s not dead.”

His voice cracked slightly at the end.

Menma laughed, but there was no humor in it—just something sharp and broken, something painful.

“Yeah?” His shoulders shook with it. “Is that what you’re gonna tell yourself forever?”

Sasuke finally turned around.

His eyes locked onto Menma’s—those same blue eyes, Naruto’s eyes, but colder now. Hardened by grief that came too fast for someone his age.

Sasuke’s stomach pulled tight.

“You don’t know that he’s gone,” he whispered, but the words tasted like blood in his mouth. “You don’t know.”

Menma stepped closer, his sandals leaving wet prints on the floor.

“I know he’s not here.”

His voice sliced through the room like a kunai.

“I know you’re not doing shit except sitting in here pretending he’s gonna walk back through the door like nothing happened.”

Sasuke’s eyes burned, but he held his ground.

“I’m—”

“You’re what?” Menma cut him off, shoulders shaking. “You’re gonna say you’re doing your best?”

His lip curled, face red with fury.

“You don’t cook anymore. You don’t help Arashi when she cries. You don’t even take me to training!”

Sasuke’s chest tightened, guilt rising like bile in his throat.

“I’m trying, Menma.”

“No, you’re not!” The boy’s voice cracked, sharp and too loud for the small house. “You’re just—hiding! Sitting here like a ghost!”

Sasuke’s vision blurred for a second. He blinked fast, but it wasn’t enough to stop the heat gathering behind his eyes.

Menma’s fists clenched tighter.

“If only he was here,” he spat, voice shaking, “this wouldn’t be happening.”

Sasuke flinched.

The words landed hard. Sharp. Right in the place that still felt like a wound.

“If only he was here, things wouldn’t be so pathetic as it is now.”

Something in Sasuke cracked.

Before he could stop himself, his voice rose, sharper than he meant.

“Don’t say that.”

His hands shook at his sides, nails digging into his palms. His heart slammed against his ribs.

“Don’t you—” His voice broke again, breath hitching. “Don’t you talk about him like he’s gone.”

Menma’s face twisted, red eyes wide now, like he hadn’t expected Sasuke to yell back.

But Sasuke wasn’t done.

“You think I don’t feel this too?” His voice shook, cracking at the edges. “You think I don’t wake up every day wanting to die because he’s not here?”

His chest heaved, throat closing tighter with every word.

“You think I don’t hate myself? For not knowing where he is? For not saving him?”

Tears slid down his cheeks, hot and silent. He didn’t bother wiping them away.

Menma’s breath hitched.

His anger faltered for a second. His chakra wavered.

Sasuke’s knees almost buckled.

“I’m doing everything I can,” he whispered, voice breaking now, barely air. “I’m—trying, Menma. But I don’t know how to do this without him.”

Silence spread through the room like cold water.

Menma’s eyes widened, guilt flashing behind his anger. His mouth opened, then closed again.

“I—”

Sasuke looked away first, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle a sound he didn’t want to make. His shoulders shook once, twice.

“I’m sorry,” Menma whispered, his voice smaller now. His fists uncurled.

But Sasuke didn’t answer.

He stood in the middle of the room, eyes red, chest heaving, clutching Naruto’s old jacket against his ribs so tightly it left creases in the fabric.

The rain kept tapping against the windows, soft and cold.

Menma took a step back.

His sandals squeaked on the floor, but he didn’t leave this time.

He just stood there, watching his father break apart quietly in the dark.

The house was too quiet after Menma went to bed.

Sasuke sat alone on the living room floor, back pressed against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest. The lights were off. He didn’t need them. The glow from the street lamps bled weakly through the window shutters, casting pale, watery stripes across the tatami. Everything else was shadow.

His fingers gripped Naruto’s old jacket.

It was too big for him, thick in the sleeves where Naruto used to roll them up. The fabric still smelled faintly like him—not fresh, not recent, but traces of sweat and sandalwood, old chakra residue baked into the seams. Sasuke pressed his face into the cloth, breathing in like it might tether him to something.

It didn’t.

His throat tightened, and a sound slipped out—a quiet, broken thing he didn’t recognize at first. His lips trembled against the collar of the jacket, breath catching, shoulders curling in on themselves like he could make his body smaller, tighter, disappear into the fabric if he tried hard enough.

Rain tapped against the windows.

It had been tapping for hours. He tried not to count the drops, but his mind kept doing it anyway. One-two-three. One-two-three. Like a slow metronome for grief.

His eyes stayed wide open in the dark.

He couldn’t close them. Couldn’t risk seeing more of Naruto’s face behind his eyelids, or hearing that voice again in his head, soft and low— “I’ll be home before Arashi can walk.”

Arashi.

The thought hit him hard in the ribs.

She’d started pulling herself up on the couch last week. Wobbling on tiny feet, fists clenched in the fabric to steady herself. She’d almost said her first real word. It wasn’t Papa. It wasn’t Dada. It was just a sound, breathy and soft—but she had reached for him when she said it.

And Sasuke had barely held it together.

His hands pressed tighter into the jacket now, knuckles white. His heartbeat skittered in his chest, fast and shallow.

“You’re not dead.”

The words left him like breath. A whisper into the folds of cloth.

“You’re not dead.”

His throat closed halfway through the second time, the sound breaking apart at the edges.

“I—I know you’re not.”

His voice cracked again, small and raw. He sounded like Menma when he cried as a child, back when Sasuke still knew how to hold him and make it better.

His eyes burned, but the tears were silent now. They slipped down his cheeks unchecked, soaking into Naruto’s jacket, turning the fabric damp beneath his chin.

“I’ll wait.”

His fingers curled tighter around the cloth.

“I’ll wait for you.”

His body rocked slightly without meaning to—back and forth, knees drawn tight against his chest. It was a rhythm older than thought, the kind that came when you didn’t know how else to stay breathing.

Naruto wasn’t dead.

He wasn’t.

Sasuke would know if he was.

He pressed his hand against the hollow of his throat, palm resting over the faint, ghost-throb of the bond at his scent gland. It was still there. Not gone. Not fully.

Cold. Frayed. But not severed.

“I’ll wait,” he whispered again, mouth against fabric.

Outside, the rain kept falling. The lanterns in the square had long since burned out, their ashes scattered by wind. The village slept.

Sasuke didn’t.

His body stayed curled against the wall, clutching Naruto’s jacket until the sky outside started to bleed toward morning.

Chapter Text

The door slammed hard enough to shake the windows.

Sasuke barely flinched.

His body was stiff, hunched in the kitchen, a half-washed dish still in his hand. Soap suds slid down his wrist, dripping onto the floor. He didn’t move.

He didn’t have to.

He already knew who it was.

Heavy footsteps stomped down the hall, fast and reckless, the sound of someone who wanted to be heard. Wanted to make sure he knew.

Sasuke set the dish down carefully in the sink.

“Menma.”

His voice came out flat.

The footsteps stopped.

Then, sharp and bitter:
“What?”

Sasuke wiped his hands on a rag slowly, buying himself time. His chest felt tight again, like it had every day for weeks. His body wasn’t healing right. His head wasn’t right. Nothing was.

“You skipped school.”

“So?”

Menma stood in the doorway now, eyes wild, hoodie stained with dirt and blood. His lip was cracked, his jaw scraped raw. His fists clenched at his sides, thin shoulders rising and falling fast.

Sasuke’s stomach dropped.

“What the hell happened to your face?”

“None of your business.”

Sasuke’s jaw tightened.

“You got into a fight.”

“No shit.”

The words came out sharp, biting. Menma shifted his weight like he was ready for a hit, even though Sasuke had never laid a hand on him. His eyes flicked up fast—blue, cold, defiant.

“I asked you not to fight.”

“Yeah, well. You ask a lot of things.”

Sasuke’s throat closed for a second. His hands twitched at his sides.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Menma’s breath came in quick, shallow bursts. His chest rose and fell hard.

“You don’t get to act like my dad right now.”

That landed sharp.

Sasuke’s heart jolted, but his face stayed still.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re not here.” Menma’s fists clenched tighter. His eyes glinted, wet but furious. “Not really.”

Sasuke swallowed hard.

“I’m standing right in front of you.”

“Yeah? Then why do you look through me?”

The words hit fast, fast enough that Sasuke barely saw them coming.

“You don’t see me anymore. You don’t listen to me. You don’t even notice when I leave the house.”

Sasuke’s hands flexed once, twice.

“I notice.”

“Bullshit.”

His son’s voice cracked.

“You don’t see me unless I’m bleeding.”

Sasuke’s stomach twisted, breath catching halfway.

“That’s not—”

“It is.” Menma’s voice dropped lower now, tight and bitter. “You didn’t even ask why I fought.”

Sasuke blinked.

His throat worked, but no sound came out.

“You just care that it happened. Not why.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Sasuke’s mouth opened, but Menma didn’t wait for an answer.

“I fought because I’m pissed off, okay?”

His hands trembled. His voice shook but didn’t break.

“Because no one talks to me unless I screw up. Because you’re so busy falling apart in the kitchen I have to be the parent half the time.”

Sasuke’s jaw clenched.

“That’s not fair.”

“Oh?” Menma laughed, but there was no humor in it. “What’s fair? That I have to watch Arashi all night while you cry in the bathroom?”

Sasuke’s shoulders stiffened.

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“No. You just let it happen.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed, sharp and bright with anger.

“You don’t cook. You don’t clean. You don’t get out of bed half the time.”

“I’m trying,” Sasuke whispered.

“Try harder.”

The words snapped out like a whip.

“You’re my father, not a ghost.”

Sasuke’s chest cracked open.

His eyes stung, but he blinked fast, swallowing it down.

“You think I like this?” His voice came out raw now, shaking at the edges. “You think I want to be like this?”

“I don’t know what you want, Dad.” Menma’s voice dropped to a whisper, low and bitter. “Because you don’t talk to me.”

Sasuke’s knees almost buckled.

He stepped forward, but Menma stepped back.

“You don’t tell me anything. You don’t even look at me.”

“I’m looking at you right now.”

“Then look harder.”

His hands shook.

“Look at me like I’m your kid.”

Sasuke’s throat burned.

He wanted to say something—anything—but the words tangled in his chest, stuck behind the guilt.

Menma’s eyes shone, but he blinked it back fast.

“I’m going to my room.”

His voice came out flat now, quiet.

“And if you actually care, you’ll figure out how to be here when I come back out.”

Sasuke reached for him, but Menma’s shoulders tensed. His back was already turned.

The boy disappeared down the hall, bedroom door clicking shut—not slammed this time, just closed. Firm. Final.

Sasuke stood in the kitchen, heart pounding hard in his ribs.

His hands trembled as he pressed them to his face, breath ragged.

This wasn’t about Naruto.

This was about them.

And he was losing.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The house went silent after Menma’s door clicked shut.

Not slammed this time. Just closed. That made it worse somehow.

Sasuke stood frozen in the kitchen.

His hands dropped slowly from his face, but the tremble didn’t stop. His palms hovered midair for a second before curling into fists at his sides. His knees felt weak, like they might buckle if he shifted his weight even a little.

His heart hammered too loud.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He was supposed to hold it together for them—for Menma, for Arashi, for whatever was still left of his life. He was supposed to get up, cook meals, make rules, offer comfort. That was the job. That was the contract of parenting. You didn’t get to fall apart.

But he was falling apart anyway.

Piece by piece.

It was like watching himself from the outside, slipping inch by inch toward something irreversible.

His breath stuttered out of his chest.

He crossed the kitchen like a ghost, feet silent against the floor. His legs moved without permission, like his body had memorized the pattern already: leave the fight, step into the dark, find a corner where no one could see.

He sank to the floor just inside the pantry door.

Cool wood pressed against his back. His arms wrapped around his knees, chin tucked against his legs. His breathing came fast and shallow, like a trapped animal trying not to make noise.

His eyes burned.

He squeezed them shut.

It didn’t stop the tears.

They came anyway, hot and silent, tracking down his face in thin, salty lines. His chest heaved once, twice, before he forced the sound back into his throat. No one could hear this—not Menma, not Arashi, no one. He had to stay quiet.

He had to hold it in.

But his body betrayed him.

A sob slipped out, thin and broken, barely more than a breath.

His hands tightened around his legs.

I’m failing.

The thought looped hard in his head.

I’m failing him. I’m failing both of them.

His stomach twisted, sharp nausea rising again. He pressed his forehead into his knees, trying to breathe through it.

It wasn’t just grief anymore.

It wasn’t just missing Naruto.

It was something deeper—uglier—a rot that had settled into his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken to Menma without making it worse. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cooked a proper meal, or combed Arashi’s hair without his hands shaking.

I don’t know how to do this.

He wanted to be better.

He wanted to get up. Apologize. Fix it. Do the dishes, make rice, fold the laundry, bandage Menma’s scrapes.

But his body wouldn’t move.

His arms stayed locked around his knees.

His breath came faster, faster, until his chest felt like it might collapse inward.

A cold sweat slid down the back of his neck.

He was supposed to be stronger than this. He was supposed to be better at surviving. But all he could do was sit in the dark, shaking, chest hollowed out like an old gourd.

Maybe he hates me now.

The thought cut hard across his mind.

Maybe Menma didn’t just resent him. Maybe he really hated him.

Sasuke’s throat closed, breath catching.

He deserved it, didn’t he?

He deserved every word.

He hadn’t shown up for his son. Not really. Not the way he was supposed to.

Not today.

Not yesterday.

Not for weeks.

His fingers dug into his arms, nails leaving little crescents in his skin.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, but it came out cracked and breathless, the syllables breaking apart halfway through. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

It wasn’t enough.

He knew it wasn’t enough.

But he said it anyway, over and over, voice shaking, until his throat burned and his eyes blurred again.

The house stayed still.

There were no footsteps down the hall. No door opening. No forgiveness.

Just the cold pantry walls and the sound of his own breathing.

Chapter Text

The house was too still.

The kind of stillness that came after hours of pacing, rocking, failing.

Sasuke sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, back against the cold wall, Arashi pressed tight against his chest. Her small mouth rooted blindly against his skin, lips latching and unlatching in restless, hungry motions.

Her breath ghosted hot and wet against his scent gland.

But nothing came.

No milk.

Not tonight.

Not again.

Sasuke’s arms ached from holding her for too long, muscles locked in place, fingertips going numb around her tiny frame. His legs had fallen asleep thirty minutes ago. Pins and needles crawled up his calves, but he didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

Arashi whimpered against his chest, her small body squirming. Her fists batted weakly at his skin, searching for something she wasn’t going to find. Her face rubbed desperately against the hollow of his throat, skin soft, lips fluttering.

Sasuke gritted his teeth.

His breath hitched.

His glands stayed silent.

Nothing.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Omegas were supposed to feed their young.

That was how the body worked—that was how it was designed to work. Hormones. Instincts. Scent-based bonding. Everyone in the village said the same thing: “Your body knows what to do.”

Except when it didn’t.

Except when it betrayed you.

Except when stress turned every biological promise into a lie.

Sasuke’s stomach twisted.

He could feel his own scent turning sour again—fear laced under it, sharp and acidic. His skin flushed hot, sweat prickling along his spine. His heart raced too fast, adrenaline blurring the edges of his vision, but his chest stayed dry.

No milk.

Not a drop.

Arashi’s sucking turned frantic now, small mouth opening wider, breath coming in sharp little gasps. Her face scrunched, confused. Her tiny feet kicked softly against his stomach.

Sasuke bit the inside of his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible.

His voice came out cracked and hoarse, throat raw from nights like this.

He’d tried everything. He’d done what the nurse at the clinic told him: warm compresses, soft music, breathing techniques. He’d bought the teas Ino recommended, boiled the herbs twice a day. He’d massaged his glands with shaking fingers in the dark, trying to coax his body back to working order.

Nothing helped.

His scent was too off. His nerves were too frayed. His body was a battlefield, and it had chosen to shut itself down.

Arashi started to cry.

First little whimpers, then sharper sounds, fists clenching in frustration.

Her mouth broke suction, lips trembling, chin quivering.

Sasuke’s heart cracked.

“I know,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her damp forehead. His arms rocked her gently, back and forth, a rhythm his body knew better than sleep. His stomach rolled under the pressure of her tiny feet, nausea threading under his ribs.

His free hand moved automatically toward the formula bottle on the nightstand.

Plastic.

Synthetic.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

His fingers shook as he unscrewed the cap, knuckles white with tension. His throat tightened as he shook the bottle, formula sloshing dully inside.

This wasn’t nurturing.

This was failure with a cap and a rubber nipple.

He pressed the bottle to Arashi’s lips anyway.

She latched quickly, desperate, suckling hard. Her cries softened into hiccups, tiny fists relaxing slightly. Her eyes fluttered shut in relief, breath evening out.

Sasuke’s gut twisted harder.

He held the bottle steady, arms aching, gaze locked on the shadows crawling across the ceiling.

The rocking chair in the corner waited for him, but his legs wouldn’t work yet.

His body was frozen in place, hollowed out and trembling.

His chest still felt heavy, glands throbbing uselessly under the skin, but there was nothing there for her. Just the phantom ache of what should have been.

You’re supposed to feed her.

The thought scraped against his skull like a knife.

You’re supposed to be able to do this.

His eyes burned, vision blurring, but he blinked fast. He wouldn’t cry over this again. He’d done enough of that already. Enough nights like this—too many to count.

The bottle cooled slowly in his hand as Arashi drank.

Her weight was small, but it pinned him to the floor.

He could feel the curve of his belly beneath her feet—soft, barely showing, but undeniable now. The new pregnancy lived there, pressing gently against his insides, a second pulse beating under his skin.

Another child.

Another life.

And he couldn’t even feed this one.

His throat locked up.

His scent gland throbbed faintly behind his ear, cold and useless, like scar tissue.

He curled tighter around Arashi, whispering nothing words into her hair. Apologies. Promises he couldn’t keep. Half-breaths that dissolved before they reached the air.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, lips brushing her temple. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Her small hand twitched in her sleep, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt.

Sasuke rocked her softly, eyes unfocused, his whole body swaying like he was somewhere far away.

The room smelled like sweat and formula and failure.

The walls pressed in closer.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t stand.

Didn’t breathe properly for a long time.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The formula bottle slipped from Sasuke’s hand when it was empty.

It hit the floor with a dull plastic clatter, rolling sideways before stopping against the base of the dresser. He didn’t reach for it.

Arashi’s breathing had evened out—soft little sighs against his chest. Her tiny fists stayed curled against his skin, clutching sleep like she didn’t trust it to stay.

Sasuke’s arms trembled as he shifted her weight.

Every muscle in his body protested the movement. His legs were half-numb from sitting too long on the floor. His back screamed when he finally straightened up, joints cracking in places that shouldn’t ache yet.

He swallowed bile.

The room swayed once when he stood.

Vertigo, again.

His hand shot out, palm slapping the wall to keep himself upright.

His heart hammered hard, too fast. His scent soured.

He could taste copper in the back of his throat.

Just move. Just move. You have to move.

He forced his feet toward the rocking chair in the corner, legs dragging like wet sandbags. His stomach churned with every step—nausea rippling under his ribs, the same sharp waves that had been haunting him since the pregnancy started.

Seven weeks.

Maybe eight now. He’d stopped counting.

His body didn’t feel like his anymore. It was heavy in all the wrong ways—tight where it shouldn’t be, soft where it used to be strong. His scent had changed. His breath came in uneven bursts.

Sasuke sat down hard in the rocking chair, chest tight, arms wrapping protectively around Arashi’s sleeping form. His eyes stayed open for a while, staring blankly at the wall across from him.

The chair creaked quietly beneath him.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

The motion wasn’t comforting anymore. It was habit.

Muscle memory.

Naruto used to tease him for it—called him an old man when he first bought the chair, said he rocked too fast, too stiff. They used to joke about it. Used to laugh.

Sasuke’s lips pressed together, eyes burning.

Not now.

Not tonight.

Arashi shifted in his arms, her small body molding into his chest like she trusted him to hold the whole world together. Her scent curled softly under his nose—warm baby-skin smell mixed with powdered formula and faint traces of his own fading pheromones.

Sasuke’s stomach twisted harder.

He lowered his hand carefully, palm ghosting over the curve of his belly.

His skin was stretched tighter than before. His body already knew—already remembered—what to do with new life, but it wasn’t working right this time.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like guilt.

His throat closed up.

His palm stayed against his belly anyway, fingers trembling just slightly. There was warmth there. Life. Something fragile and growing. Something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

The chair rocked slower.

His eyelids drifted halfway shut, lashes damp.

His whole body felt wrong.

Heavy in the chest.

Hollow in the stomach.

His glands throbbed uselessly, still refusing to do what they were meant to do. His bones ached from holding too much—too much grief, too much weight, too many sleepless nights folded into each other like bad dreams.

His breath slowed.

Arashi’s soft sighs rose and fell against his collarbone.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice thin and cracked.

The words barely made it past his lips.

They weren’t meant for her, or for Menma, or for Naruto, or even for the child growing quietly inside him.

They were meant for the air.

For the walls.

For the parts of himself that he couldn’t fix.

The rocking chair creaked once more, then settled into a gentle rhythm—slow, steady, like waves pulling back from the shore.

Sasuke’s eyes finally closed.

His arms stayed locked around Arashi.

His hand pressed firm against his own belly.

And for the first time in days, he drifted into sleep that wasn’t sleep at all—just exhaustion folding him into a quiet dark.

Chapter Text

Naruto’s voice was a faint warmth against the cold silence that clung to Sasuke’s mind, a distant echo calling through the fog of sleep. It was soft, gentle—like a whispered promise wrapped in a breeze.

“Hey,” the voice murmured, breath warm as the scent of early morning rain. “You’re still here, yeah?”

Sasuke’s body stirred beneath the weight of the dream, limbs heavy yet aching to move. He turned his head slowly, eyes fluttering open to a scene brushed in soft gold light that spilled through the paper-thin walls of a familiar room. The light pooled on wooden floors, dappling over worn tatami mats that seemed to pulse with life.

Naruto was there. Not just a shadow, not just a memory, but flesh and breath and warmth.

He sat on the edge of a futon, his back to Sasuke, shoulders relaxed and real beneath the worn fabric of his shirt. The way his hair caught the light—the messy, sun-kissed strands that Sasuke had traced countless times with his fingers—made his heart twist painfully.

Naruto’s hands moved slowly, fingers fumbling as they tied the worn hitai-ate around his forehead. The simple action was a ceremony, sacred and ordinary all at once.

Sasuke’s breath hitched. He tried to speak, to call out, but his throat was dry, voice swallowed whole by the thick mist of the dream.

He reached out, trembling fingers stretching toward the warmth, but the space between them was filled with water, his hand slipping uselessly through.

“Wait,” he rasped, voice barely more than a sigh.

Naruto’s shoulders tensed, the faintest shiver running down his spine.

He turned slightly, just enough for Sasuke to glimpse the curve of his cheek, the edge of his smile—soft and sad and full of unspoken words. His eyes, though shaded, seemed to glow with the certainty of a promise.

“I told you,” Naruto whispered, tightening the knot of his hitai-ate, voice steady and calm, “I’ll be home before Arashi can walk.”

The words were a blade of light slicing through the thick fog, sharp and bittersweet.

Sasuke’s chest constricted, a desperate ache clawing its way upward. His limbs refused to obey, frozen beneath the weight of the impossible.

“Wait,” he breathed again, voice breaking like fragile glass.

But Naruto was already fading, the edges of his form dissolving into the shifting light. The warmth drained away, replaced by the cold silence that had settled into Sasuke’s bones these long weeks.

His hand passed through empty air as the world tipped sideways, and he was falling.

A sharp gasp tore through the quiet as Sasuke woke, lungs burning with the sudden, raw need for air.

Cold sheets tangled around his body, the weight of the empty bed beside him pressing down like a stone. He swallowed hard, his heart pounding fiercely against his ribs as he blinked away the remnants of the dream.

The ceiling above was dull and cracked, the faint grey morning light casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the room. The silence was heavy, unyielding.

His fingers instinctively reached for the empty space where Naruto should have been. The cool fabric of the bedsheet met his palm—a cruel reminder of absence.

The bed bore the imprint of the man who was gone, the hollow that would never be filled.

Sasuke shivered beneath the thin blanket, a cold wave curling through his chest. The air smelled faintly of sweat and sorrow, of loneliness wrapped tight in stillness.

The phantom scent of Naruto lingered faintly—an invisible thread tugging at his soul—then faded, swallowed by the heavy quiet.

His throat tightened as nausea rolled through his stomach in slow, crushing waves.

The dream had been a fragile thing, like a delicate blossom caught in a storm. It had promised warmth, hope, reunion. But waking meant facing the bitter truth, the endless empty bed and hollow nights.

Sasuke pressed the heel of his hand against his closed eyes, as if the pressure could hold the world together.

His breath came uneven, shallow.

Time stretched out in long, aching moments as the cold morning light grew brighter, and the quiet pressed in from all sides.

He remained still, trapped between hope and despair, clutching onto a promise he feared might never be kept.

The knock on the door was soft but deliberate, like a heartbeat trying not to startle. Sasuke didn’t answer at first. He lay tangled in his sheets, the early sunlight washing pale and cold over his face.

The door creaked open, and a familiar silhouette stepped inside, shadowed by the doorway.

“Kakashi,” Sasuke’s voice was hoarse, barely lifting from the blankets.

Kakashi stepped fully inside, the familiar calm of his presence folding around the room like a protective cloak. His single visible eye was kind but tired, shadowed with the weight of countless losses.

“I thought I’d check on you,” Kakashi said quietly, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed with a careful grace that made it clear he’d been here before, in places Sasuke wasn’t ready to speak of.

Sasuke turned his head slowly, the ghost of a bitter smile flickering across his lips.

“Checking on the village, or me?”

“Both,” Kakashi said. His eye softened. “They declared Naruto missing officially yesterday. The whole village is mourning.”

Sasuke’s jaw tightened. He swallowed hard, refusing to say anything. It wasn’t real. Not yet.

Kakashi hesitated, then shifted his tone, careful.

“I know this is hard, Sasuke. The silence, the waiting. It eats at you.”

Sasuke closed his eyes, remembering the cold bed, the fading dream.

“We can get you help,” Kakashi said, voice gentle. “Grief counseling, support groups. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Sasuke’s fingers clenched the sheet beneath his blanket.

“I don’t need help,” he whispered. “I’m not ready to accept it.”

Kakashi nodded, understanding but firm.

“Then don’t. But don’t shut everyone out. Not your children, not me.”

Sasuke’s eyes opened, meeting Kakashi’s steady gaze.

“I’m not ready to let go.”

The room fell silent but for the faint hum of the morning.

Kakashi stood slowly, nodding once.

“I’ll come by again.”

As Kakashi left, the door closing quietly behind him, Sasuke was left alone with the fading light and the weight of a hope he refused to abandon.

                                                                               ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The rain hit the village streets in cold, sharp sheets, drumming against rooftops and slick pavement. Menma’s coat was soaked through, heavy and clinging, his hair plastered to his forehead. He moved fast, fists clenched, boots splashing through puddles, each step a furious stomp against the weight he felt pressing down on him.

The village was quiet this afternoon, the usual chatter muffled by the storm and the shadow that had settled over everything since Naruto’s disappearance.

Menma’s jaw was tight, teeth grinding as he pushed through alleyways, ignoring the sting of cold rain cutting through his soaked clothes.

He didn’t care about the cold.

He didn’t care about the village thinking his father was dead.

He just wanted to find him.

His mind spun with anger and helplessness — at Sasuke, at the village, at the world that seemed to be collapsing around him.

“Useless,” he muttered, voice sharp and raw. “That’s all you are.”

He didn’t mean the village. He meant his father. Sasuke. The man who couldn’t keep their family whole.

The sting of the words hit harder than he expected.

He was running now, the streets blurring as tears mingled with the rain on his cheeks. He couldn’t hold the storm inside anymore.

He wanted to scream.

To cry.

To rage.

Menma stopped beneath the eaves of a shuttered shop, panting hard. His hands trembled, fists unclenching then clenching again, nails digging into his palms.

“I’m going to find Dad myself,” he whispered fiercely, voice cracking. “I can’t stay here waiting.”

His breath came out in ragged clouds, mixing with the cold mist.

He started moving again, faster, heart hammering, pushing away the fear that curled in his chest.

The rain was relentless, a cold, unforgiving curtain blurring the world into shades of gray and blue. Sasuke’s coat was drenched through, clinging heavily to his frame as he pushed through the village streets, heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t care about the chill seeping into his bones.

He was chasing shadows—fragments of his son’s fury and fear.

When he finally found Menma, the boy was halfway down an alley, soaked to the skin, fists trembling, tears mingling with rain on his dirt-streaked face.

“Sasuke!” Menma’s voice cracked as he spun around, eyes wide with desperation and defiance.

“I’m going to find him,” Menma said, voice low and urgent. “I can’t stay here waiting. You can’t keep pretending.”

Sasuke’s chest tightened painfully, and the world seemed to tilt.

He took a cautious step forward, arms outstretched—not to punish, but to hold. But Menma didn’t back down.

Instead, the boy stormed forward, fists raised in a shaky fury.

In a flash, Sasuke caught Menma’s wrists, gripping them firmly but gently. Their eyes locked—storm meeting storm.

“I’m not pretending,” Sasuke whispered, voice breaking. “I’m holding on. For both of you.”

Menma’s breath hitched, and the fight drained out of him.

The two of them sank to their knees in the mud, rain soaking through clothes and skin alike.

Sasuke’s hands cradled Menma’s face, thumbs brushing away rain and tears.

“I’m sorry,” Sasuke choked, voice trembling. “I’m so sorry.”

Menma’s defenses crumbled, and sobs racked his small frame.

Sasuke’s own tears fell freely now, mixing with the rain as he held his son close, both of them trembling in the cold, muddy alley.

Two broken pieces, holding on to each other in a storm that felt endless.

Chapter Text

The clock on the wall ticked too loudly. Each second scraped along Sasuke’s nerves like sandpaper, the steady rhythm mocking his silence.

Outside, the storm had passed, leaving the village draped in wet shadows. The windows rattled softly under the lingering weight of wind. Rainwater dripped from the roof, rhythmic and dull, forming uneven puddles in the dirt below. The scent of petrichor—wet stone and damp earth—clung to the air, mixing with the faint bitterness of leftover tea cooling on the table beside him.

Sasuke sat at the kitchen table, hands curled loosely around an empty mug. His fingers pressed into the porcelain, not drinking, not moving, just feeling the curve of the cup beneath his palms. His skin was cold. His pulse, thinner than it should have been.

The weight in his stomach wasn’t just physical anymore.

It had been weeks since he’d told anyone—not even Menma—not even himself, not really. He’d carried the knowledge like a wound beneath his clothes, pretending if he didn’t speak it aloud, it wouldn’t become real.

But it was real.

The dull ache in his lower back told him that.

The shift in his scent, sharper now, more sensitive, told him that.

The quiet heaviness beneath his navel—new life, curling in on itself silently, growing in the middle of his grief—told him that too.

His eyes drifted toward the hallway, where Menma’s voice buzzed faintly from the living room, blending with the static hum of the TV left on for hours. Sasuke could hear the boy shifting, restless, kicking his legs over the side of the couch. The couch springs creaked beneath him. The same sound, over and over. Like a loop.

They were both stuck in it.

Sasuke’s throat tightened.

His stomach roiled gently—not from morning sickness, not anymore. This was something worse. Something closer to dread.

He stood slowly, mug clinking against the table as he set it down. His legs felt heavier than they should have been. His joints protested when he straightened his spine, tension locked into every muscle. The kitchen floor was cold under his bare feet, but he barely noticed.

In the corner of the room, Arashi’s soft babble rose for a moment, then faded again. She had fallen asleep clutching one of Naruto’s old shinobi gloves—a hand-me-down she refused to let go of, even though it dwarfed her tiny frame. Sasuke swallowed hard, chest squeezing. Her soft breathing was the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

He forced his limbs to move.

His body was betraying him in quiet ways. His senses sharpened, his scent glands prickling every time stress welled too high. His chest felt tight, aching beneath his ribs where no milk would come no matter how he coaxed, no matter what tea he drank or how hard he tried to regulate his breathing. His body was screaming for rest, for peace, for balance—but there was none.

And now this.

Another child. Another weight.

Naruto’s child, curling silently beneath his ribs.

He crossed the living room in slow steps, each footfall heavier than the last. Menma didn’t turn around when Sasuke approached—his shoulders were hunched forward, hoodie pulled over his head, eyes glassed over as he stared at the static on the TV.

The blue light flickered across his face, casting thin shadows under his eyes. His hair was still damp from the earlier rain, dark strands curling against his temples. He looked older than fourteen tonight. Tired in a way that no teenager should look. There was a hollow beneath his cheekbones, sharp from weeks of skipped meals and angry silences.

Sasuke swallowed down the lump in his throat.

“Menma.”

His voice barely reached above a whisper, but Menma twitched, shoulders tensing. He didn’t answer.

Sasuke tried again, softer this time. “We need to talk.”

That got him a reaction—a sharp breath through clenched teeth, a roll of the eyes beneath the hood.

“If this is another lecture, I don’t want to hear it.”

His voice was flat, but there was heat under it. Not the usual fire, but something quieter. Something that sounded like it might shatter if Sasuke touched it wrong.

Sasuke ignored the jab, forcing his body to remain calm. His palms itched, sweat slicking along the creases of his fingers. His heart fluttered unevenly behind his sternum, but his face stayed still. He crossed his arms over his stomach—partly to hide the small swell beneath his shirt, partly to hold himself together.

“It’s not a lecture.”

Menma finally glanced up at him, eyes narrowed, lip curled in defiance. The bruised shadows beneath his eyes stood out stark in the flickering light.

“Then what is it?”

Sasuke’s throat worked once, but the words stuck.

Say it, he told himself.

Say it now.

“I’m pregnant.”

The room seemed to shrink around them. The air pressed heavier against Sasuke’s skin, thick and suffocating. For a moment, the TV static was the only sound, buzzing like white noise between them.

Menma didn’t move. His face froze—not anger, not sadness, just… blank.

Sasuke hated that look more than the yelling. The blankness scared him.

After a long, still breath, Menma blinked, confusion flickering first, then disbelief, then something sharper.

“You’re joking,” he said flatly. His lips barely moved.

“I’m not.”

“How?”

Sasuke’s eyes dropped for a second, his mouth tightening.

“You know how.”

“No, I mean—” Menma’s voice cracked, rising louder now. “Now? Of all times? You’re serious?”

Sasuke said nothing. His arms wrapped tighter around his middle, fingers digging into his elbows.

Menma sat up straighter on the couch, pulling the hood back. His eyes were shining now, but not from tears—not yet. From rage. From panic.

“You’re unbelievable,” he whispered, venom threading through his voice. “You’re gonna bring another kid into this shit? When you can’t even handle the ones you have?”

Sasuke’s jaw tightened, but he stayed still. Let the words hit.

“You don’t eat half the time,” Menma hissed. “You don’t sleep. You sit in the bathroom for hours. You throw up every morning. You cry when you think no one’s watching. And now you’re pregnant again?”

His fists balled in his lap, nails biting into skin.

“Why?” His voice cracked in the middle. “Why would you do that to us?”

Sasuke’s lips parted, but nothing came out.

“I didn’t choose this, Menma.”

The boy laughed—a bitter, breathless sound that wasn’t really a laugh at all.

“Yeah? Well, neither did I.”

His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. His face was flushed, cheeks blotched with red.

“I didn’t choose to be stuck here watching you fall apart. I didn’t choose to take care of Arashi while you’re in bed all day. I didn’t choose to—” his voice broke again, raw in his throat, “—to keep waking up thinking maybe this is the day you’ll just disappear too.”

The words sliced deeper than Sasuke expected. His eyes stung, but he forced his mouth shut, swallowing it down. He could feel the baby flutter faintly beneath his hand—an echo of life beneath the ruin of this conversation.

“I can’t do this again,” Menma whispered, voice cracking. “I can’t.”

Sasuke’s eyes blurred, throat closing. His pulse throbbed behind his eyes, dizzy and sharp.

“I’m not asking you to,” he whispered, barely audible.

“Too late.” Menma stood abruptly, shoving past Sasuke’s shoulder hard—not enough to hurt, but enough to say: Don’t follow me.

The door to his room slammed shut behind him, the echo rattling the walls.

Sasuke stood in the middle of the room, eyes unfocused, breath shallow.

The TV kept flickering in the background, casting empty light onto the empty couch.

His knees gave out slowly, body sliding to the floor in slow motion. He sat there, back against the couch, staring at the ceiling until his vision blurred into nothing.

In the silence that followed, the sound of Menma crying in his room trickled through the walls—barely audible, muffled behind blankets and pillows and teenage pride.

Sasuke pressed both hands to his stomach, fingers trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, but the words dissolved into the static of the room, thin and useless.

The baby stirred again beneath his palm.

And the house stayed silent.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

Menma’s room was too small tonight.

Too hot. Too cold. Too everything.

He pressed his back against the door after slamming it shut, chest heaving like he’d just run miles. His heart wouldn’t slow down. It hammered behind his ribs, wild and uneven, like something trapped.

The room spun a little, the aftermath of yelling still ringing in his ears.

His hoodie felt too tight now. He yanked it off, tossing it to the floor, then kicked at the pile of clothes in the corner just to hear something crash. His sneaker hit the wall, thudding dully before landing on top of a scattered mess of notebooks and cracked game cartridges.

Stupid.

All of it felt so stupid.

He dragged both hands down his face, palms pressing into his eyes until fireworks of white and blue sparked behind his eyelids. It didn’t help. The pressure didn’t push the tears back—it just made his head ache more.

His breath hitched again.

Why did I say that?

The words replayed in his skull, sharper now that they’d settled: You’re gonna bring another kid into this shit?

The sentence tasted like metal in his mouth. Bitter and sharp. He wanted to pull it back out of the air, to shove it down and swallow it whole so it never left his lips in the first place.

But it was too late.

His throat squeezed tight.

He didn’t mean it—not really.

He didn’t mean to look at Sasuke like that, like he hated him.

Because he didn’t.

Not even close.

Menma scrubbed at his face again, smearing tears across his cheeks, hot and sticky. He sniffed hard, but his nose kept running anyway, leaking into his sleeves. His chest kept doing that horrible thing—quivering at the edges, like he was about to start sobbing for real.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, knees bouncing, hands locked between his thighs.

“I’m such a piece of shit,” he whispered into the dark, voice hoarse.

The room didn’t argue. It just stayed still, walls pressing in closer.

He stared at the floor for a long time. The carpet was matted down in places, stained in others. There were old ramen cups under his desk, drawings he’d crumpled weeks ago but never thrown away. On the far side of the room, his bookshelf leaned sideways, half of the manga volumes shoved in backwards because he couldn’t be bothered to fix them.

It all felt heavier tonight.

Everything did.

The ceiling fan whirred above him, blades spinning too fast, casting thin shadows that made his stomach twist.

He wasn’t mad about the baby.

That wasn’t it.

He was scared.

That was the part he couldn’t say out loud. Not to Sasuke. Not to anyone.

Because what if this new baby meant Sasuke gave up completely? What if Sasuke got too tired and just… left? Not physically, but emotionally? What if he stopped coming back from the bathroom? What if he stopped fighting to stay here, in this house, in this life?

What if the baby replaced everything?

Menma’s chest burned.

It wasn’t fair.

None of it was fair.

He wanted to punch something again, but his fists stayed balled up in his lap, shaking.

Outside the window, the last few raindrops clung to the glass. One slid down the pane, slow and lonely, leaving a trail behind.

Menma’s shoulders shuddered once, twice—and then the sob hit him full force.

He bit his lip hard, trying to muffle it, but the sound still came out. A raw, ugly sound, low in his throat. His hands covered his mouth, but his whole body curled forward like he was folding in half.

He pressed his forehead to his knees.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the fabric of his sweatpants, voice cracking in the middle. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”+

But no one heard him.

The walls just held the echo.

And outside his door, Sasuke stayed quiet too.

Neither of them knew how to fix it.

But tonight, Menma cried for real—not out of anger, but out of guilt.

For the things he’d said.

For the things he couldn’t take back.

For the fear curling like a fist in his chest that he might lose Sasuke too.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The house stayed quiet after the argument.

Too quiet.

Sasuke sat on the living room floor long after Menma’s door had slammed shut, back pressed against the couch, knees drawn up to his chest. His arms folded around his legs, fingers laced tight, knuckles pale from the pressure.

His ears strained for sound, but all he heard was the faint crackle of the television still playing static—forgotten, useless light flickering in the corner.

Somewhere down the hall, Menma’s muffled sobs had faded into a hush, but the weight of them hung heavy in the air.

Sasuke tilted his head back against the couch cushions and stared up at the ceiling. His eyes didn’t focus on anything. His throat was raw from trying not to cry. His heart beat in slow, broken pulses behind his ribs.

The room smelled like old tea, formula powder, and sweat—his own scent souring in the air, thick with stress pheromones. He hated it. Hated the way his body betrayed him constantly now, telegraphing every weakness to the walls, to the air, to anyone who walked by.

The baby shifted quietly under his palm.

He hadn’t realized he was holding his stomach again until his fingertips brushed against the fabric of his shirt, warm and trembling over the small curve starting to form. It wasn’t big yet—not visible to most people—but Sasuke knew it was there.

Life growing.

Even when everything else was falling apart.

He pressed his forehead to his knees for a long time, trying to breathe through the ache in his chest. His mind kept replaying Menma’s words, over and over, like poison soaking into his skin.

You’re gonna bring another kid into this shit?

Sasuke’s eyes squeezed shut, hot tears leaking down his nose before he could stop them. His throat worked silently. No sobs came out—just tight, shaking breaths.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He was supposed to be stronger.

He was supposed to be better.

But everything was so fragile now. Thin glass stretched over a crack.

And he didn’t know how much longer it could hold.

The hours dragged in pieces. The sky outside deepened from grey to black, then black to navy. A few stars peeked through the storm clouds, but the moon didn’t show.

At some point, Sasuke forced himself to move—not because he wanted to, but because Arashi had stirred in her sleep, whimpering softly from the next room. Her little cries tugged at something automatic in his body, even when his heart wasn’t in it.

He rose to his feet slowly, joints stiff, stomach tight.

His legs carried him on autopilot through the hallway, footsteps muffled against the floorboards.

When he passed Menma’s door, his hand almost reached for the handle. Almost. His fingers hovered just above the wood, but he couldn’t bring himself to knock.

There was no sound coming from inside now.

Sasuke pressed his palm flat against the doorframe instead, letting the cool wood ground him for a second. His lips parted, but no words came out. His breath fogged faintly in the dim light.

Tomorrow, he thought.

Tomorrow, maybe.

But that was a lie he’d told himself a thousand times before.

In Arashi’s room, the air was warm and soft.

Sasuke knelt by her crib, hands careful as he lifted her into his arms. She was small and light, her body curling naturally against his chest. Her baby scent wrapped around him—milk, soft skin, the faintest hint of Naruto’s shampoo clinging to the hand-me-down onesie she wore.

Sasuke’s throat tightened again.

He held her close, rocking slowly back and forth in the quiet, humming low in his throat. His hand rubbed gentle circles on her back.

His mind drifted—not forward, but back.

Naruto’s voice, soft and teasing, echoed in the corners of his memory. She’s gonna have my smile, y’know that? Watch—she’ll be laughing all the time.

Arashi made a soft cooing sound, her tiny fingers catching in Sasuke’s shirt.

She wasn’t laughing now.

But she wasn’t crying either.

Her breathing steadied against his chest.

Sasuke closed his eyes, letting his body move without thinking—rocking her, humming, swaying like a branch in the wind.

It wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

But it was what he had.

Later, when the house had sunk into deeper silence, Sasuke crept back to the living room, baby monitor tucked under one arm.

He sat down on the couch this time, spine straight, legs stretched out in front of him.

The static on the TV had finally cut off, leaving only the soft hum of the night. Somewhere in the distance, a wind chime clinked gently on a neighbor’s porch.

Sasuke heard the faintest creak of floorboards down the hall.

A shadow.

Movement.

Menma’s door cracked open just an inch—barely enough to see the sliver of his face, one eye peeking out into the darkened house.

Sasuke didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He just let it happen—let Menma look at him, let the boy see he was still there. Still breathing. Still… trying.

The door shut again softly. No slam this time.

Sasuke exhaled, the tension in his chest loosening by a thread.

It wasn’t a fix.

It wasn’t forgiveness.

But it was something.

A frayed connection.

A string held between them, thin and shaking but still tied at both ends.

For tonight, that was enough.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The wind picked up after midnight.

It swept through the village quietly, curling around rooftops, brushing through the trees like invisible hands combing their fingers through leaves. Lantern lights along the main road flickered, tiny flames struggling against the breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a wind chime rattled again—this time softer, like it was part of a lullaby.

Sasuke stood at the back door of the house, bare feet pressed to the cold wooden step, arms wrapped tightly around himself. His hair lifted slightly with each gust, strands brushing against his face, sticking to the corners of his eyes where dried tears still lingered.

The night air bit against his skin, but he didn’t move.

He stayed rooted there, staring out into the backyard—the garden Naruto had started, the half-finished fence, the ghost of footprints in the dirt where they used to spar before dinner.

Everything was so still now.

The kind of stillness that made you wonder if the world was holding its breath.

Sasuke’s throat tightened as he shifted his hand to the side of his neck—fingers ghosting over the mark there, the one Naruto had left all those years ago. His scent gland pulsed faintly under his fingertips, numb most days. It had dulled after the disappearance, the bond between them thinning until it was almost nothing.

Almost.

But not quite.

Tonight, something was different.

At first, it came like a whisper.

Not a sound—but a feeling. A warmth curling low in his stomach, threading up his spine, setting the fine hairs at the back of his neck on edge.

Then came the scent.

Soft. Barely there. But unmistakable.

Ramen broth and cedar wood. Fresh sweat after training. The quiet musk of Naruto’s skin at dawn when his arms were still wrapped around Sasuke’s waist, breath hot against the curve of his shoulder.

Sasuke’s eyes flew open, chest tightening so hard it ached.

The wind carried it again, brushing the scent beneath his nose—gentle, impossible.

“Naruto…”

His lips parted, the name barely a breath on the air.

His knees nearly buckled.

For a split second—less than that, really—he felt it. The bond mark flared under his skin, a warm jolt like chakra threading directly into his bloodstream. Not memory. Not a dream. Real.

Naruto’s chakra.

Alive.

Present.

Somewhere.

Sasuke’s vision blurred immediately, hot tears burning behind his eyes. They slid down his cheeks faster than he could stop them, dripping off his chin, catching in the corner of his mouth. His throat made a raw sound—half gasp, half sob—but he didn’t wipe his face.

He didn’t dare move.

The wind tugged at his clothes, pulling the fabric tight against his stomach, then loosening it again like an exhale. His fingers pressed harder into his neck, shaking, holding the bond point as if he could anchor it—capture it—make it last longer.

But the sensation faded just as quickly as it came.

The scent dissolved back into the wind.

The chakra thread slipped away—soft, like a hand letting go of his.

“No—”

Sasuke’s breath hitched, chest caving forward slightly. His tears fell harder now, but his mouth stayed silent, lips pressed together, shaking with the effort not to scream.

He stood there for what felt like hours, shoulders trembling, eyes locked on the empty garden.

His heart pounded in his ears, but somewhere beneath the grief, beneath the raw edges of loss, something small and fragile lit in his chest.

Hope.

Real hope.

Because he’d felt Naruto.

Not just a memory. Not just a dream.

Alive.

The bond mark didn’t lie.

The connection was frayed, but it wasn’t severed.

Somewhere, out there, Naruto was breathing the same air. Walking under the same moon.

Sasuke wiped his face once—quick, rough—and sucked in a shaky breath that tasted like salt and rain and cedar.

“I’m going to find you,” he whispered into the wind, his voice cracking at the end.

The trees swayed in answer, leaves rustling softly, like the night itself was listening.

For the first time in weeks, Sasuke’s shoulders straightened.

His eyes narrowed, sharp through the blur of tears.

He pressed his palm to his stomach—not in fear this time, but as a silent promise.

“Just hold on.”

The wind shifted again, curling around his body like a thread pulling him forward.

Sasuke closed his eyes and let the feeling settle into his bones.

Chapter Text

The fog rolled in heavy that morning—thick and low, crawling along the ground like breath from some ancient creature that had never fully died. It gathered in the village alleys, clung to rooftops, and coiled itself between the trees. The mountains loomed somewhere beyond the mist, but today, even they were hidden.

The team from Konoha moved through the fog like ghosts.

Six operatives in total. Four trackers. Two medics. All hand-selected by Kakashi for their precision, their ability to search without drawing attention, and—most importantly—their capacity to handle grief without letting it crush them mid-mission.

It had been weeks since Naruto vanished.

Days since his chakra signature disappeared from Konoha’s sensors. Forty-nine nights since Sasuke last pressed his face into Naruto’s pillow, breathing in the scent that faded a little more with each passing hour.

This mission was supposed to be routine.

A follow-up sweep.

Another check of the outlying villages. Another confirmation of what everyone already whispered: The Seventh is dead.

But no one said that aloud. Not officially. Not yet.

Kakashi had signed the clearance for this particular team with shaking hands anyway. Part of him wanted to believe the impossible.

Part of him still believed in miracles.

The border village was small—barely more than a handful of thatched roofs and a single noodle shop that opened three times a week. Most of the residents were old. Farmers. Merchants passing through. People who kept their heads down and didn’t ask questions when shinobi came knocking.

This morning, the village was quieter than usual.

The rain had stopped, but everything remained wet. Mud squelched beneath the search team’s sandals, sticking to the soles like tar. The air tasted like damp stone and wood smoke.

A medic activated her chakra scan at the village entrance.

Soft tendrils of energy slipped beneath the ground, weaving through the earth like roots, brushing against footprints, against old chakra traces.

At first, it was the same as every other search: residual signatures. Civilian chakra. Some small wildlife. An abandoned sparrow’s nest in the rafters of a nearby shed.

But then her hand snapped up.

Her chakra snagged.

“Captain,” she whispered, barely audible over the comm. Her eyes widened beneath her mask. “I found something.”

The team moved as one unit toward the outskirts.

Their breath ghosted in the cold air.

Boots silent. Weapons ready. Hearts braced.

But when they found the source of the signal, no one reached for their kunai.

They stopped dead in their tracks.

There, crouched beneath the collapsed roof of a disused shelter at the village’s edge, was a boy. No older than twenty.

Blond hair, soaked and matted, hung over his face.

He poked weakly at a small fire that barely clung to life—sticks crumbling to ash in his shaking hands. His nails were jagged and broken. His skin was pallid, dusted grey beneath the grime of weeks spent outside.

He wasn’t wearing a forehead protector.

He wasn’t even wearing his own clothes.

A jacket two sizes too big slumped over his frame, cinched at the waist with a strip of rope. One sandal was missing. His right wrist was splinted with makeshift bandages, stained dark with old blood. His temple was scarred—a jagged line cutting through his hairline, just above his eye.

The medics scanned him instinctively.

Pulse: weak, but present.
Chakra signature: thready, unstable, but undeniably familiar.

The chakra threads wrapped around the boy’s core like a memory struggling to stay alive.

Uzumaki Naruto.

One of the medics crouched low.

She kept her voice soft, steady, the way you speak to injured animals or frightened children.

“Sir,” she whispered, “can you tell me your name?”

The boy flinched as if she’d struck him.

His eyes lifted—slowly, painfully. Blue.

So blue.

But dull. Clouded. Like someone had drained all the sun out of them.

He blinked, throat working silently for a moment. His lips cracked as he parted them.

“…Naruto,” he whispered.

The name cut the air in half.

The medic’s hand trembled.

Her chakra scan swept over him again, more delicate this time, searching for concussions, internal bleeding, chakra burns—anything that could explain what they were seeing.

His body was covered in old injuries. Bruised ribs. Scraped knees. A healing fracture in his wrist. Signs of neglect. Signs of exposure.

But the scar on his head—

That was the worst.

Blunt-force trauma to the temple. He was lucky to be alive at all.

“Do you remember where you are?” she asked next.

The boy’s lips twitched.

“Konoha,” he whispered after a long pause. But the word was empty. It had no tether to his reality. It sounded like something he was guessing, not something he knew.

Her stomach twisted. She pressed on, careful not to let the shakiness into her voice.

“Do you remember your family? Your friends? Anyone you trust?”

The boy frowned faintly.

“I… don’t have family,” he muttered.

The lie of it hung in the air, heavy and wrong.

Behind her, one of the other medics glanced at the chakra monitor on his wrist. The readings were clear: it was Naruto. His chakra signature was damaged, yes—but still uniquely his. Still woven with the same familiar patterns.

The Hokage seal still glowed faintly under his skin, branded during his inauguration. No one else could carry it.

It was him.

But he didn’t know.

When they tried to help him stand, Naruto recoiled at first—like touch was foreign. His eyes flicked between them, wide, animal-like, waiting for something to make sense.

His body gave out halfway to his feet.

The medics caught him before he hit the ground, wrapping him in chakra threads to stabilize him.

“It’s alright,” one of them whispered, their palm warm against his back. “We’ve got you. We’re taking you home.”

Naruto didn’t answer.

His eyes drifted to the sky, rain still clinging to his eyelashes.

“I don’t remember home,” he whispered under his breath.

The words barely made it past his lips.

They wrapped him in dry blankets, checked his vitals again.

His temperature was low.

His scent was off—not entirely gone, but muted. Like cedarwood drowned beneath weeks of rain, sickness, and cold. His skin smelled faintly of ash, sweat, and the bitter metallic edge of survival.

They cut away his soaked clothes and dressed him in medical garments. His ribs poked through the fabric. His stomach was flat, drawn in on itself from malnutrition. Scars old and new crisscrossed his skin.

Someone murmured a silent curse under their breath.

Another medic whispered a prayer.

During transport, Naruto stayed awake.

He lay on the stretcher, eyes fixed on the sky, lips moving sometimes—words they couldn’t hear. His fingers twitched in the blanket. His chakra pulsed in uneven waves, like a melody missing half its notes.

They tried to talk to him softly, feeding him small sips of water, checking for signs of concussion.

When they called him Lord Seventh , he frowned.

“I’m not… I’m not Hokage,” he whispered hoarsely, voice cracking on the words. “That’s not me.”

By the time they reached Konoha, the sun had risen fully.

The village gates opened without question.

A medic sprinted ahead, reporting directly to the Hokage.

Kakashi picked up the phone before the medic even finished speaking.

In the quiet of his living room, Sasuke’s hands hovered over the receiver when it rang.

He already knew before he answered.

Some part of him knew.

His chest ached, his heart a wild animal in his ribcage.

“Kakashi,” he rasped into the receiver.

“We found him,” Kakashi’s voice came through, low and careful.

The room tilted sideways.

Sasuke’s throat tightened.

But Kakashi’s next words cut deeper than any kunai.

“…He doesn’t remember you.”

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The hospital smelled like too many things at once.

Antiseptic, chakra seals, overheated machine plastic. Sterile. Hollow. Not a single trace of Naruto’s scent anywhere.

Sasuke stood frozen just beyond the threshold of the ICU room, his back pressed against the wall, hands slack at his sides. His pulse throbbed behind his eyes, fast and jagged, each beat loud enough to drown out thought. His legs weren’t shaking, but his stomach twisted so hard he thought he might throw up right there on the floor.

Naruto was alive.

Alive.

That single fact should have knocked him to his knees. It should’ve felt like oxygen rushing back into starved lungs. But the longer he stood there, the colder it got inside his chest. His body refused to believe it. His heart beat too fast. His mind slowed down to nothing.

He watched the nurse adjust Naruto’s IV through the open door. Her hands moved gently, respectfully, like she knew exactly who she was tending to. But Naruto didn’t flinch beneath her touch—didn’t even seem to register it. His gaze stayed locked on the ceiling, unfocused, mouth parted just enough for breath to pass in and out. His eyes weren’t closed, but they weren’t really open either.

Sasuke swallowed, throat raw.

When the nurse stepped away, Sasuke’s legs finally remembered how to move.

He crossed the threshold.

The door hissed quietly behind him, clicking shut.

And then it was just them.

Naruto in the bed, IVs threaded into his veins, hands loose in his lap. His fingers twitched sometimes—small, barely noticeable movements, like he was still trying to grab onto something. But there was nothing there.

Sasuke swallowed again.

The lights were too bright in here. They reflected off the linoleum floor, off the metal of the hospital bed, off the curve of Naruto’s temple where the skin was freshly scarred. A thick line cut through the blond hair just above his eyebrow, pink and angry where it hadn’t fully healed.

His skin looked thinner than before. Paler. But still Naruto.

Same face. Same shape.

Same body.

But his scent was wrong.

There was no warmth, no cedar and sweat and ramen broth clinging to his skin. Only the sterile sting of hospital soap and the too-clean air pumped in through the vents.

Sasuke’s stomach curled tighter.

Naruto’s eyes finally drifted toward him.

And for one brief, shattering second, Sasuke thought— Maybe he remembers me. Maybe this is it.

But the eyes that met his weren’t the ones he knew.

They were duller. Clouded over like glass that had been left outside too long, weathered by rain and time. Blue, but faded. Like someone had washed all the brightness out of them.

Naruto tilted his head slightly, gaze soft but empty.

“…Do I know you?” he asked.

His voice was hoarse. Barely there. It scraped against Sasuke’s ears like sandpaper, all the edges wrong.

Sasuke’s throat seized.

For a moment, no sound came out of his mouth.

He stared, pulse skidding sideways, his heart clawing at his ribs like it wanted out of his body.

“I—” He forced breath into his lungs, made his lips move. His voice came out smaller than he wanted. “It’s me.”

Naruto’s eyes didn’t change.

The confusion stayed.

His lips parted slightly, breath shallow.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, almost polite. “I… I don’t know you.”

Something cracked inside Sasuke. Quiet. Final. Like the snap of brittle bone beneath skin.

It was still Naruto sitting there, but not really.

Same face. Same shape. Same hands that used to grip his shirt in the middle of the night, fingers curling instinctively whenever he rolled away in sleep.

But now—nothing.

Sasuke’s fingers twitched at his side.

He wanted to say something else. Wanted to remind him. Wanted to scream his name, shake him, pull him back.

But his body wouldn’t cooperate.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

He tasted metal.

Naruto blinked again, brow knitting faintly, as if the silence between them made him nervous.

“I know my name,” he offered quietly, like it might help.

His fingers tightened slightly in the hospital blanket.

“Uzumaki Naruto.”

Sasuke’s throat worked, but no words came out.

Naruto’s lips twitched. A nervous, crooked almost-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I guess… I guess I’m from Konoha?” he added, his voice uncertain. “That’s what they told me.”

Sasuke felt his vision narrow.

There were sounds in the background—the soft beeping of machines, the whoosh of the chakra monitors—but they felt far away. Like he was underwater.

“You’re my husband,” he whispered.

His voice barely made it into the air.

Naruto blinked, eyes widening faintly.

His hands stilled.

Then he shook his head, slow and hesitant, like he didn’t want to upset anyone but couldn’t lie either.

“I… I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “I don’t… remember that.”

The words scraped across Sasuke’s skin.

His stomach clenched, hard enough that he had to suck in a breath just to keep standing.

For a moment, the world tilted sideways.

His eyes blurred at the edges, but he didn’t cry.

He wouldn’t cry.

Not here.

Not yet.

Instead, he looked at Naruto’s face—the familiar curve of his jaw, the faint freckles beneath his eyes that he always tried to hide, the small scar at the corner of his mouth from where Konohamaru had accidentally clocked him with a staff when they were younger.

All of it was still there.

But the person behind it wasn’t.

Sasuke’s hand hovered in the air, halfway to reaching out.

His palm ghosted near Naruto’s fingers.

But he didn’t touch him.

Didn’t press their hands together.

Didn’t grab his wrist the way he used to, with quiet possessiveness, just to feel Naruto’s pulse beating steady beneath his skin.

Instead, his hand fell back to his side.

“I’ll… come back later,” Sasuke whispered, his throat barely letting the words through.

Naruto’s gaze followed him as he moved toward the door, but there was no recognition in it.

No softness. No spark.

Just polite confusion. Distant worry.

Like Sasuke was a stranger who meant well, but didn’t belong.

The door hissed open quietly when Sasuke pressed his palm to the sensor.

He didn’t look back.

Didn’t breathe properly until he was in the hallway again, back pressed to the cold wall, eyes locked on the floor.

His knees almost buckled, but he forced them straight.

His stomach lurched.

The baby shifted inside him, a faint flutter of life beneath his ribs, reminding him of everything he was still carrying.

He clenched his jaw, breathed through his nose, and let the hospital air burn in his lungs.

“I’ll bring you back,” he whispered, barely audible, words meant for no one but himself.

Then he pushed away from the wall and walked.

One foot in front of the other.

Like he wasn’t breaking.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The room was too quiet.

Sasuke sat stiff in the cold plastic chair, eyes fixed on the floor, hands resting on his thighs like dead weight. His fingers twitched once, then stilled. The hum of the hospital’s overhead lights crawled under his skin, a faint electric buzz that wouldn’t stop. His stomach was tight, knotted, like a wire pulled too hard.

Across from him, Kakashi flipped through the medical file in his lap. The pages made soft sounds—paper against paper, soft fingertips brushing along the edges. Sasuke watched the motion without really seeing it. His vision had narrowed somewhere between Naruto’s hospital bed and here. Everything was distant now. Like he wasn’t fully in his body.

His pulse dragged in his ears.

Kakashi’s single eye scanned the file slowly, methodically. There was no hurry in his hands, no panic in his chakra. That’s how Kakashi always was before delivering news. Controlled. Measured. Compassion wrapped in clinical precision.

Sasuke’s throat ached.

His hands curled slightly on his knees, nails biting half-moons into the fabric of his pants.

He already knew.

He knew before Kakashi opened his mouth.

“Naruto has trauma-induced amnesia,” Kakashi said quietly, closing the folder at last. The soft clap of the file shutting was too loud in the small room. “Retrograde. Significant.”

Sasuke kept his eyes on the floor.

“He remembers basic functions,” Kakashi continued, voice level, like he was reading a mission report. “Chakra control. Combat instinct. He knows his name. But—”

“He doesn’t know me.” Sasuke’s voice came out flat. Dry. His throat tightened at the edges, but the words pushed through anyway.

Kakashi’s eye narrowed faintly beneath his silver hair.

“No,” he said quietly. “He doesn’t.”

The silence that followed pressed against Sasuke’s skull, heavy as stone. His chest ached like something was sitting on top of it, crushing the air out of his lungs.

“He remembers being Naruto Uzumaki,” Kakashi went on, watching Sasuke carefully. “But not being yours.”

That was worse.

That was so much worse.

It would have been easier if Naruto had woken up thinking he was someone else entirely. If he’d looked at his reflection and forgotten his own face. But instead he remembered the name—his name—while forgetting everything it meant. Forgetting the life tied to it. Forgetting the home they built together, the promises whispered in the dark, the way their bodies had fit so easily together that sometimes Sasuke had wondered where one of them ended and the other began.

Gone.

All of it.

Sasuke’s stomach twisted.

His jaw ached from how hard he clenched it.

“He knows Konohagakure,” Kakashi said softly. “He understands that he belongs here. But he doesn’t remember the bonds. Not with you. Not with Menma. Not with Arashi.”

Sasuke’s lips pressed into a thin line.

His eyes stayed locked on the floor. He didn’t blink.

“He’ll stay in the recovery wing,” Kakashi added. “They’ll monitor his chakra levels and continue the neurological scans. But…”

Sasuke’s nails dug harder into his own skin.

“But what.”

Kakashi sighed, barely audible. His chakra flickered at the edges, thin as silk.

“We don’t know if the memories will come back.”

The words felt like ice down Sasuke’s back. His throat burned.

“He will remember,” Sasuke whispered, voice sharper now, but still low. Still dangerous. His shoulders tightened under the weight of it. “He has to.”

Kakashi didn’t argue.

But he didn’t agree either.

Sasuke’s stomach churned. His body wasn’t empty—he could feel the baby beneath his skin, a soft flicker of life shifting low in his abdomen. The reminder made something twist behind his ribs.

“He was found in a border village,” Kakashi said, softer now. His tone lowered, like he was speaking around a wound. “They said he wandered in bleeding. Couldn’t tell them who he was. He’s been living there for weeks.”

Sasuke’s vision blurred slightly, but no tears came.

Weeks.

While Sasuke had torn the house apart, searched the maps, scratched tally marks into the side of the calendar with shaking hands—Naruto had been somewhere else. Breathing. Existing. But without him.

“He asked me if I knew him,” Sasuke whispered. His voice cracked at the edges.

Kakashi looked down at the file again, but his eye stayed soft.

“He’ll need time.”

“I’ve already given him time,” Sasuke said, the words sharp enough to cut. His nails dug so hard into his knees he thought they might draw blood. “It’s been two months.”

Kakashi’s breath caught for half a second, but his chakra stayed steady.

“The council is preparing a statement,” he said, shifting the conversation like a shinobi redirecting a blade. “They’ll tell the village the Seventh has been recovered, but he’s not resuming duties.”

Sasuke didn’t care about the council.

Didn’t care about politics.

Didn’t care about the whispers that would flood the streets of Konoha by morning.

All he cared about was the look in Naruto’s eyes.

The way he’d stared at him like a stranger.

Like someone who meant nothing.

His stomach twisted again. The baby pressed up beneath his ribs, a soft roll that made his throat close.

Kakashi noticed the way Sasuke’s hand drifted toward his stomach, fingers brushing lightly over the fabric of his cloak. But he didn’t say anything. Didn’t comment. Didn’t dare.

Sasuke’s mouth tasted like ash.

“I’ll go back tomorrow,” he said finally. His voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else. “He’ll remember me.”

Kakashi’s eye narrowed slightly, but he nodded.

Sasuke stood.

His knees ached. His back burned from sitting so still for so long. But he kept his spine straight, the way Itachi used to when the world collapsed around him.

His feet carried him out of the room.

Down the hallway.

Past the nurses who tried not to look.

He pressed his hand flat against the cold wall at the end of the corridor, letting his forehead rest against it for a moment. The fluorescent lights above him blurred into white noise.

His stomach clenched again.

His body was a prison of muscle memory. His mind a furnace that wouldn’t shut off.

Naruto was alive.

But not home.

Not really.

And Sasuke wasn’t sure how long he could keep standing on this edge before the ground gave out.

Chapter Text

The front door slid shut behind them with a soft click, but it still sounded too loud. Like a door slamming on the life they used to have.

Naruto stood in the genkan like a stray animal that had wandered into the wrong house. His hospital sweats hung loose around his ankles. His shoulders hunched slightly under the hoodie someone had loaned him at the hospital—a civilian’s, plain grey, stretched out at the sleeves. His feet stayed rooted to the wooden floor, his toes curling faintly against the grain like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step further in.

Sasuke stood behind him, close enough to feel Naruto’s chakra flicker in pulses under his skin. Shallow. Unsteady. Like a current caught between two magnets—pushed away and pulled in at the same time.

The medics had said this would help.

Familiar environments. Safe surroundings. Family contact.

Kakashi’s voice had echoed in his ear that morning before they signed Naruto’s release papers.
"Take him home, Sasuke. Let him re-learn you."

But Naruto wasn’t re-learning anything.

He was staring at the floorboards like he was waiting for instructions. His eyes flicked up, only briefly, skimming the walls as if he were trying to place them. The old photos on the shelf. The couch where they used to curl up in winter under shared blankets. The corner where Arashi’s toys lay scattered across the floor—untouched for days now because Sasuke hadn’t had the energy to clean them up.

Naruto’s gaze landed on one of the pictures near the entrance.

The family photo.

It had been taken almost a year ago, right before Arashi was born. Naruto, laughing with his mouth wide open, head thrown back; Sasuke, sitting beside him, eyes soft but lips in a small smirk, hand resting against Naruto’s thigh. Menma, arms crossed but smiling anyway. Arashi wasn’t even in the shot yet—Sasuke had still been pregnant then, his hand resting absentmindedly on the barely visible curve of his stomach.

Naruto tilted his head at the picture like it belonged to someone else. His lips parted slightly. His eyes narrowed—not in recognition but in confusion.

Sasuke swallowed hard.

“Take your time,” he whispered, his voice brittle but soft. His fingers twitched at his sides, wanting to reach out, wanting to touch Naruto’s arm, his wrist, anything. But he didn’t dare.

Naruto’s throat moved as he swallowed. His chakra shifted again—unstable, restless, trapped inside his own body.

Sasuke forced his shoulders back, breathing through the tightness in his chest.

“You’re home now,” he whispered.

Naruto flinched almost imperceptibly, like the word home hurt.

His lips pressed together in a thin, pale line.

Arashi let out a soft squeal from the baby carrier strapped to Sasuke’s chest. Her tiny fists grabbed at the fabric of his cloak, her nails grazing against his collarbone. Sasuke adjusted her carefully, his hands steady despite the ice in his stomach.

She squirmed, her little legs kicking once toward Naruto—but then she turned her head away, distracted by the rattle toy clipped to the side of the carrier.

Naruto’s eyes drifted toward her.

For a moment, something flickered behind his eyes—something like recognition, or maybe just instinct. His brows pinched together briefly.

“This is Arashi,” Sasuke whispered, throat dry.

Naruto blinked once, eyes fixed on the child clinging to Sasuke’s chest.

“Arashi,” he repeated, voice low. It sounded like he was testing the shape of the word on his tongue.

Sasuke bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

“She’s… yours,” he whispered, voice almost too quiet to hear. But then he stopped himself from saying more. His throat locked up. The rest of the words— she’s ours —stayed stuck behind his teeth.

Naruto’s gaze flicked away from the baby and back to the wall.

Sasuke forced himself to breathe.

“Let’s sit down.”

Naruto followed, obedient but stiff. He moved like a soldier following orders. His eyes didn’t leave the floor.

Sasuke unstrapped Arashi and set her gently onto the play mat. She rolled onto her back, cooing softly, her chubby hands reaching for the dangling paper cranes that Naruto had folded years ago. They swung slightly from the last breeze, faded from sunlight, but still intact.

Naruto stared at them like they were artifacts from someone else’s life.

He sat on the couch, back straight, hands folded in his lap.

Sasuke sat across from him on the floor, legs folded under him. His hands trembled slightly as he picked at a loose thread on his sleeve.

“You don’t remember anything?” Sasuke asked after a long silence. His voice barely rose above the sound of the rain tapping against the window.

Naruto’s lips parted. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“I remember… my name.”

Sasuke closed his eyes for a second, forcing his heart not to shatter right there.

“I remember I’m from Konoha,” Naruto continued, his voice hollow. “I remember some faces. Names. Kakashi. Sakura.”

Sasuke’s chest tightened, but he forced his face to stay calm.

“And me?” he whispered.

Naruto’s eyes stayed low. His fingers twitched once in his lap.

“I know your name,” he said quietly. “Uchiha Sasuke.”

Sasuke’s stomach dropped.

“But I don’t know why you’re…” Naruto trailed off, his voice catching in his throat. His brows furrowed. “I don’t remember why you’re important.”

The words sliced through Sasuke like kunai.

He forced a breath through his teeth, steady but shaking at the edges.

“You don’t have to force it,” he whispered. “We’ll… figure it out.”

Naruto’s hands clenched tighter in his lap.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, eyes finally lifting for a moment—blue and clouded.

“You’re not hurting me,” Sasuke lied.

The silence stretched too long.

From the corner of the room, Arashi made a soft babbling noise, shaking her rattle in the air. The plastic sound felt like thunder in the quiet house.

Footsteps sounded from the hallway—Menma.

His socks made soft shuffling sounds against the floor as he appeared in the doorway, eyes rimmed red from sleep—or crying. His gaze locked onto Naruto, then snapped away just as fast.

Naruto stared at him blankly.

Menma’s mouth pressed into a hard line.

“Whatever,” he muttered, voice like gravel in his throat. His arms crossed tight against his chest. “I’m going to my room.”

Sasuke opened his mouth to say something—anything—but Menma was already gone.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Naruto’s eyes stayed locked on the spot where Menma had stood.

“He hates me,” Naruto whispered, voice fragile as glass.

“No,” Sasuke whispered back, his throat closing around the lie. “He just misses you.”

Naruto’s hands trembled in his lap. His shoulders curled inward.

“I don’t remember how to be here,” he whispered. His voice broke in half on the last word. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Sasuke reached out, his hand hovering near Naruto’s knee, fingers close but not touching.

“You’re here,” he whispered. “That’s enough.”

But it wasn’t.

Not really.

Naruto didn’t answer.

His gaze drifted to the floor again. His lips pressed together.

Sasuke sat there with him in the silence, the weight of everything crushing the space between them.

His hand drifted to his stomach once—reflex more than anything—but he stopped halfway. His fingers hovered near the fabric of his shirt, then curled into a fist and dropped back into his lap.

This wasn’t the moment to tell him.

Maybe there wouldn’t ever be a moment.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The house felt colder that night, even though the heater clicked on like always.

Sasuke stood at the kitchen counter, his back to the living room. His hands moved on autopilot, rinsing rice, measuring water, starting the rice cooker. He shouldn’t have bothered cooking. No one would eat.

Naruto sat stiffly on the couch, eyes glazed over, staring at the TV without really watching. The volume was low, the same news loop running quietly in the background. Village updates. Weather patterns. Some councilwoman talking about market taxes. None of it mattered.

Menma sat at the dining table, hunched over his phone, thumbs moving too fast over the screen. His bangs shadowed his eyes. His mouth pressed into a sharp, thin line. His leg bounced under the table, heel tapping a steady, angry rhythm against the floorboards.

Sasuke’s stomach twisted tighter. His body was too heavy today, his limbs sore in ways that didn’t make sense. He could feel the dull ache of his own body breaking under stress—shoulders tense, jaw clenched, gut churning in quiet protest.

He stirred the miso soup pot absently, barely noticing the steam against his face.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he murmured, but his voice sounded hollow in his own ears.

Menma didn’t answer. His eyes stayed glued to the phone.

Naruto shifted slightly on the couch but didn’t speak. His hands rested awkwardly in his lap, fingers twitching every so often like he wasn’t sure what they were supposed to be doing. His chakra was pulled in tight again, barely brushing against the walls of the house. Not like before. Before, it used to stretch and curl and spill into every room, bright and warm and stupidly loud. Now it was like a thread someone had half-snapped.

The rice cooker clicked off.

Sasuke exhaled quietly and set out bowls like muscle memory.

He placed one in front of Menma.

The boy didn’t move.

“Eat,” Sasuke said softly, nudging the bowl closer.

Menma’s thumbs kept moving.

Sasuke’s hand twitched at his side.

“I said—”

“Why is he here?”

The words cut across the room like a blade.

Sasuke froze.

Menma’s head snapped up, eyes sharp, voice bitter. His phone clattered onto the table as he shoved it aside.

“Why is he even here?” Menma repeated, louder this time. His eyes burned into Sasuke’s, then darted toward Naruto, sitting silent on the couch.

Naruto blinked, face blank, shoulders stiff.

“He’s your father,” Sasuke whispered, trying to keep his voice steady.

“No, he’s not!” Menma’s chair scraped harshly against the floor as he stood. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white. “He doesn’t even remember us! He doesn’t even care!”

Naruto flinched slightly, his gaze dropping to the rug.

Sasuke’s throat closed.

“Stop it,” he murmured, setting the ladle down, wiping his hands on the dish towel. “Menma, he’s trying.”

“He’s not trying!” Menma’s voice cracked, hot and sharp. “He just sits there! He doesn’t say anything! He doesn’t even look at us like we’re real!”

Sasuke stepped closer, heart pounding too fast.

“He’s hurt,” he said, quieter now, like that might soften the air between them. “He’s lost memories, Menma, not feelings.”

Menma’s eyes flashed.

“Bullshit,” he snapped. “You’re just making excuses! You’re always making excuses for him!”

Naruto’s hands tightened into fists on his knees, his jaw twitching faintly—but he still said nothing. His eyes stayed glued to the floor.

Sasuke swallowed hard, throat burning.

“Menma—”

“No! You’re so fucking pathetic!” Menma’s voice cracked higher, breaking open like something raw inside him. His fists trembled at his sides. “You’re acting like he’s some hero for coming back when he doesn’t even want us anymore! You’re still cooking for him? Still playing house? What’s wrong with you?!”

The words slammed into Sasuke like a punch to the gut.

His breath left him in a sharp hiss. His hand twitched at his side, palm curling, nails digging into his own skin.

“I’m trying,” Sasuke whispered, his voice barely holding steady. “I’m trying to hold this together.”

Menma’s eyes filled with hot, angry tears.

“No you’re not!” he shouted. “You’re just—just waiting! Like always! Waiting for him to save you! He’s not going to save you, Mom!”

Sasuke’s body stiffened. His stomach dropped like a stone into ice water.

Naruto’s head jerked up at the word Mom , eyes wide, mouth parting like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

Sasuke’s face crumpled for half a second before he forced it back under control.

“I don’t need saving,” he whispered, but the words felt paper-thin.

“Yes, you do!” Menma’s voice cracked again. His chest heaved. His whole body trembled.

Sasuke’s vision blurred for a second. His pulse rang in his ears.

“I’m doing my best,” he rasped, voice breaking apart at the seams.

“Well it’s not good enough!”

The words shattered something between them.

Sasuke’s breath hitched. His shoulders collapsed forward, and before he could stop himself, his eyes burned hot, wet streaks sliding down his face, silent and fast.

He hated this.

Hated how easy it was to break apart now. Hated how quickly the tears came.

Menma froze, his chest still heaving, but his eyes widened slightly at the sight of Sasuke crying.

The room pulsed with silence.

Sasuke’s hands shook as he wiped at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, eyes red and wet, voice raw.

“I’m doing my best,” he whispered again, barely audible. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not him.”

Naruto’s eyes stayed locked on Sasuke now, something flickering behind them, but he still said nothing.

Menma’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

His own tears started to fall, quick and messy.

“I didn’t mean—” he stammered, but his throat closed up.

Sasuke just shook his head, wiping his face again, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Go to your room,” he whispered, his voice hollow.

Menma hesitated, then turned and ran down the hallway, slamming his door behind him.

The house echoed with the sound of it, and then fell deathly still.

Sasuke stood in the kitchen, eyes rimmed red, hands trembling against the counter. His chest rose and fell too fast, his stomach twisting in knots he couldn’t untangle.

Naruto sat on the couch, still staring.

But this time, his eyes were wet too.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t reach out.

Sasuke didn’t expect him to.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The house seemed to hold its breath.

Sasuke sat on the edge of the futon in the living room, shoulders slumped and eyes dark-rimmed from sleepless nights. The soft hum of the heater was the only sound breaking the silence. Arashi slept quietly in her crib nearby, her tiny chest rising and falling with steady breaths, oblivious to the storm swirling around her family.

Naruto sat across from Sasuke, hands resting on his knees, fingers twitching with restless energy he couldn’t release. His eyes tracked the shadows flickering across the walls from the streetlights outside, but they never settled on anything familiar. His body was still stiff, like a soldier still on guard in a war that had ended long ago.

Sasuke swallowed the tightness in his throat and pushed himself upright. He forced his voice steady as he broke the silence. “I made some tea.”

Naruto’s eyes flicked toward the steaming cup on the low table between them but didn’t move.

Sasuke took a deep breath and reached for the teapot, pouring carefully. The warmth of the tea was supposed to comfort—meant to soothe the unsettled nerves—but it felt like holding a fragile piece of glass, ready to shatter with the smallest tremble.

He slid the cup toward Naruto.

“Here,” Sasuke said softly. “It’s chamomile. Helps with sleep.”

Naruto hesitated, fingers twitching as if uncertain how to respond, before lifting the cup with a shaky hand. He brought it to his lips and sipped slowly, eyes never leaving the floor.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Sasuke’s mind raced with everything he wanted to say—words of hope, of forgiveness, of ‘welcome home’—but none of it felt real enough to say out loud.

Instead, he just watched Naruto.

Watched the lines of confusion and pain etching deeper into his face.

Watched the way Naruto’s fingers trembled as he set the cup down, spilling a few drops onto the wooden floor.

Arashi stirred in her crib, letting out a soft cry.

Sasuke stood, crossing the room to lift her gently into his arms.

She wriggled, pressing her warm cheek against his chest.

Her scent, sweet and pure, wrapped around him like a fragile thread holding him together.

Naruto’s eyes flicked toward the baby, a faint flicker of recognition in the depths—quick as a shadow passing over water.

Sasuke swallowed the lump in his throat and held Arashi closer.

“We’re still here,” he whispered. “All of us.”

Naruto’s gaze lifted, blue eyes searching, haunted.

“I want to remember,” he said quietly.

“We’ll get there,” Sasuke promised, voice barely a whisper.

For the first time since Naruto’s return, the tight knot inside Sasuke’s chest loosened—just a little.

Sasuke stepped outside into the cool embrace of evening just as the last golden hues of sunset faded into a soft bruised purple. The air was heavy with the scent of rain that had passed hours before, lingering in the soil and clinging to the leaves, fresh and damp. The village was quiet now, the hum of daily life settling into a gentle hush beneath the slow rise of the stars.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click, the familiar creak of the hinges echoing faintly in the stillness. The house felt suddenly smaller without him in it, like it was holding its breath, waiting. But Sasuke needed space—not just the physical kind, but the kind that let grief stretch out, unspoken, raw and unguarded.

He pulled his jacket tighter around him, shoulders hunched against a chill that seemed to seep deeper than the air. His boots met the worn stones of the path, steady and slow, every step grounding him to a world that had shifted beneath his feet.

The scent of home wrapped around him—the sharp tang of cedarwood from the nearby temple, the faint smoke from chimneys signaling fires burning low for the night, and the sweet, musky undertone of wet earth after rain. It was comforting in its familiarity but hollow without Naruto’s warmth.

Then, almost like a breath carried on the wind, something new slipped into the air. A scent so faint it could have been a trick of memory, a whisper of the past reaching into the present.

Naruto’s scent.

It was subtle—warm and salty, mixed with something floral and sharp, like freshly picked wildflowers pressed between pages of an old book. It fluttered just beyond reach, teasing Sasuke’s senses with its fragile presence. The scent drifted through the cool air, curling around him like a promise made and unbroken.

Sasuke’s breath hitched, caught in his chest like a fragile bird trapped in a cage. He closed his eyes and let the wind coil around him, carrying that scent closer, closer still—as if Naruto’s spirit was reaching out through the night to touch him, to remind him that he was still there, still alive in some way.

A single tear slipped down Sasuke’s cheek, catching the faint glow of the lantern light as it traced a cold path across his skin. More followed, falling silently into the quiet night.

His hands clenched at his sides, nails biting into palms as his heart ached with the weight of a thousand unspoken words and shattered hopes.

“Come back,” he whispered, voice raw and trembling with desperate longing.

The wind responded, soft and insistent, rustling the leaves around his feet. It tangled through his hair and brushed against his face, as if carrying Naruto’s reply—an answer he couldn’t yet hear but felt deep in his bones.

For a moment, time seemed to still. The world held its breath alongside Sasuke, waiting, watching, as the faintest glimmer of hope threaded through the darkness.

And then the scent slipped away, fading like a sigh into the vast night sky, leaving Sasuke standing alone on the cracked stones beneath the stars, tears shining quietly in the lantern light.

But something had shifted.

A fragile spark was kindling in the hollow where despair had lived.

The night was no longer just empty.

It was waiting—with him.

Chapter Text

The room was thick with silence, broken only by the slow, steady rhythm of Naruto’s breathing. He sat on the futon, eyes unfocused and tracing invisible patterns on the wall as if searching for something just beyond reach. His hands rested limply on his knees, fingers twitching occasionally—subtle movements that betrayed the storm of confusion hidden beneath his calm exterior.

Sasuke stood a few feet away, heart pounding like a drum inside his chest. He watched Naruto’s blank gaze, desperate for a flicker of recognition, a shard of the man he once knew to spark through the fog. But every time that moment seemed close, it slipped away like sand through fingers.

Memories surfaced in fragments—shards too jagged and distorted to piece together. Sometimes Naruto would mutter a name or a place, but the words never fit quite right. He’d talk about missions he never took, faces he never saw, dreams that didn’t belong to him.

Sasuke’s throat tightened. Each fractured memory was a reminder of the distance now wedged between them, a gulf wider than any battlefield he’d ever crossed.

One evening, as twilight bled softly through the papered windows, Sasuke sat beside Naruto on the futon. His hand hovered uncertainly, fingers trembling as they reached out.

Naruto’s eyes snapped toward him, wide and startled.

Sasuke’s breath caught.

The flinch was almost instinctual—an animal’s reflex to sudden movement—but Naruto didn’t pull away. His hand trembled slightly where Sasuke’s hovered just inches away.

Careful, cautious, Sasuke’s fingers brushed the back of Naruto’s hand, soft and tentative, like testing the fragile ice of a frozen lake.

Naruto’s breath hitched. For a moment, their eyes locked—an unspoken connection flaring between them, fragile and raw.

The warmth of Naruto’s skin beneath his fingers ignited something fierce and aching inside Sasuke’s chest, a spark of hope against the suffocating silence.

But Naruto’s eyes quickly darted away, lips pressing into a thin line as if trying to hold back a tidal wave of confusion and fear.

Intimacy was a maze now, tangled and confusing. Naruto’s body betrayed him with instinct—the quiet way his muscles tensed when Sasuke moved closer, the subtle shift in his scent that stirred something deep inside Sasuke’s own omega instincts—but his mind remained locked behind a veil of amnesia, unreachable and distant.

Sasuke swallowed hard, pain coiling in his gut.

He wanted to bridge the gap. To hold Naruto close, to remind him of all they’d lost and all they still had left.

But fear clawed at his throat.

Fear that if Naruto knew about the life growing inside him—the secret he guarded alone—he might turn away.

So he kept it hidden, swallowing the truth behind forced smiles and careful silences.

And in those quiet moments, when Naruto’s hand rested near his own, when their breaths mingled in the soft light of dusk, Sasuke clung to the fragile threads of connection—threads that felt more like hope than certainty.

Because sometimes, even the smallest touch could feel like a lifeline.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The house felt heavier in the late afternoon, the sun slipping low and casting long shadows that pooled in the corners of every room. Sasuke moved quietly through the kitchen, the soft clink of dishes the only sound as he prepared tea. His hands were steady, but inside, his heart thudded unevenly, full of unspoken fears and aching hope.

Naruto sat at the low table, eyes distant but calm, fingers tracing invisible patterns across the wood grain. He looked peaceful, but Sasuke knew better—the turmoil hidden beneath that quiet mask. The amnesia wrapped around him like a fog, leaving him unmoored and unsure.

Carefully, Sasuke approached and sat down beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. He didn’t speak, just reached out, letting his fingers lightly curl over Naruto’s hand. The touch was gentle, almost hesitant, like testing water that might be too cold.

Naruto flinched, his eyes widening for a heartbeat, but then he didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers twitched, almost as if seeking the comfort of the contact, even if his mind couldn’t fully understand it.

The faint scent of Naruto’s natural alpha aroma mingled with the soft warmth of the tea and the fading light, stirring something deep and primal within Sasuke. His breath hitched, and a flicker of the old connection sparked between them—something instinctual and unspoken, deeper than memory.

Naruto’s gaze flickered toward Sasuke, a fragile question hovering there, but he quickly looked away, blinking as if overwhelmed by the sudden closeness.

Sasuke swallowed hard, heart aching with the contradiction—the pull of instinct battling the wall of lost memories and emotional distance.

He wanted to say so much, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he let his fingers linger just a moment longer, a silent promise to stay, to hold on, to fight for what they once had.

But beneath the surface, a storm brewed in Sasuke’s chest. The secret he carried—the new life growing quietly within him—was a weight he couldn’t yet share. The fear of rejection gnawed at him, twisting his gut into knots every time Naruto looked at him like a stranger.

So he masked it all behind calm eyes and quiet touches, hoping that someday, somehow, Naruto would find his way back.

And maybe, just maybe, they’d find each other again.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

Night had fallen fully, swallowing the village in a blanket of silence punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves outside. The soft glow of paper lanterns cast flickering shadows on the tatami mats, and the house breathed with quiet stillness. Sasuke sat alone in the dim light of the living room, the weight of exhaustion dragging at every limb. The world felt heavy, as if gravity itself had thickened.

His hands rested gently on his lower abdomen, fingers tracing the faint curve hidden beneath the fabric of his shirt. The life growing inside him was a secret, fragile and raw. Every movement sent a ripple of sensation—sharp aches and dull pressure—that reminded him relentlessly of the responsibility he carried alone. His breath hitched at the knowledge that Naruto had no inkling, that the father of this child sat unaware in the same house, lost somewhere behind a wall Sasuke couldn’t yet breach.

Behind him, Naruto’s slow, even breathing filled the quiet room, the steady cadence of a man still adrift. Sasuke’s gaze flickered toward the futon, where Naruto lay curled beneath a thin blanket. The soft rise and fall of his chest was painfully familiar, yet so distant—like watching a ghost through a fogged window.

The gap between them felt immense.

Sasuke’s heart clenched tight, twisting in the empty spaces between their shared silence. He wanted desperately to reach out, to break through the fog that clouded Naruto’s mind. To remind him who he was, who they were—family bound by blood, by love, by history.

But fear held him back.

Fear of rejection, of shattering what little fragile peace they’d managed to carve out.

His fingers tightened unconsciously around his shirt, nails digging shallow crescents into the skin beneath.

The scent of Naruto’s alpha presence drifted faintly on the night air—a warm, grounding balm that stirred something deep within Sasuke’s omega instincts. It was a bittersweet reminder of the bond that still tethered them, even as Naruto’s mind wavered in the haze of amnesia.

Sasuke closed his eyes, swallowing back the lump rising in his throat. The exhaustion that had been building for weeks pressed down on him with merciless weight. His shoulders shook slightly as silent tears slipped down his cheeks, tracing cold paths across skin that still felt too raw.

He didn’t dare cry openly—couldn’t risk showing weakness in front of Naruto, who was already so fragile—but the grief and fear simmering beneath the surface threatened to overflow.

In the hushed darkness, Sasuke whispered to himself, his voice barely audible, “I have to protect them. I have to be strong.”

The words felt hollow, a fragile shield against the storm raging inside.

Even as he spoke, the knot of dread tightened in his chest. What if he wasn’t strong enough? What if the family he longed to hold together crumbled beneath the weight of secrets and loss?

His mind wandered, imagining the child he carried—the tiny heartbeat echoing faintly inside him, a quiet promise of hope amid the despair. He pictured Menma’s stubborn frown softening into a smile, Arashi’s tiny fingers curling around his own, Naruto’s return—not as a stranger, but as the father he once was.

But those images flickered and shattered under the cold glare of reality.

Sasuke’s breath caught, a sharp pang of loneliness piercing the silence.

He shifted slightly, the mattress creaking softly beneath him.

Outside, a breeze rustled the branches of the trees, a gentle whisper that seemed to promise tomorrow might bring something better.

For a moment, Sasuke let himself believe it.

Then, steeling himself, he rose quietly and slipped from the room, leaving Naruto to his dreams and the fragile peace of the night.

Sasuke lingered near the window long after the house had fallen silent, watching the night breathe beneath a quilt of stars. The cool air drifted in softly, carrying with it the scent of wet earth and fading jasmine—familiar and comforting, yet tinged with something else.

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, and caught it: the faintest trace of Naruto’s scent, elusive and almost unreal, like a whisper lost on the wind. It stirred something deep within him—an ache that was both cruel and tender.

Tears welled unbidden, blurring his vision as they traced silent paths down his cheeks. The scent wrapped around him like a fragile tether, fragile but real, threading through the dark and holding him steady when everything else threatened to unravel.

The night seemed to hold its breath with him. The soft rustle of leaves, the distant call of an owl, even the wind itself—everything slowed, as if the world was waiting, watching.

Sasuke pressed his palm against the cool glass, feeling the pulse of the village beyond, the lives carried within it. He whispered, voice trembling with longing, “Come back. Please.”

A gentle breeze swept through, tugging at his hair, swirling around him like a soft caress. For a heartbeat, he imagined Naruto there beside him, a presence that filled the empty spaces.

And though the scent faded, the hope remained—a fragile light kindling quietly in the depths of his heart.

Chapter Text

The first wave of pain struck without warning, sharp and fierce like a blade twisting deep inside Sasuke’s abdomen. It crashed over him with such brutal force that he gasped, clutching at the sides of the bed, fingers digging into the fabric of the hospital sheets. The muscles in his legs trembled uncontrollably, and a cold sweat slicked his brow and neck. His breath came fast and shallow, panicked, as if the air itself had turned thin and sharp.

He tried to steady himself, to breathe through it, but the ache spread quickly and mercilessly. His whole body tensed, every nerve screaming in protest. The sterile hospital room around him blurred at the edges, its harsh white lights stabbing into his eyes like tiny daggers. The antiseptic smell mingled with the faint metallic tang of blood, and every breath tasted thick and heavy.

The monitors beeped rapidly, a cacophony growing louder with each wave of contraction that ripped through him. Nurses rushed in, their faces tight with concern, voices urgent but calm as they moved with practiced precision. One reached for his wrist, fingers cold and firm, pressing to take his pulse.

“Sasuke, the contractions are too close,” she said sharply, her eyes meeting his with an unspoken warning. “You’re in early labor, but your body isn’t ready.”

Fear clawed at his chest, thick and suffocating. He wanted to scream, to beg for it to stop, but the words got caught in his throat. He was alone, despite the crowd of medical staff rushing around him. Naruto hovered nearby, his face pale and rigid, hands clenched tightly at his sides. Sasuke’s eyes flicked to him, searching for some reassurance, but all he saw was a stranger—a man swallowed by the weight of helplessness.

The pain intensified, a relentless storm battering down on him. His vision tunneled, breath ragged as his body fought a battle he was unprepared for. The epidural needle pressed cold against his spine moments later, a brief sting before a slow creeping numbness spread through his lower body, dulling but never fully silencing the ache.

The labor stalled and surged in dangerous cycles. Monitors beeped warnings; blood pressure dipped erratically. The lead doctor barked orders, the medical team snapping into action, tension crackling in the air like electricity.

“Sasuke, we need to prepare for an emergency cesarean,” the doctor said with grim urgency. “The baby’s heart rate is dropping.”

Sasuke’s heart slammed against his ribs, panic flooding every fiber of his being. The room spun around him in a whirlwind of voices, movements, and the cold touch of antiseptic.

Naruto’s voice broke through the chaos, sharp and strained: “Hold on, Sasuke. Stay with me.”

But Sasuke was already slipping, the pain and fear pulling him under.

The operating room was a blur of sterile white and frantic motion. The sharp scent of antiseptic was overwhelming, invading Sasuke’s senses like a harsh storm. He lay on the cold surgical table, the crisp hospital sheets biting at his clammy skin. His body trembled, adrenaline and exhaustion warring beneath the numb haze of anesthesia.

A mask was pressed over his face, warm but intrusive. He fought the urge to panic, every breath shallow and strained as the medical team worked swiftly around him. The surgeon’s voice was steady, clipped with command.

“Scalpel,” the doctor ordered.

A sharp sting exploded through his abdomen as the incision was made. Sasuke’s vision blurred, pain flaring in sharp bursts despite the epidural. The pressure and tugging inside were unbearable, his chest heaving with shallow gasps.

Naruto stood by, pale and silent, fingers twitching nervously. His usual fierce confidence was gone, replaced by helplessness and dread.

Minutes stretched into eternity.

Then, a desperate wail shattered the tense silence—a tiny, fragile cry that pierced Sasuke’s heart. The baby was here.

A nurse quickly wrapped the newborn in a soft blanket, voice gentle but urgent as she placed the child beside Sasuke.

But Sasuke felt numb. Hollow. The world spun, and his limbs refused to obey. His breaths came in ragged gasps; sweat poured down his face. The room faded into a dizzying haze of light and shadow.

“I… I can’t…” Sasuke whispered hoarsely, the words breaking on his cracked lips.

He tried to hold the baby, to feed, but his body betrayed him again. No warmth, no milk. The emptiness inside him stretched wide and cruel.

Tears burned in his eyes as the weight of failure pressed down like a suffocating fog.

Naruto reached out, voice barely above a whisper, “Sasuke… it’s okay. You’re not alone.”

But the silence that followed was deafening.

Sasuke’s soul felt raw and shattered—broken beneath the weight of pain, fear, and the relentless uncertainty that gnawed at him.

The echoes of the newborn’s cries faded into the sterile silence of the hospital room, leaving a haunting emptiness that pressed down on Sasuke’s chest like a stone. He lay back on the hospital bed, limbs heavy and trembling, the rough sheets clinging coldly to his sweat-slicked skin. His body ached in every fiber, muscles spasming weakly from the trauma, the aftershocks of the emergency cesarean slicing through his core.

His breath was shallow, uneven, as if each inhale required all the strength he had left. The numbness from the epidural was beginning to fade, replaced by a dull, persistent throb that felt like a cruel reminder of everything he’d just endured.

Naruto sat nearby, his expression strained but gentle, eyes flickering with worry and helplessness. Yet Sasuke felt a chasm between them—an invisible wall carved from grief, fear, and the exhaustion that had settled deep into his bones.

Sasuke’s gaze drifted toward the swaddled infant resting in the bassinet beside the bed. The tiny chest rose and fell with fragile breaths, the soft pink skin delicate and perfect in its innocence. But to Sasuke, the sight was a cruel reminder of his own perceived failure.

He wanted so badly to hold the baby close, to nurture and protect, but his body refused. No milk came, no warmth answered the silent call of the child nestled against him in restless sleep. A hollow ache spread through his chest, deeper than physical pain.

Tears welled behind his eyelids, hot and unbidden, threatening to spill over. He swallowed hard, biting down on the bitter taste of defeat.

“I… I can’t even do this right,” he whispered, voice cracking in the quiet room.

Naruto reached out, hesitating for a moment before brushing a trembling hand over Sasuke’s damp cheek. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he said softly.

Sasuke turned toward him then, eyes heavy and haunted, voice trembling. “I’m sorry… for hiding it,” he confessed. “I didn’t want you to worry… or think I was weak.” His fingers trembled as they clenched the bedsheet. “It was… easier to carry it alone.”

Naruto blinked, confusion flickering across his face, as if those words were foreign, strange, something he didn’t fully understand. His voice was uncertain, tentative. “Pregnant… You never told me. Why?”

The question hung in the air, sharp and raw.

Sasuke swallowed again, guilt and shame twisting inside him like a knife. “I was scared… of losing you… of losing us. And… I didn’t know how to say it.”

Naruto’s gaze dropped, flicking toward the infant, then back to Sasuke with hesitant tenderness. The fragile distance between them was like a gulf, widened by time, trauma, and lost memories.

“I want to understand,” Naruto said softly, reaching again for Sasuke’s hand, “but… it’s hard. Everything’s different now.”

Sasuke nodded, tears spilling free as he finally let himself break. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

The room held its breath, heavy with grief, fear, and the fragile, tentative hope of healing.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The house was dim, cloaked in a heaviness that no amount of sunlight could cut through. Shadows gathered in the corners, stretching long beneath Sasuke’s eyes, hollowing him out from the inside. Sleep was a distant memory. His body was foreign now—stitched, aching, leaking at the seams, barely held together by will alone.

The newborn wailed in his arms—raw, relentless, inconsolable.

“Shhh—shhh,” Sasuke rasped, voice cracked and hoarse. His hand shook as he tried to cradle the tiny body closer to his chest, but his grip faltered. He wasn’t steady anymore. His wrists were weak, his knees buckling beneath the weight of the infant and everything else he carried.

The bottle slipped from his fingers, formula splashing onto the floor in a pale puddle. The baby screamed louder, tiny mouth open wide, fists clenched, red-faced and shaking.

Sasuke staggered to the kitchen, feet dragging, vision blurred from exhaustion. His hip slammed into the table—hard. A sharp jolt of pain shot up his side. His breath caught, but he kept moving, teeth gritted, sweat trickling down his back.

Another cry.

Another hour awake.

Another reminder that he wasn’t enough.

Naruto stood in the doorway, arms crossed awkwardly, watching with that same pitying look he always wore now—distant, hollow-eyed. His memory still clouded, his touch hesitant. He was here but not here, a ghost with a pulse.

Sasuke wanted to scream at him. He wanted to shake him, to drag him back into the reality of their life, but he didn’t have the strength. His chest heaved in silence instead, the words locked behind his teeth.

“Menma!” Sasuke called, voice sharp, “get Arashi—!”

The toddler started crying in the other room, her wails joining the newborn’s in a symphony of grief. Sasuke’s knees nearly buckled under the sound.

Menma rushed in, eyes wide, panicked. “I can’t make her stop! She won’t stop, Papa—!”

Sasuke snapped.

“I KNOW SHE WON’T STOP!” His voice cracked, shattering the room’s fragile quiet.

Menma flinched, eyes welling up immediately, but Sasuke was already moving again, frantic. His foot slammed into the coffee table as he rushed toward Arashi’s crib—sharp, white-hot pain slicing through his toes. He stumbled, nearly dropping the newborn.

“Fuck—!” The curse tore from his throat, raw and violent.

The baby’s cries rose higher, desperate, while formula dripped down his front. Sour milk, spit-up, sweat, and tears soaked into his clothes. His stomach tightened around the incision site, stitches pulling, a burning reminder of how much his body had been ripped apart and left to rot in this house of grief.

He couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t fucking do it.

A dangerous thought twisted in his mind, slick and cold.

What if I just… stopped?

His gaze flicked to the newborn in his arms—so small, so breakable. His hands trembled, tightening for just a second too long. The baby’s neck tilted back in that fragile, infant way, head unsupported.

It would be so easy.

One slip. One moment. One breath in the wrong direction.

His heart slammed against his ribs, bile rising in his throat.

“I—I didn’t mean to—” His voice broke, cracking wide open as he pulled the baby closer again, shaking. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I’m sorry.”

Menma stood in the hallway, shoulders hunched, tears streaming down his face. He watched Sasuke fall apart, his small fists pressed hard against his mouth to keep his own sobs quiet.

“Papa… please…” Menma whispered, voice trembling. “Stop crying.”

But Sasuke couldn’t stop. His knees hit the kitchen tile with a hollow thud, his body folding in on itself, the newborn pressed against his chest, still screaming. His eyes stayed locked on the floor, tears blurring his vision, breaths coming in short, sharp gasps.

“I can’t do this,” Sasuke whispered, eyes wide and unfocused. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

His hands gripped the infant too tight for a moment—then loosened, trembling. His whole body shook, sweat pouring down his face, stomach twisting from nausea, from guilt, from the storm inside his head that wouldn’t quiet.

Naruto finally crossed the room, but his steps were hesitant, like he didn’t know how to help. Like he was a visitor in his own life.

“Sasuke…” Naruto crouched beside him, reaching out, voice soft but shaky. “It’s okay. You’re— You’re tired. Let me hold him.”

But Sasuke recoiled, clutching the baby tighter, his lips trembling, heart racing in his chest.

“No,” he whispered. “I can’t give him up. I can’t—I won’t—”

Naruto’s eyes were wide, hands hovering in the air, afraid to touch, afraid to let go.

Menma slid down the wall, knees to his chest, sobbing into his sleeves.

The house became a nest of echoes: the baby’s screams, Arashi’s whimpers in the next room, Menma’s muffled sobs, Naruto’s shallow breathing, and Sasuke’s whispers—repeating the same three words over and over until his voice broke completely.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Sasuke’s breath came in short, broken gasps, his vision tunneling at the edges.

The walls of the house swayed slightly in his periphery—not physically, but in his mind, the angles blurred, the ceiling tilting dangerously. His head was heavy, his limbs heavier. His arms trembled from clutching the newborn too tightly, shoulders locked in place like stone, the muscles spasming in protest.

His lips parted to say something, but no sound came out.

Naruto’s hand hovered just inches from him, uncertain, afraid. His face blurred in Sasuke’s sight—a wash of blond and blue, familiar and foreign at once.

The newborn’s cries were still sharp, but they faded in and out, like a distant siren underwater.

I can’t—

The thought broke off halfway.

The room tilted.

Sasuke’s body gave out.

His knees slid forward, then sideways, knocking against the cold tile as he slumped to the floor. His vision greyed at the edges, breath sputtering out of his lungs in shallow pants.

“Sa—Sasuke?” Naruto’s voice cracked, startled, panicked now. “Sasuke—!”

The baby nearly slipped from his grasp, but Naruto caught him just in time, pulling the infant away from Sasuke’s limp arms, clutching the tiny body to his chest.

“Sasuke—wake up!” Naruto’s hands pressed against Sasuke’s cheeks, palms clammy, shaking him gently, then harder when there was no response. “Hey—come on—come on—look at me—”

But Sasuke’s eyes were glassy, unfocused, his mouth slightly open, chest shuddering with uneven breaths.

A thin string of drool slipped from the corner of his lips, falling to the floor in a quiet drip.

“Shit—shit!” Naruto panicked, scrambling for a pulse, his fingers sliding to Sasuke’s neck. The throb of Sasuke’s heartbeat was weak beneath his fingertips—thready, arrhythmic.

“Menma—!” Naruto shouted, his voice rising in pitch. “Call for the medics—now!”

Menma’s face was soaked with tears, but he scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over his own legs as he bolted toward the door, chakra flaring wildly in all directions as he screamed for help.

The front door slammed open, sandals hitting the floor hard as medical-nin rushed inside, their cloaks flashing pale green, chakra already pulsing in their palms. One medic pushed Naruto gently aside, laying Sasuke flat, scanning him with trembling hands and glowing fingertips.

“Severe exhaustion,” one muttered, voice clipped, professional. “Blood sugar crash, dehydration, adrenal overload—his system’s shutting down—”

Another pressed a cooling seal to Sasuke’s forehead, eyes narrowing. “BP’s dropping. We need to stabilize—now.”

Naruto hovered in the corner, still clutching the newborn, his own hands shaking.

“What’s happening to him?” His voice cracked like glass. “Is he—?”

“He’s not going to die,” the medic snapped, but her jaw tightened like she wasn’t sure.

They hooked Sasuke to monitors right there on the floor—no time to move him. Chakra diagnostics lit up in soft green pulses, revealing imbalance after imbalance: elevated cortisol, muscle failure, lactation shock. His scent was wrong—acidic, sharp, soured by stress and trauma. His omega physiology had crashed under the pressure.

“Postpartum collapse,” one of the medics murmured grimly, glancing at Naruto. “This wasn’t just physical. He’s… He’s beyond burnt out.”

Naruto swallowed hard, throat dry.

Sasuke’s lips were moving faintly, breath barely audible.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

His eyes didn’t focus, but the words kept coming, lips cracking from dehydration.

The medics lifted him onto a stretcher, his body limp, sweat beading cold across his forehead. His hospital gown was damp from breastmilk attempts that never came, formula stains still streaked down his chest from the last frantic feeding. His incision site was inflamed—half-healed, now stressed from the fall.

“Move,” the lead medic barked, motioning toward the door. “We’re transporting him now.”

Naruto followed, clutching the newborn tight against his chest, his legs numb.

Menma stood in the corner, his face pale, knees pressed to his chest again, tears streaking down his face. His eyes stayed locked on Sasuke’s fragile body as they carried him out the door.

Sasuke lay motionless in the recovery unit.

Monitors beeped steadily, the soft rhythm cutting through the sterile air. His skin was pale, lips cracked and dry, eyelids fluttering beneath the weight of sedation and collapse. IV fluids dripped quietly into the crook of his arm. Electrolyte correction, hormone stabilizers, sedatives. A lactation suppressant had been administered too—there was no other choice now. His body needed to rest, whether he wanted it to or not.

Naruto sat at his bedside, one hand wrapped awkwardly around the newborn swaddled against his chest, the other resting on the hospital blanket that covered Sasuke’s limp hand.

Across the room, Menma sat curled into the corner of the couch, knees pulled to his chest, red-rimmed eyes staring at nothing. His face was blotchy, eyes wide and wet, lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. His breathing came in shallow, uneven puffs, like he was afraid to make too much noise.

Arashi lay beside him, tiny body cradled against his side. Her thumb was stuffed in her mouth, eyes wide but silent, gaze flicking nervously between her older brother and the machines. Her small hand clutched the edge of Menma’s hoodie, tiny fingers curling and uncurling rhythmically, as if she understood more than she should for a toddler.

She whimpered once, barely a sound, just a soft little breath of confusion. Menma’s arms tightened around her automatically, even as his tears kept coming.

Naruto shifted slightly, his throat tight, guilt crawling up his spine like something cold and alive. His gaze stayed locked on Sasuke’s face—the sweat still beading lightly on his temple, the shallow rise and fall of his chest. The machines ticked and blinked beside them, indifferent to the wreckage of their family.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” Naruto whispered, voice raw, barely audible over the pulse of the monitors.

His hand ghosted over Sasuke’s fingers, brushing cold skin.

The baby stirred in his arms, a tiny fist pushing against Naruto’s chest in its sleep, but Naruto barely noticed. His chest ached with something sharp and unfamiliar—a sense of distance between them all that he didn’t know how to close.

Menma sniffled from the corner, pressing his face harder into Arashi’s soft hair, muffling his sobs. He didn’t look up.

Arashi blinked slowly, watching her papa’s still body on the hospital bed, her small mouth trembling in silence.

Sasuke’s lips parted faintly in his sleep, voice a barely-there whisper—cracked, fragile.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

The words sank into the sterile room, dissolving into the hum of the machines, into the scent of antiseptic and winter rain tapping at the window.

And no one—not even the wind outside—knew how to answer.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The hospital room smelled like damp linen and cold antiseptic. The rain had stopped outside, but the air still felt heavy—thick with something you couldn’t wash away.

Sasuke lay propped up in the bed now, pale but conscious, eyes glassy from exhaustion. His body still trembled faintly under the blankets. His hands, usually so precise, so steady, fumbled aimlessly with the corner of the hospital sheet, twisting it between his fingers like thread.

The door slid open.

Kakashi was the first to step in, his face unreadable beneath the edge of his mask. His one visible eye flicked to Sasuke, then to Naruto, who still sat in the corner with the newborn clutched awkwardly against his chest.

Behind Kakashi, Sakura and Shikamaru entered quietly, their expressions stiff, polite. Too polite.

Sasuke’s stomach knotted immediately.

“I’m fine,” he rasped before anyone could speak, throat raw from disuse. His fingers tightened on the blanket. “You don’t need to be here.”

Kakashi ignored that. His voice was soft but sharp. Controlled.

“Sasuke. We need to talk.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t optional.

Sasuke’s eyes narrowed.

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Shikamaru cut in, his voice low, eyes tired, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. “This isn’t just exhaustion anymore.”

Sakura stepped closer, her hands wringing together. Her eyes flicked nervously between Sasuke and the baby in Naruto’s lap, then to Menma and Arashi huddled quietly in the corner.

“Sasuke… we’re worried,” she began gently, her voice laced with clinical restraint. “You’ve been through a lot. Postpartum collapse is—”

“I’m stable,” Sasuke snapped, louder than he meant to. His chest tightened, his pulse thudding loudly in his ears.

Kakashi sighed softly but didn’t break eye contact.

“We’re not saying you’re crazy,” Kakashi said. Calm. Measured. “But you’re not coping well. No one expects you to be fine after this. But you—”

“You want to take my family away from me.”

Sasuke’s voice cracked at the edges, eyes sharp, breath coming faster. His throat burned.

“That’s what this is.”

“No, Sasuke,” Sakura whispered, but her hands kept wringing. “It’s not like that. We’re just trying to help—”

“Help?” Sasuke barked, something wild flickering behind his eyes. His chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked breaths. “You call this help? You think you’re helping by coming here and telling me I’m not fit to be a father? That I’m dangerous to my own kids?”

“Sasuke,” Shikamaru said quietly, “Menma’s been scared. The neighbors have reported—”

“He’s my son,” Sasuke cut in, his voice breaking, eyes glinting wet. His hands balled into fists over his stomach. “We’re going through something—he’s angry, I’m angry—but that doesn’t mean you get to decide what happens in this house.”

Naruto shifted uncomfortably in the corner but said nothing. His grip tightened around the baby, lips pressed into a thin line. He couldn’t meet Sasuke’s eyes.

That betrayal stung deeper than the rest.

Sasuke’s breath hitched. He wanted to rip the monitors off his skin, tear the IV from his arm. His pulse raced, sweat beading along his temple.

“You want to take them away from me because I’m not doing it right?” His voice trembled, eyes wild, desperate. “I’m trying! I try every fucking day!”

No one spoke.

He slammed a trembling fist against the bed rail, voice rising.

“I’m fucking trying! You think I don’t know I’m failing?! You think I don’t feel it every second?!” His throat closed up, tears spilling freely now. His face twisted, broken and raw. “I can’t do anything right—I can’t feed them—I can’t sleep—I can’t fix this—I can’t even die because I have to stay here and keep going—and for what? So you can come here and tell me I’m unstable?!”

“Sasuke—”

“No!” His voice cracked loud enough to echo. “You think I don’t want to end it sometimes?! You think I haven’t thought about it?! But I don’t! Because of them! Because if I go, they’ll have no one—Naruto’s not even here! Not really!” His head snapped toward Naruto, voice shattering. “You’re not helping me! You don’t even know who we are anymore!”

Naruto’s throat bobbed, his face pale, but still—he stayed silent.

That silence broke something inside Sasuke completely.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Sasuke whispered, voice hoarse, barely audible now. “I can’t keep waking up to this shit—I can’t keep arguing with my son—I can’t keep feeding babies that won’t stop crying—I can’t keep watching my husband look at me like I’m a stranger.”

His eyes closed briefly, hot tears slipping down his cheeks.

“I just wanted to keep my family,” he whispered, voice like paper tearing in the wind. “Even if it’s broken. Even if it’s not perfect anymore. I wanted to keep it.”

The room was silent.

Only the soft beeping of the monitors, the hum of IV fluids, and the steady breath of a sleeping infant filled the space.

Kakashi’s eye softened slightly, but his voice stayed careful.

“No one’s taking your family away, Sasuke,” he said quietly. “We just… We need to find a way to help you stay here. With them. Safely.”

Sasuke’s shoulders shook, his body curling in on itself under the hospital blanket. His face pressed into his knees, hands clawing at the thin fabric as if it might hold him together.

“I can’t take this anymore,” he whispered into his lap. “But I don’t want to lose them. I just—I just want to be enough.”

The baby stirred in Naruto’s arms. Menma held Arashi tighter in the corner, his eyes wide and wet, heart pounding in his chest.

Outside the hospital window, the wind picked up again.

But inside the room, everything stayed still.

No answers.
No solutions.

Just the cold, crushing weight of staying alive.

Chapter Text

Two weeks had passed since the emergency birth.

The walls of the house still echoed with that night—the sterile hospital scent trapped in the fibers of Sasuke’s memory, the blood he couldn’t forget. His body hadn’t recovered. His mind hadn’t, either.

Every day blurred into the next.

Sasuke stood in the kitchen at dawn, barely upright. His hands trembled as he twisted the cap off the formula container, scooping powder into a sterilized bottle with slow, mechanical precision. He measured the water, warmed it just right, tested the heat on the inside of his wrist. His skin was so thin there now, nearly transparent from exhaustion. Blue veins showed beneath pale flesh.

The baby’s cries echoed from the crib in the corner, soft but insistent. A wet, hungry sound. Not shrill—just steady. Like someone knocking on a door that would never open.

Sasuke’s chest tightened.

He hated this part.

His body was supposed to know how to do this. He was supposed to be able to hold his newborn to his chest and feed him the way he fed Arashi once, the way omega instincts said he should. But his glands had shut down completely. His chest remained stubbornly dry. His body—his traitorous body—refused to obey.

The formula sat heavy in his hands. It was shame in powdered form. It smelled like chemicals and defeat.

The house was still dim. Shadows stretched long across the floorboards, lit only by the pale grey of morning bleeding through the curtains. Outside, winter rain tapped gently against the windows. Inside, everything was too quiet.

Naruto stood in the doorway.

His gaze lingered on Sasuke, eyes heavy-lidded, face unreadable. He still moved like a stranger in his own home—muscle memory guiding his steps, but no emotion tethered to the walls or rooms. His shoulders slumped forward, blond hair falling limp around his temples.

His voice cracked the silence.

“Did I do this to you?”

It was barely a question. More like a breath escaping without permission.

Sasuke didn’t look up from the bottle. His hands kept moving—shake, mix, swirl. His pulse throbbed in his ears.

“It’s no one’s fault,” he lied, lips barely parting.

The lie tasted bitter. Worse than the tea gone cold on the counter.

Naruto shifted on his feet, arms crossing awkwardly over his chest. His chakra buzzed faintly in the air, but there was no warmth in it. Just static. Just guilt.

The newborn let out another soft cry, small fists bunching the blanket around his body. His tiny mouth opened, searching. Sasuke’s stomach twisted.

“I’ll do it,” Naruto whispered.

Sasuke paused.

His throat burned, but his hands moved anyway—passing the bottle over like surrendering a weapon. Naruto’s fingers brushed his in the handoff. The warmth of it lasted only a second before pulling away.

Naruto crouched beside the crib, stiff and clumsy, lifting the baby with shaky arms. He cradled him like glass. His fingers fumbled with the bottle, but eventually, the newborn latched—hungry, desperate, eyes fluttering shut as he drank.

Sasuke sank back into the kitchen chair, arms loose at his sides, gaze locked on the floor. His eyes burned, but he refused to blink.

“I don’t remember how to do this,” Naruto murmured, his voice hoarse, barely audible over the soft sounds of feeding. “I don’t know how to be this person.”

Sasuke stared at the floorboards, tracing invisible cracks in the wood grain with his eyes.

“Neither do I,” he whispered back.

Arashi shuffled into the room, clutching a toy in one small fist. Her hair was tangled from sleep, and she rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. She climbed into Sasuke’s lap without saying a word. Her body was warm against his, her small hand finding a piece of his robe to hold onto.

Sasuke’s arms wrapped around her automatically, but his heart stayed numb.

In the hallway, Menma watched from the shadows. He didn’t come into the room. He just stared, eyes hollow, shoulders drawn tight.

Outside, the rain continued to fall, steady against the windows.

Naruto’s hand hovered awkwardly over the baby’s back, patting softly. The baby let out a tiny burp and nestled deeper into Naruto’s chest, sighing through his nose. His breath came in warm, even huffs.

“I’m sorry,” Naruto whispered again, not knowing what he meant anymore. For leaving? For forgetting? For standing there helpless while Sasuke drowned?

Sasuke closed his eyes.

The tea had gone ice cold.
The house still smelled like formula and old antiseptic.

But for now, no one left the room.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

It started with smells.
Always smells first.

Naruto sat on the back porch, knees pulled up to his chest, the baby monitor crackling softly beside him. The house behind him was quiet—Sasuke and the kids asleep, or at least pretending to be. Rainwater dripped from the eaves in steady pulses. The wooden deck beneath him creaked with every shift of his weight.

His mind wasn’t quiet.

He pressed his face into the sleeve of his hoodie, inhaling the faintest trace of something familiar.

Sasuke’s scent.
Lavender soap. Ashwood. The soft, barely-there musk of omega pheromones—faint now, dulled by exhaustion and heartbreak, but still there. Embedded in the fabric from years of sharing laundry, sharing beds, sharing skin.

The smell punched him in the gut.

It was like memory was a hook buried deep beneath his ribs, tugging at him, forcing something sharp to the surface.

For a split second—just one sliver of a second—he remembered.

The shape of Sasuke’s head tucked beneath his chin at night. The weight of a warm body pressed along his side. Fingers twitching in sleep, breath brushing the hollow of his throat. The soft sound of Arashi’s baby hiccups from the other room. Menma’s small foot kicking in his sleep, tangled up in Naruto’s legs, murmuring nonsense.

Then it was gone.
Like a door slammed shut.

Naruto squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead to his knees.

More flashes came.

Out of order. Shattered.

Menma’s tiny fingers once curled into his flak jacket after a long mission, face buried in Naruto’s chest, whispering, “I stayed up ‘til you got home.”

Arashi’s newborn cry—the very first one. Wet and angry and loud, filling a hospital room lit too bright for such a fragile sound.

Sasuke in the kitchen, hair sticking up messily, back to him, pouring tea with shaking hands but pretending it was nothing. His shoulders too tight. His breath too thin. Naruto’s arms coming around him from behind, lips brushing the shell of Sasuke’s ear. Whispering something—what had he said?—
Something stupid. Something warm.

Naruto’s throat closed.

He clawed at the memories, desperate to hold onto them, but they scattered like ash in the wind. Every time he thought he had one, it slipped sideways—morphing, warping, replaced by something else.

He remembered fighting beside Sasuke on the battlefield.
He remembered sharing food in the rain when they were teenagers.

But this?
This life?
The house, the kids, the family they were supposed to have?

His mind couldn’t piece it together.

A baby monitor crackled at his side. Arashi stirred in her sleep, mumbling softly, her breath hitching into a soft whimper.
Naruto’s hand tightened around the plastic casing.

Inside the house, the newborn—still nameless in his mind, still foreign—shifted restlessly in his crib. Sasuke would wake soon, groggy and hollow-eyed, to mix another bottle, to rock another midnight hour away in that damn chair that creaked with every motion.

Naruto’s stomach twisted.

He wanted to remember.
Gods, he wanted to remember.

But the pieces weren’t fitting right.
It was like someone had dropped his life on the ground and handed him back the shards out of order.

His chest ached. A cold kind of ache, the kind that sat deep in the bones.

In the distance, the village lights blinked softly in the mist. Somewhere, a wind chime knocked against a neighbor’s porch. The smell of wet earth rose around him, curling under his skin.

Naruto’s fingers pressed into his temples, his breath shallow.

“I know you,” he whispered into the dark, voice trembling, eyes glassy. “I know you, don’t I?”

But the silence didn’t answer.

Only the rain.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

Naruto stood in the bathroom at dawn, staring at his own reflection.

His palms pressed flat against the cold porcelain of the sink, fingers white at the knuckles. His breath fogged the mirror slightly, blurring the edges of his face. Blue eyes rimmed in red stared back at him, wide and foreign, like they belonged to someone else.

He didn’t know this version of himself.

The scars were familiar—the ones across his stomach, the thin line beneath his chin from a training accident, the whisker marks carved into his skin since birth. But the rest? It felt borrowed. Like his body had kept living without him.

His shoulders looked heavier. His mouth looked older. The smile lines at the corners of his lips had deepened into something that wasn’t joy. Just wear. Just time.

Naruto reached up, fingers ghosting over his jaw, then lower—tracing the faint indent of Sasuke’s old bite mark along his neck. It had faded now, almost gone. A memory under his skin.

The mark should’ve meant something. Should’ve lit up a pathway back to his past. But it didn’t.

It felt like someone else’s life.

Behind him, the house shifted—floorboards creaking, a kettle humming faintly from the kitchen. Sasuke was awake. The kids would be up soon. Bottles would need to be made. Diapers changed. Menma would throw another cold glance in his direction and pretend not to care.

Naruto’s throat tightened.

The mirror swam.

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe.

Images flickered behind his eyelids. Not whole memories—just flashes. Half-broken things. He saw a hand brushing through Menma’s hair, soft and careful. He felt the weight of a baby pressed to his chest, tiny breaths warm against his collarbone. He heard Sasuke’s voice somewhere far away, not sharp the way it sounded now, but soft, murmuring nonsense into his ear in the middle of the night.

Naruto’s stomach flipped.

These things felt true.
But they also felt impossible.

A knock sounded at the door, hesitant.

“Naruto?” Sasuke’s voice, muffled through the wood.

Naruto swallowed hard, wiping at his face before the tears could fall.

“Yeah,” he rasped, clearing his throat. “I’m fine.”

The lie came too easily.

The doorknob twisted, but Sasuke didn’t come in. He just stood there, on the other side, his chakra soft like static electricity—thin and worn, like he wasn’t sure how close to get anymore.

“You’re not fine,” Sasuke whispered through the crack. “But I guess neither of us are.”

Naruto pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the mirror, eyes shut tight.

He wanted to open the door. He wanted to step back into the life he was told was his. To reach for Sasuke’s hand and say something simple, like:
“I’m trying.”
But the words stuck in his throat.

His reflection blurred, smeared by the condensation of his breath.

He stayed like that for a long time.
Frozen.
Listening to the faint sounds of his own family moving around without him.

Chapter Text

The house was wrapped in darkness, thick and suffocating like a heavy blanket that refused to lift. The only light came from the faint glow of dawn seeping under the sliding doors, pale and hesitant. Sasuke lay awake on the futon, chest tight with exhaustion that felt like a storm trapped inside his ribs.

His body ached in ways it hadn’t before. His muscles were sore and stiff, but it was the sharp, persistent pain at his chest that gnawed at him relentlessly. His nipples were raw, tender, every touch sending waves of burning that made him flinch. It was a cruel reminder that his body was trying—despite his mind’s refusal to cooperate—to care for the baby growing inside him.

The baby’s soft whimpers pulled Sasuke from the fragile threads of sleep. He exhaled slowly, trying to steady the sudden rush of panic that threatened to choke him. The infant’s cries were high-pitched, urgent—a call for nourishment that Sasuke felt both desperate to answer and helpless to fulfill.

With trembling hands, Sasuke pushed himself up, the stiffness in his joints protesting the movement. He padded quietly to the cradle, heart pounding painfully in his chest. The baby’s small fists beat weakly against the thin blankets, eyes squeezed shut in frustration and hunger.

Sasuke lifted the newborn into his arms, holding him close as a shiver ran through his spine from the cold morning air. His palms were clammy, fingers fumbling to adjust the blanket around the baby’s fragile body.

The instinct to feed was overwhelming, but the ache in his chest reminded him of his failure. His nipples burned with every movement, a fiery sting that made him hesitate. He swallowed hard, pressing his lips into a thin line to keep the bitter swirl of guilt from spilling out.

When he finally positioned the baby against his chest, the first suckle sent a jolt of sharp pain through his already raw skin. He winced but didn’t pull away. His body responded, trembling with effort, as thin drops of milk slowly gathered at the baby’s mouth.

It wasn’t much. Far less than he’d hoped for.

But it was something.

The baby latched on, sucking weakly, eyes fluttering open just enough to reveal slivers of sleep-dulled innocence. Sasuke’s breath hitched. His throat tightened so fiercely it felt like he might choke.

The quiet house seemed to close in around him—the hum of the heater, the soft creaks of the wooden floor settling, the distant caw of a crow greeting the dawn. Every sound was amplified in the silence.

Sasuke’s fingers traced trembling circles over the baby’s back, feeling the steady rhythm of tiny heartbeats beneath his palm. It should have been a moment of warmth, of connection.

But all he felt was a cold, hollow ache that settled deep in his chest.

His tears fell silently, dampening the collar of his robe as he whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

The baby shifted, nuzzling closer despite the pain, his trust unwavering.

Outside, the sky softened with the first light of morning, promising a day Sasuke wasn’t sure he could face.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The kitchen was cold when Menma padded in barefoot, dragging his hoodie sleeves over his hands. The worn fabric was rough against his skin, but he clung to it like a shield from the chill that had settled deep in the house — and in his chest. The cold seemed to seep from the walls themselves, as if the warmth had been drained away along with everything else that once made this place a home.

His eyes were still puffy from sleep — or maybe from crying. It was hard to tell these days. Tears had become a frequent companion, an unwelcome visitor that showed up without warning and stayed far too long. Crying had become as common as breathing in this house, but no one ever mentioned it. It was a quiet thing, folded into the fabric of their lives, a secret that hung heavier than words.

The clock on the wall blinked 5:47 AM.

Too early. But Menma didn’t care. He’d woken to the sharp, piercing sound of his baby sister fussing, a fragile, raw noise that clawed at his heart. He knew by now that once the crying started, there was no point in pretending sleep was an option.

He rubbed his face with both hands, pressing hard as if he could wipe away the exhaustion, the ache, the guilt. His fingers trembled slightly. The weight of the silence in the house was oppressive.

He glanced toward the living room.

Sasuke sat in the rocker by the window again, his back straight but shoulders tense like a bow pulled tight. The baby was latched against his chest, tiny hands pressed into Sasuke’s skin like roots desperately searching for grounding. The rocking chair creaked with each slow, methodical motion—the same rhythm every morning. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Menma’s chest twisted painfully.

That chair had belonged to Naruto once.

The memory flickered like an old filmstrip in his mind—Naruto sitting there, grinning wide and bouncing Arashi on his knee, humming an off-key tune while Sasuke pretended to be annoyed but secretly watched him like he was the center of gravity in the universe.

That version of Naruto was gone.

The house didn’t have laughter anymore.

It didn’t have warmth.

It had only cold, empty echoes.

Menma shuffled to the stove and turned on the burner. The kettle was already half full—Sasuke had probably set it out the night before but forgotten to boil it. Menma poured water into the bottle warmer too, preparing Arashi’s formula with mechanical precision, hands moving automatically, copying the routine Sasuke had once handled with quiet care.

His hands moved the way Sasuke’s used to.

That thought sat heavy in his stomach like a stone.

From the corner of the kitchen, Arashi’s whining grew louder, her small fists punching the air in frustration.

“I got you, squirt,” Menma muttered under his breath, snatching up the bottle before it finished warming.

He scooped her up easily, balancing her on one hip. Her tiny legs kicked weakly against his side, and she settled immediately, trusting him without hesitation. The trust felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

Menma leaned against the counter, cradling his sister, feeding her in silence.

His gaze flicked back toward the living room.

Sasuke hadn’t moved. His eyes were glassy, empty, fixed on something beyond the room — or maybe nowhere at all. He rocked the newborn gently, his movements mechanical, like a ghost trapped in a body that refused to heal.

Menma hated it.

He hated seeing Sasuke like this, so broken and hollow.

But at the same time, he understood. Deep down, he understood more than he wished.

He shifted Arashi in his arms, brushing the soft wisps of hair from her forehead.

“Mom’s trying,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I swear he’s trying.”

Arashi sighed in her sleep, lips parting just enough to let a drop of milk slip from the corner of her mouth. Menma wiped it away with the sleeve of his hoodie.

His stomach twisted again, a bitter knot tightening in his gut.

The kettle clicked off, and steam curled up like ghosts from the spout. The sharp smell of green tea filled the kitchen, but it didn’t make the house feel any warmer.

Menma rocked back on his heels, watching the quiet disaster of his family unfold in real time.

No one said thank you anymore.

No one even noticed when he stepped up.

But that was okay.

He wasn’t doing it for thanks.

He wasn’t doing it because he wanted to.

He did it because someone had to.

Because if he didn’t, who would?

His thoughts drifted again to Naruto—the way Naruto used to ruffle his hair in the morning, crack stupid jokes at the breakfast table, mess up the rice on purpose just to hear Sasuke scold him in that soft, annoyed tone that wasn’t really annoyed.

Menma’s throat tightened until it almost hurt to breathe.

None of that was left.

Just this house, with its heavy air and dim lighting.

And Sasuke—pale, trembling, silently rocking a baby whose eyes didn’t focus on anything anymore.

Menma shifted Arashi to his other hip.

“I’ll do the dishes after this,” he whispered to himself, voice small but steady. “And the laundry. And anything else.”

Because someone had to.

And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be Naruto—not anymore.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The house was finally quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the brittle, dangerous silence that comes after exhaustion has wrung every ounce of noise from the walls. It pressed down on everything, thick and suffocating, like a weight that could crush bones.

Sasuke sat on the floor by the window, his back pressed against the cold wood of the frame. His legs stretched out in front of him, bare feet numb against the tatami mats. The baby—still unnamed—lay asleep against his chest, swaddled in a thin cotton blanket. The infant’s tiny fists clutched the fabric tightly, as if afraid that letting go would mean vanishing completely.

Sasuke envied that innocence, that simple trust.

It was easier, he thought, to live without knowing what you’d lost.

The lamp in the corner threw pale light across the room, carving shadows into sharp, jagged shapes that flickered with the low sway of the flame. Outside, the moon pressed its cold reflection against the windowpane, but Sasuke didn’t look at it. He kept his gaze down—on the baby, on his own shaking hands, on the scars along his wrists that he didn’t even remember scratching last week.

His scent was muted now—milk-sour and tinged with stress hormones—but still faintly laced with Naruto’s alpha imprint. It clung to him like a second skin, a ghost of something warm that had long since gone cold.

The quiet creak of the door startled him.

Sasuke didn’t look up.

He already knew who it was.

Naruto stood in the doorway, half swallowed by shadow, eyes unfocused like someone trying to read words they no longer understood. His shoulders were tense, broad but trembling at the edges, like he wasn’t sure if he belonged in his own skin anymore. His eyes—still the same bright blue, the same shape as before—flicked to Sasuke, then away, like looking at him for too long might shatter something fragile.

Sasuke kept rocking the baby gently, his breath barely audible, his body swaying with a rhythm older than grief itself.

Naruto took a slow, hesitant step forward.

Then another.

He lowered himself carefully onto the floor beside Sasuke, careful not to disturb the fragile balance of the room. His knees cracked faintly as he sat cross-legged, hands resting awkwardly in his lap.

For a long moment, he just sat there, staring down at his own fingers like they belonged to a stranger.

Sasuke didn’t break the silence.

The baby stirred softly, lips parting in a sigh. Sasuke pressed his lips gently to the infant’s hair, closing his eyes for a fraction of a second, breathing in the faint scent of new life.

It wasn’t comfort.

It was just another weight to carry.

Naruto’s voice finally cracked the stillness, fragile and uncertain.

“I don’t remember,” he said, voice rough, edges frayed like old cloth. “Not really... but I think I loved you.”

The words slipped out like broken glass, jagged and sharp, cutting through the quiet.

Sasuke’s heart lurched painfully. His throat clenched so tight it felt like it might snap.

He wanted to laugh, or scream, or disappear completely. But he did none of those things. He just kept rocking, back and forth, the motion growing mechanical—mindless, an instinct for survival. His arms tightened around the baby, fingers ghosting over soft cotton, tracing circles that he knew he wouldn’t remember by morning.

Naruto shifted beside him, his scent curling uncertainly into the air—alpha warmth mixed with confusion, loss, and something like longing.

His hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach out, to close the distance.

But he didn’t.

“I can’t remember how,” Naruto whispered, gaze stuck somewhere on the floor between them. “But I feel it. Sometimes. This...pull in my chest. When I look at you.”

Sasuke blinked, but his eyes stayed fixed on the baby.

He pressed his lips again to the infant’s temple, hiding the silent tears that escaped down his face. His shoulders remained stiff, his breath measured, but the wet tracks kept tracing their path along his jawline—unnoticed by anyone but himself.

“I think I loved you,” Naruto repeated, voice cracking like fragile glass. “I think… I still do.”

Sasuke’s fingers dug softly into the baby’s blanket—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to anchor himself to reality.

The rocking slowed, but he didn’t stop.

He didn’t turn around.

He didn’t speak.

His tears kept falling quietly, soaking the baby’s tiny cotton hat, the night, the unbearable heaviness in his chest that refused a name.

Naruto didn’t move closer.

The space between them felt like a scar now.

But for the first time in what felt like forever, they sat together inside it.

The wind pressed cold against the windowpane. Somewhere far off, a night bird called softly into the darkness. The house breathed around them—tired walls holding up tired bodies.

Sasuke closed his eyes.

The flower inside his chest did not bloom tonight.

But it did not die either.

Chapter Text

The wind moved listlessly through the open shōji screens, pushing the scent of wet earth and camellias into the house. Rain fell in soft, persistent threads, painting streaks down the windows. There hadn’t been sunlight in four days.

Sasuke sat at the kitchen table, spine straight, hands clasped around a cooling cup of green tea. His eyes didn’t blink often, just hovered over the steam like it might mean something if he stared long enough.

The baby—still unnamed—lay tucked in a handwoven basket by the space heater, wrapped in layers of cotton and fleece. Occasionally he’d make a small sound—a hiccup, a squeaky breath—and Sasuke would twitch, half-rising, before settling again. The moment passed. It always did.

Across from him, Naruto sat slouched, wearing a hoodie that used to be Sasuke’s. It was damp at the edges from hanging too close to the laundry window. His hand rested on a thick, dog-eared photo album—Menma’s, from before Arashi was born. He flipped through it absentmindedly, not reading, not seeing. Just turning pages. Touching ghosts.

“I boiled the pacifiers,” Naruto said eventually, his voice thin. “All of them. And the bottle nipples. The ones with the wide necks, like Menma said.”

Sasuke gave a nod but didn’t raise his head.

“Don’t know if I did it right.”

“You did.” The words came out automatic, brittle.

Naruto’s hand paused over a photo: Menma, age four, proudly holding a wooden sword too big for him. Sasuke crouched beside him in the picture, smiling just slightly—something tired in his eyes even then. Naruto ran his thumb along the edge of that frozen smile.

“What’s he like?” Naruto asked softly. “Menma. As a brother.”

Sasuke hesitated. “Protective.”

“That makes sense.”

Silence lapped at their ankles again.

“I don’t know how to feel,” Naruto murmured. “Like… my body knows him. Like I’m supposed to have instincts, but they don’t fire. They just… fizzle out. I can feel the outline of something—but it’s empty inside.”

Sasuke still didn’t look up. He gripped his cup tighter until the tea sloshed over the rim.

“I’m sorry,” Naruto whispered. “I’m trying.”

And Sasuke finally spoke, quiet as a knife:
“I know.”

But his voice carried no relief. No warmth. Only that pale, trembling grey.

The bathroom mirror was fogged at the edges, catching warped glimpses of Sasuke’s reflection as he leaned over the sink. Steam clung to the air, thick and wet, and the soft patter of water in the baby’s washbasin echoed faintly from the floor beside him.

He had just finished rinsing the baby's head. The baby now slept curled in a bundle of towels, nested safely inside the empty laundry basket near the sink. Sasuke remained upright, one hand braced on the porcelain, the other curled protectively around his sore chest.

His nipples ached. A dull, gnawing pain that had burrowed deep beneath the skin—like pressure behind a bruise. His shirt clung damply to him, fabric stretched uncomfortably over the tender swell of milk that hadn't let up in days. He hadn’t fed the baby directly. Not since the first week. Bottles only. But his body hadn’t adjusted. It kept producing anyway. It pulsed with the expectation of closeness he wouldn’t allow.

Not with Naruto in the house.
Not with the ghost of what they'd been still hanging in the corners.

Sasuke’s fingers curled tighter over the rim of the sink. A slow breath left his mouth, but it trembled.

He hadn’t slept last night. Or the night before. Sleep only came in sharp, exhausted collapses that left him waking with his jaw clenched and his back aching from the floorboards. His body was tense, heavy in the wrong places. His nipples stung, sensitive to even the brush of cotton or cold air. But he wouldn't touch them. He wouldn’t let himself soothe it. The pain was easier. Familiar. Something he could control.

A quiet knock at the frame of the door pulled his attention sideways.

Naruto stood there.

Just his silhouette at first—broad-shouldered, backlit by hallway light. He wasn’t wearing the hoodie anymore. Just an old thermal shirt that clung to his stomach, damp with dishwater. His hair was tousled like he’d run his hands through it a thousand times. There was soap under his fingernails.

“I—” Naruto started, then stopped. His eyes dropped to the baby in the basket. “He looks warm.”

“He is,” Sasuke said softly, not moving.

Another pause.

Then Naruto stepped inside slowly, barefoot, as if afraid he might shatter the air around them.

“You okay?”

Sasuke didn’t answer.

Naruto’s gaze traveled—hesitant, full of questions he didn’t have permission to ask. He saw the tension in Sasuke’s shoulders, the way his hand hovered protectively across his chest. His brows furrowed.

“Are you… hurting?”

Sasuke turned toward him slightly, eyes sharp, not cruel. Just fragile. “It’s normal.”

“You’re leaking,” Naruto said quietly. “I mean—I can see it. Through your shirt.”

Sasuke flinched, breath catching.

The fabric was darker in patches, tight against the curve of his chest, clinging damply over his nipples. It was a slow leak, but enough to sting.

Naruto took a step closer, almost apologetic. “I wasn’t trying to— I just want to help.”

“You can’t,” Sasuke said.

Not unkindly. But final.

Naruto stopped moving. He looked down at the floor, swallowed once.

“I didn’t mean to make this worse.”

“I know.”

Another silence stretched between them.

The baby murmured in his sleep. Sasuke knelt to check the towel, fingers adjusting the layers without disturbing him. His movements were precise, elegant, but Naruto noticed the stiffness in his fingers. The way he pressed one palm against his breast for a moment, like trying to ease the pressure.

Naruto sank slowly to his knees beside the basket, watching Sasuke with something soft in his eyes. Something mournful.

“I keep thinking,” he said gently, “that I must’ve held you once.”

Sasuke didn’t respond.

“That I knew how your body felt. That I kissed your shoulder in a room like this. Touched your chest. Cared for it.”

His voice dropped. “Cared for you.”

Sasuke’s hands stilled.

For one moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes. To breathe that memory that wasn’t a memory. To let the ghost of Naruto’s voice crawl inside his ribs and settle near his heart.

When he opened his eyes again, they shimmered—not with tears, but with the unbearable weight of restraint.

“You did,” he whispered.

Then he picked up the baby.

And left Naruto kneeling in the bathroom, staring at the place where Sasuke had been.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The mornings started the same way every day now.

Menma, blurry-eyed in his sweats, shuffled into the kitchen before sunrise and switched on the rice cooker. He moved mechanically, guided by muscle memory and a worn piece of paper on the fridge covered in scribbled schedules: feeding times, bottle prep instructions, diaper restock notes, and Menma’s own homework deadlines squeezed in like an afterthought.

It was Sasuke’s handwriting—rigid, small, and pressed too hard into the paper.

Menma didn't have the heart to erase any of it.

He poured formula without spilling now. He could distinguish the baby’s different cries. Hunger, gas, attention, overstimulation. He even knew how to burp the baby properly. It wasn’t that he was particularly good with kids—it was that he didn’t want to see his dad break again.

Sasuke had turned quiet in a new way. Not the sharp silence Menma was used to, not the steely-eyed tension that usually came when they argued. This was deeper. A withdrawn, untouchable stillness. Like he was moving through the days with a glass wall between him and the rest of the house. Present, but unreachable.

Menma found him in the laundry room one morning, staring at a pile of clean onesies like he couldn’t figure out what they were. Just standing there, motionless, the basket at his feet.

“Dad,” Menma said gently, “you should sit down.”

Sasuke blinked, eyes fluttering like he’d just woken from a trance. He looked at Menma as if trying to place him—then down at the clothes—and slowly bent to fold them with precise, trembling fingers.

“I’m fine,” he murmured.

Menma didn’t press.

Instead, he picked up one of the baby blankets and folded it himself. Wordlessly. Side by side. It was a rhythm they’d developed in the last few weeks: quiet cooperation, no questions asked.

Naruto, for his part, had started taking short walks with the baby strapped to his chest. Nothing far—just loops around the block or a few slow laps in the backyard when the weather wasn’t terrible. The neighbors didn’t say anything. Maybe they didn’t recognize him. Maybe they were just used to not asking.

Naruto came back pink-cheeked from the cold, sometimes humming quietly to the baby. Sometimes silent, with tears still drying at the corners of his eyes.

He was trying.

Menma could see that.

But the space between Sasuke and Naruto was thick with something unresolved. There were no arguments, but no laughter either. No closeness. Just movement. Tasks. Survival.

Every now and then, Sasuke would glance across the table at Naruto like he was staring at a memory half-erased. Naruto would meet his gaze—tentative, apologetic—but nothing passed between them. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

One night, Menma came into the living room to find the baby sleeping on Sasuke’s chest, Naruto on the other end of the couch, dozing upright with his chin tucked against his collarbone. The TV was still on, volume low, casting pale blue light across their faces.

Menma stood there for a long moment.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

He just watched—his father with dark circles under his eyes, his other father holding onto fragments of himself—and thought about how strange it was to feel like the adult in the room.

Then he picked up a blanket and covered them both.

                                                                                  ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

Sasuke had never been a tactile person. He didn’t crave physical contact the way Naruto did—had.

But lately, it wasn’t just disinterest. It was revulsion. Shame. A tightening in his chest any time someone reached for him, even if it was Naruto. Especially if it was Naruto.

He didn’t understand it.

The first time Naruto had tried to hug him since coming home, it had been tentative—a brief, stuttering step forward as they passed in the hallway. A tilt of the head, the soft suggestion of comfort.

Sasuke had flinched.

Naruto had backed off immediately, mumbling something, eyes wide and wounded.

That night, Sasuke had sat at the kitchen table long after everyone else had gone to sleep, the untouched mug of tea in his hands growing cold.

He didn’t know why he couldn’t let himself be held.

He wanted to.

God, he wanted to.

But every time he imagined arms around him—Naruto’s arms—the memories came instead: the empty hospital bed, the sound of the machines flatlining, the sterile silence that followed. And now this man, this stranger with Naruto’s smile and his voice, was suddenly back, sitting at the table across from him like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't died.

It made Sasuke feel sick with guilt.

And more than that—he felt weak. Powerless. Like letting Naruto touch him would make it real. Would make everything fragile and terrifying and true. That this wasn’t a dream. That Naruto was really here. That he might be taken again.

So Sasuke kept his distance. He held the baby close, but everyone else stayed just out of reach.

Even Menma, who hovered now more than ever—quiet and helpful and hurting in ways Sasuke didn’t know how to mend.

One evening, as the rain tapped softly at the windows, Sasuke stood at the bedroom door watching Naruto fold tiny socks into pairs. The task took him longer than it should have. His hands were slow, like they didn’t trust themselves yet. He was humming under his breath, a lullaby Sasuke didn’t recognize.

The light was soft. The room smelled like baby powder and sleep.

For a moment, Sasuke’s hand lifted from his side, hovering mid-air.

He wanted to touch Naruto’s shoulder.

He wanted to say something. Anything.

But the words dried up in his throat.

The memory of that hospital bed slammed into him again, swift and brutal, and his hand dropped.

He turned and left without a word.

Down the hall, he heard the baby stir, and Menma’s voice—low, steady, patient—cut through the quiet. “It’s okay, Arashi. I got you.”

Sasuke leaned his back against the wall, pressing a hand to his chest.

He felt nothing but the thud of his own heartbeat.

Emptiness echoing in his ribs like a drum.

                                                                            ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

Naruto didn’t remember becoming a father.

Didn’t remember holding Sasuke’s hand during labor. Didn’t remember painting the nursery walls or arguing about names or falling asleep with his hand on Sasuke’s swollen stomach.

But sometimes—just sometimes—his body remembered for him.

Like when Arashi cried a certain way, and his hands moved before he could think, lifting the baby, cradling him in the crook of his arm like he’d done it a thousand times before.
Or when he caught the scent of warmed milk and felt his chest ache with a love that made no sense.

It came in pieces.
In splinters.

One afternoon, while Menma was out running errands and Sasuke napped restlessly in the bedroom, Naruto sat in the rocking chair with Arashi against his chest. The baby had stopped crying the moment Naruto picked him up. His tiny fingers were curled around the edge of Naruto’s hoodie, breath puffing warm against his neck.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Naruto murmured. “But I think…I used to.”

The baby blinked up at him, drowsy and trusting. So full of belief it hurt.

“I want to remember,” Naruto whispered. “I want to be the person who held you first. Who—who fought for you. For him.”

The rocking chair creaked beneath him. Outside, cicadas buzzed low against the heat.

He shut his eyes.

And in the dark behind his lids, a flicker of something: Sasuke, wet-haired and laughing, flour on his nose; a warm night, two hands clasped across a hospital cot; Arashi’s name whispered against his ear before he was even born.

Then—nothing.

Like the tide pulling back just as he reached for it.

Naruto gasped and sat forward, shaking the vision loose. The baby stirred but didn’t wake.

He looked down at him—at this tiny, impossibly soft boy—and swallowed hard.

“You knew me,” he said softly. “Before I forgot everything. You knew me. You trusted me.”

His throat tightened.

“And I left you.”

The shame hit like a wave.

Even if it wasn’t his fault, even if he’d been taken, changed, whatever they told him—it didn’t matter. He hadn’t been there.

He wasn’t there when Sasuke needed him. When Menma was holding everything together. When Arashi was born.

But he was here now.

He pulled the baby a little closer, pressed a kiss to the top of his head. His voice cracked.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll remember. I promise I’ll remember.”

Behind him, the bedroom door creaked faintly open.

Naruto didn’t turn.

He didn’t have to.

He felt Sasuke’s eyes on him. Knew that Sasuke wouldn’t step forward. Not yet.

But maybe soon.

Maybe one day, they’d meet in the middle.

Chapter Text

The walk to the old community center felt longer than it used to. Or maybe Naruto just didn’t recognize anything anymore.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, hoodie sleeves bunching at the wrists, and kept his head down as a chilly wind kicked up around the crumbling sidewalk. There were too many strangers in a town that was supposed to feel like home. Too many windows he didn’t recognize. Too many doors he didn’t know he’d ever walked through.

Kakashi was waiting by the side entrance, leaning against the wall with a paper cup steaming between his fingers. His eyes crinkled behind the mask when Naruto approached—but even that familiar expression made Naruto feel like an imposter in someone else’s memories.

“You came,” Kakashi said simply, offering the extra cup.

Naruto took it, clutching it between both hands like it might anchor him.

He didn’t say anything until they were sitting on the old wooden bench in the back courtyard, where overgrown ivy had begun to claim the fence and weeds poked through the gravel. He used to like this place. That was what they’d told him, anyway.

“I feel like a ghost in my own house,” Naruto finally said.

Kakashi didn’t interrupt. Just let the silence breathe.

“I walk through it like it’s a museum,” Naruto went on, voice low. “Like everything’s been left exactly the way it was… but it’s not mine. Not really. I see the pictures on the fridge, and I know they’re of me. I see Arashi smile, and I want to believe I know what it means. But I don’t.”

He stared into the steam rising from his cup.

“I hear the floor creak a certain way and it scares me because I think I should know what comes next. Like there’s a rhythm I used to dance to that I can’t remember anymore.”

Kakashi nodded slowly. “That sounds like grief.”

Naruto blinked. “Grief?”

“You’re mourning a version of yourself you can’t get back.”

Naruto looked down.

“I just…” He swallowed. “I want to be the guy they’re waiting for. The one Sasuke used to love. The one who held Arashi like the whole world fit in the space of two arms. But what if I’m not him anymore?”

The silence stretched thin.

“You’re still Naruto,” Kakashi said at last, gentle. “Even if the pieces are scattered.”

Naruto’s hands trembled around the cup.

“I don’t feel like it.”

“You don’t have to feel like him,” Kakashi replied. “You just have to keep showing up.”

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The house was dark except for the hallway light, casting a narrow gold band across the kitchen floor.

Sasuke stood at the sink, hands braced on either side, head bowed low. The faucet dripped. A baby bottle sat drying beside a bowl of unfinished rice, cold and congealed. In the distance, Arashi’s soft whimpers were calmed by Menma’s low hum from the bedroom. Naruto wasn’t home yet.

That should’ve made it easier to breathe.

It didn’t.

Sasuke inhaled through his nose, exhaled slow. It came out shaky anyway. He hated how raw his chest felt—like there was something tangled behind his ribs that wouldn’t come loose, no matter how many times he swallowed it down.

The counter edge dug into his palms.

It was getting harder not to snap. Harder to pretend. Harder to carry everything and still have his hands open enough to hold a child, a brother, a stranger who wore Naruto’s face but flinched when Sasuke got too close.

“I feel like a ghost in my own house.”

Naruto’s voice echoed in his head.

And Sasuke—he couldn’t tell if he was the one haunting, or the one being haunted.

He turned off the tap. His fingers were stiff. Cold.

He walked down the hallway like a man walking into a storm. At the door to their bedroom—his bedroom? theirs?—he paused. Looked at the unmade bed. The blanket still held Naruto’s scent, faint but recent. There was a towel on the floor from his last shower. A half-empty tea cup by the window.

Everything screamed presence .

Everything felt absent .

Sasuke closed the door behind him. Then leaned back against it, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor with his knees up, arms folded tight over them. His forehead dropped to his arms.

He didn’t cry often. Not anymore.

But tonight, the quiet was too loud.

And his grief—his anger, his guilt, his longing—were too heavy to carry like he always did: neatly folded, hidden in his spine, tucked behind sharp glances and colder words.

Tonight it cracked through his ribs.

“I should let him go,” Sasuke whispered, voice hoarse. “He deserves someone who doesn’t break everything they touch.”

The words felt like betrayal. But keeping Naruto here— this version of him—was beginning to feel like something worse.

“I loved him so much,” he said into the silence. “And now I’m just hurting him.”

His voice broke on the last syllable.

He covered his mouth, as if that could stop the sound. But the sob escaped anyway, small and strangled. His shoulders shook. His breath hitched. He hadn’t cried like this since… since the hospital. Since the night they told him Naruto might never come back.

Sasuke curled in tighter, fingers clawing into the fabric of his pants.

Maybe this was what love looked like now.

Letting go.

Even when it tore you open.

Even when it was the last thing you wanted.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

Menma hadn’t meant to listen.

He was only trying to sneak back into the kitchen for a juice pouch. Arashi was finally asleep. Naruto still hadn’t come back. The house was tense with that kind of quiet that pressed on your chest.

But then he heard the sound—soft, broken. Like someone trying too hard not to fall apart.

He paused in the hallway.
The bedroom door was mostly shut, a faint glow under it.

Menma leaned closer, only intending to confirm it wasn’t Arashi fussing again.

And then he heard Sasuke’s voice.

“He deserves someone who doesn’t break everything they touch.”
“I loved him so much. And now I’m just hurting him.”

The words hit Menma in the gut.

He didn’t mean to freeze there. Didn’t mean to listen to every syllable like it was a thread unraveling the only thing holding their family together. But once the tears started—once he realized Sasuke was actually crying—he couldn’t take it anymore.

He pushed the door open.

“Sasuke,” Menma said, voice rough. “Don’t say that.”

Sasuke jolted upright, eyes red, expression wiped clean in a second like someone flipping off a switch.

“What are you doing?” he asked sharply, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve.

But Menma didn’t flinch. He walked in, fists clenched, standing in the middle of the room like a kid trying to stop a building from collapsing.

“You’re not breaking anything,” he said. “You’re the only reason we’re still standing.”

Sasuke looked away.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, I do,” Menma snapped. “I see you. Every day. Holding him like you’ll break if you let go. Making bottles. Cleaning spit-up. Holding this whole damn house together with spit and duct tape and whatever’s left of your spine.”

Sasuke didn’t respond. He just stared at the floor.

Menma’s voice softened. “You think letting him go would help? Maybe. I don’t know. But I know if you give up—if you walk away from this? From us ? That’s the one thing none of us could come back from.”

The silence between them stretched.

Then finally, Sasuke exhaled. It was shaky, but real.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he admitted quietly. “I keep thinking I’m helping, but he flinches. He looks at me like I’m a stranger.”

“He’s scared. You are too.”

Menma stepped closer, kneeling down next to Sasuke. He placed a hand on his shoulder.

“But you love him. That’s not nothing. That’s everything.”

Sasuke’s lips parted like he wanted to argue—but the words never came.

They sat there in the dark for a long while. Not saying anything more. Just breathing.

Together.

Chapter Text

The morning light was pale and hesitant as it slipped through the paper-paneled windows, casting soft shadows across the quiet room. The house felt suspended in time—neither fully awake nor entirely asleep—wrapped in a fragile stillness that held the weight of too many unspoken words.

Sasuke sat on the tatami floor, the newborn cradled carefully in his arms. Five weeks old now, the baby’s tiny chest rose and fell in steady, fragile rhythms beneath the thin cotton blanket. His skin was soft, almost translucent in the gentle morning light, and his dark hair curled softly against Sasuke’s collarbone. Sasuke’s fingers trembled slightly as he traced the curve of his child’s cheek, careful not to disturb the fragile peace.

The scent of the baby filled the air—warm, milky, with a faint undertone of something old and familiar. It clung to Sasuke’s clothes, lingering like a secret whispered just beneath the surface. Every breath he took carried it in, a bittersweet reminder of hope tangled with heartbreak.

Naruto sat nearby, knees pulled close to his chest, eyes fixed on the floor as if afraid to meet the gaze of the tiny life between them. His expression was distant, like someone caught between worlds—remembering and forgetting, present but adrift.

Menma stood in the doorway, hesitating. His eyes were red-rimmed from tears not yet shed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as if holding himself together. He stepped forward slowly, the sound of his bare feet muted on the floor.

Breaking the silence, Menma cleared his throat softly. “I’ve been thinking about names,” he said quietly, voice rough with emotion. “For the baby.”

Naruto’s head lifted just slightly, a flicker of interest in his eyes. Sasuke’s heart tightened.

Menma took a deep breath and looked at the baby with something like reverence. “What about Ren?”

The name hung in the air, soft but resolute. It was a name heavy with meaning—life, dignity, resilience. It resonated in the quiet room like a whispered promise.

Naruto’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as memories stirred deep inside him. The name awakened a fragment of something he thought lost—a fleeting image of a future he once dreamed of, a future where they were whole.

Sasuke reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Naruto’s forehead. “Ren,” he said softly, voice steady despite the storm inside. “It suits him.”

Naruto’s lips curved into the faintest smile, fragile but genuine. “Ren,” he repeated, as if testing the sound, tasting the hope it carried.

Menma’s shoulders relaxed, a small, weary smile breaking through his sadness. “He’s lucky to have a name like that,” Menma said quietly, voice thick with feeling.

Sasuke held Ren closer, feeling the warmth of the baby against his chest, a fragile bloom in the cold aftermath of so much loss.

The house seemed to breathe with them, the quiet space filled with the fragile beginnings of something new—love, memory, and the slow, painful work of healing.

Chapter Text

The darkness wrapped around the house like a thick, suffocating blanket, heavy with silence and shadows. The faint hum of the night cicadas outside was distant and muted, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Inside, the soft, uneven breaths of the sleeping family mingled with the restless shifting of restless minds and bodies.

Naruto lay in the small bedroom, tucked away in the quiet corner of the house, far from the soft coos of the newborn and the uneven breathing of Arashi. His eyes fluttered beneath closed lids, eyelids twitching with the weight of dreams he did not want but could not escape.

The dream took him first to a night long ago but painfully vivid—the night he disappeared, the night everything changed.

He was there in the shadows, cloaked in darkness and despair, powerless and silent. He saw flashes: a fierce, raw moment when Sasuke was alone and desperate, pushing through pain to bring life into the world. The searing, raw cries of a newborn filling the air—Arashi’s first breath, echoing in his memory like a distant, fractured melody.

Naruto reached out in the dream, but his hands met only emptiness. Faces blurred, voices distorted, and a tidal wave of grief crashed over him, drowning the fragments of hope he clung to.

A sharp, stabbing image pierced through—the promise he made, whispered against Sasuke’s hair before leaving, soft and urgent.

“I’ll be home before Arashi can walk.”

The words echoed through the nightmare, twisted by fear and uncertainty. His heart clenched, tightening like a fist around his chest. He remembered the warmth of Sasuke’s skin beneath his fingertips, the way his scent had anchored him in that moment.

Then, the dream shattered into chaos—flashes of pain, the cold sting of loss, the endless void of not knowing.

Naruto’s body jerked, his breath hitching as the nightmare pulled him under.

He woke suddenly, eyes wide and drenched in tears, gasping for air as sobs wracked his body. The room was still dark, the moonlight casting pale slashes across the floor. His hands trembled, clutching the thin blanket pulled up to his chin.

He didn’t understand the weight of the tears falling down his cheeks—didn’t know why his chest ached or why the nightmares refused to fade.

In the stillness, he whispered to the empty room, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

But the words felt hollow, lost to the quiet night.

Far away, Sasuke stirred, sensing the ripples of pain in the air, but the space between them was filled with things neither could yet bridge.

The night held its breath, waiting for dawn, waiting for healing, waiting for a way back to each other.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

Naruto lay motionless for a long moment, the echo of sobs still trembling through his chest. His hands clenched the blanket so tightly his knuckles turned white. The room was cold and empty, but his mind burned with the heat of memory and loss.

He swallowed hard, trying to steady his ragged breathing, but the tears kept slipping out, tracing silent paths down his cheeks. The weight of all he couldn’t remember pressed down on him, crushing the edges of his fragile hope.

He didn’t understand why the past haunted him so relentlessly, or why the pieces of his life felt like scattered shards of glass he could never quite pick up.

A soft creak came from the doorway, so quiet Naruto barely noticed it at first.

Then, a figure moved closer—steady, familiar. Sasuke.

He didn’t say anything at first. He simply knelt beside the bed, his presence a silent promise in the darkness. His eyes were shadowed, tired but burning with a fierce, unspoken love.

Naruto’s gaze flickered toward him, confusion and longing swirling in his blue eyes.

“I… I don’t know what’s real anymore,” Naruto whispered, voice cracked and fragile. “I don’t know who I am… or if I’m even me.”

Sasuke reached out slowly, fingers trembling as they brushed a stray lock of hair from Naruto’s forehead.

“You’re here,” Sasuke said quietly, voice thick with emotion. “You’re still here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Naruto’s breath hitched, a tear slipping free as he reached for Sasuke’s hand, holding on like a lifeline.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the sharp edges of the nightmare softened just a little.

In the quiet that followed, the two men sat side by side—broken, aching, but together.

The night outside whispered on, but inside the room, a fragile thread of hope began to weave its way through the darkness.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The bed creaked softly beneath their weight, blankets pushed halfway down to reveal tangled limbs and faint moonlight pooling like silk across pale skin. It was well past midnight. The house had long since quieted, leaving only the soft hum of the heater and the occasional exhale from the baby monitor on the nightstand. 

Sasuke, however, was wide awake—tucked beneath Naruto’s arm, his body pressed tight to his former husband’s chest, wrapped in a heat he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time.

Naruto’s arms were snug around him, one heavy and warm around Sasuke’s lower back, the other draped lazily over his side. He held Sasuke like he meant to shield him, even in sleep—like Sasuke was still something precious. His face, resting near Sasuke’s temple, was relaxed in that unconscious way that made him look younger, softer. The scent of him was dizzying—salt and cedar and something undeniably alpha that clung to Sasuke’s skin and hair like the aftermath of a fever dream.

Sasuke could barely breathe.

His oversized sweater had ridden up his waist, the hem bunching just beneath his ribcage. The boxers he wore clung to his hips, twisted from how long he’d lain in place without moving. The air was cool, but his body was burning. His nipples throbbed—raw and oversensitive, aching every time the rough cotton fabric brushed against them. They’d been sore all week.

Naruto shifted in his sleep, pressing in closer.

A gasp nearly escaped Sasuke’s lips.

Naruto’s thigh slotted between his, his hand sliding lower—unconscious, innocent—but it pressed Sasuke tighter to him, locking him into the warmth of his chest and hips. Sasuke could feel everything—the steady rhythm of Naruto’s breathing, the heat of his skin, the familiar contours of the body that had once belonged to him in the way only a bond-mate’s could.

He closed his eyes.

His own breath came uneven, shallow. His scent was rising again, thick and humid in the room. The shame of it burned deeper than the flush on his face. His body was reacting the way it used to—like it remembered everything Naruto had ever done to him, every soft night, every heat season, every whisper against his skin. But Naruto… Naruto didn’t remember any of it.

And still, he held Sasuke like this. As if something in his muscle memory still knew where Sasuke belonged.

Sasuke swallowed hard. A lump clogged his throat.

His fingers clutched the fabric of Naruto’s sleep shirt, knuckles tight. He told himself to pull away. To move. To break the moment before it broke him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he let his face bury deeper into Naruto’s chest, breathing him in like it would make the ache inside settle. It didn’t. It only made it worse. Something in him trembled, caught between need and grief.

You’re not his anymore, he reminded himself.

And yet…

Naruto murmured in his sleep. His grip tightened around Sasuke’s waist. A soft, broken sound fell from Sasuke’s lips.

His body betrayed him again. A hot rush of pheromones spilled into the air. His belly twisted with longing so sharp it was nearly pain.

Get up, he told himself.

He didn’t move.

His eyes stung. He blinked hard, then again. Naruto’s fingers shifted against his back, grazing bare skin where the sweater had hiked up. It wasn’t deliberate. It didn’t matter.

He could feel the blush all the way down his chest. His nipples ached sharply again, harder now, overstimulated by both sensation and need. Sasuke bit his lip until it stung, fighting the moan rising in his throat. What are you, he thought bitterly, a teenager in love again?

Finally—shaking, breathless—he slipped out from Naruto’s hold as carefully as he could manage. The bed shifted, Naruto murmured something unintelligible, but didn’t wake. Sasuke stood barefoot on the wooden floor, legs trembling, face burning.

He padded toward the bathroom, each step unsteady.

Inside, he flicked on the dim light, shut the door, and leaned over the sink, gripping the porcelain edge so tightly his knuckles went white. His reflection looked back at him—flushed cheeks, disheveled hair, eyes glassy with everything he refused to let himself feel.

He exhaled slowly.

The ache in his chest hadn’t gone away. It had just followed him here.

His hands rose to press over his sweater-clad chest, wincing as his fingertips brushed his sore nipples. Still tender, he thought distantly. Still… needing.

He closed his eyes, whispered bitterly to himself.

“What are you, Sasuke? Some omega pining for a dream?”

But the warmth of Naruto’s arms lingered.

And deep down, he knew—yes. Yes, he was.

Chapter Text

The house was unusually still. Not silent—Ren cooed from her baby swing and the kettle hissed softly in the kitchen—but still , like the air itself had settled into a kind of truce.

Sasuke sat on the edge of the bed, half-dressed, watching the steam rise from his untouched tea. Across the hall, he could hear Naruto’s low voice talking to Ren—gentle, kind, unfamiliar.

This Naruto didn’t remember his favorite lullabies. He hummed new ones now, tunes he’d made up. He didn’t call Sasuke “love” or “usuratonkachi.” He didn’t sneak up behind him while he cooked. He didn’t know how to kiss Sasuke’s shoulder where the birth scar faded beneath his shirt.

And still… he was kind.

Helpful. Present.

Attentive to the baby. Gentle with Menma. Careful with Sasuke, as if not to bruise a wound he didn’t fully understand.

I can live with this, Sasuke thought quietly. Even if it never comes back. Even if the man I loved is gone and only this version remains… I’ll take it. I’ll learn how to stay.

He clutched the tea a little harder.

Because he’s here. He’s still here.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

Later that evening, Sasuke and Naruto cleaned the living room together in silence.

They worked in sync without needing to speak, the way parents often do. Sasuke folded laundry while Naruto gently rocked Ren in her bassinet with his foot. The light above cast soft shadows across Naruto’s face.

“Sasuke,” Naruto said eventually, not looking up, “thank you. For not giving up on me. I know… I’m not what I was.”

Sasuke paused with a burp cloth in his hands.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he looked at Naruto—really looked. The subtle tired lines under his eyes. The faint worry that never fully left his face anymore. The mystery of who he used to be locked behind eyes that no longer remembered how they once loved.

“You’re not what you were,” Sasuke said. “But you’re trying.”

Naruto gave a soft, almost guilty smile. “I just want to be someone good for her. For Menma. For you too, if I can.”

Sasuke nodded. He didn’t say you already are. He wasn’t ready to let the ache become acceptance yet. But it was close.

It was past midnight when Sasuke felt a light knock on his bedroom door.

He opened it to find Menma standing barefoot in his pajamas, his hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands.

“Nightmare?” Sasuke asked, softening immediately.

Menma shrugged. “Not really.”

Sasuke stepped aside and let him in.

They sat on the bed together, not speaking at first. Menma picked at a thread on the blanket. The only light came from the hallway—dim and golden, casting both of their faces in soft profile.

Finally, Menma said, “I was scared when you got sick after Ren. I thought you were gonna leave too.”

Sasuke’s throat tightened. “I wasn’t going to leave.”

“I know that now,” Menma said. “And… I’m really glad you’re still here, Mom.”

The word Mom hit like a soft sledgehammer—painful in its sweetness.

Sasuke’s breath broke. He reached for Menma and pulled him in, wrapping his arms tight around his son’s small, trembling shoulders.

Tears welled up before he could stop them.

“I’m glad too,” Sasuke whispered against Menma’s hair, voice thick with emotion. “So, so glad.”

And for the first time in weeks, he cried without hiding it.

Chapter Text

The house was finally quiet.

Not the brittle silence of grief or the sharp-edged hush of tension, but something softer. Something earned. The silence of a home that had survived another day.

The hallway glowed faintly with pale amber light from the nightlight nestled low against the floorboards. Sasuke stood just outside the open door of the children’s room, arms folded tight across his chest, sweater bunched beneath his fingers. The hush was filled with domestic sounds: the soft static hum of the baby monitor, the gentle whir of the heating vent, and the faint creak of old wood beneath the weight of years. Familiar. Safe.

Inside, Menma lay sprawled diagonally across his mattress—thirteen and long-limbed, with one foot hanging off the edge like he owned the place. One earbud was still barely clinging on, music leaking faintly from it, while a book lay open and forgotten on his chest. His brows were furrowed even in sleep, as if whatever world he’d drifted into still had something to prove. Sasuke allowed a small, silent breath out. His son looked too much like Naruto when he slept. Same stubborn mouth. Same scowl when he dreamed.

In the smaller bed across the room, Arashi was curled into a tight ball beneath a faded blue blanket, her soft breathing muffled by the oversized stuffed rabbit she clutched to her chest. Every now and then, her little foot twitched—dream-chasing, like always. The way she giggled in her sleep made Sasuke’s throat tighten with something fragile and wordless.

And then there was the crib.

Ren, the newest piece of their strange, stitched-together family, lay sleeping on his back, swaddled and stubborn. His tiny fists were clenched beside his flushed cheeks like he was ready to take on the world the moment he figured out how to roll over. He let out a soft noise—half sigh, half mewl—but didn’t wake. Just turned his head, lips parting, and breathed in that unguarded way only newborns could.

Sasuke’s chest ached.

Not in that sharp, tearing way it had for years, but in something slower. Something that burned low in his ribs and made his throat feel full. Like his body didn’t know what to do with the relief.

Naruto stood beside him in the hall. Not touching. Not quite. But close. So close that Sasuke could feel the heat of him, steady and real, like a fire that hadn’t gone out.

His presence didn’t feel like a ghost anymore.

Not fully.

It was still unfamiliar around the edges—like reaching for a shadow that used to mean something more. But it was here. And it was warm.

Naruto had his hands in his pockets, slouched slightly like he didn’t want to take up space. His eyes were on the children, but Sasuke could feel the weight of something deeper beneath the silence. Not observation. Not analysis.

Something closer to reverence.

“She twitches in her sleep like you,” Naruto said softly, nodding slightly toward Arashi. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Used to think I imagined that.”

Sasuke blinked. His grip on his arms tightened.

He didn’t trust himself to speak. The ache in his chest sharpened into something crystalline, then dulled again beneath the swell of guilt and longing. He kept his mouth shut.

Then—without asking, without rushing—Naruto leaned closer.

First, his shoulder bumped against Sasuke’s, light and tentative. Then his head followed. A slow, careful weight settled on Sasuke’s upper arm, brushing the edge of his collarbone. Naruto’s cheek, warm and close.

Sasuke froze.

His entire body locked up for a moment, caught between instinct and desire, fear and forgiveness. The contact was gentle, hesitant—but it cracked something open inside him, something he’d thought had long since turned to stone.

Naruto didn’t speak. Didn’t press. He just stayed.

And Sasuke, after a beat, after a breath, tilted his head just slightly. Enough for his temple to graze Naruto’s hair.

It wasn’t a lean.

It was a whisper of trust.

A soft permission.

The space between them filled with heat—not passion, but something quieter. Sadder. Older. It pulsed with everything unsaid, everything lost and nearly reclaimed. Sasuke blinked, hard, swallowing the burn at the corners of his eyes.

Not now.

Not when Naruto had finally stepped forward, without fanfare, and just… existed beside him.

They stood that way, shoulder to shoulder, in the dim hallway lit by gold, as the gentle breath of children and the distant echo of dreams carried through the night.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

The children’s room was quiet behind them.

Sasuke didn’t remember how long they stood there. The soft pressure of Naruto’s temple against his shoulder lingered like a phantom warmth even after they moved to the living room.

They didn’t speak. Words felt like they might dissolve whatever this delicate thread was between them.

Naruto sat beside him on the edge of the bed— their bed , though that word still felt precarious in Sasuke’s mouth. The mattress dipped under Naruto’s weight, and Sasuke shifted slightly, his loose knit sweater slipping off one shoulder. He hadn't noticed how cold the room was until the heat of Naruto beside him made it obvious.

Sasuke curled his fingers in his lap. The space between them was filled with static—unsaid things, half-buried wants, grief like marrow in the bones. But also something gentler, something uncertain and painfully tender.

Naruto let out a small breath. “You’ve… changed the sheets.”

Sasuke gave him a glance. “They smelled like dust.”

A faint smile tugged at Naruto’s lips. “Still obsessive.”

Sasuke’s lips parted to retort—but Naruto was suddenly looking at him, really looking. Like the way someone stares at the stars not because they expect answers, but because they’re just grateful the stars are still there.

Sasuke swallowed. “What?”

“I missed this face,” Naruto murmured.

Then he leaned in.

There was no warning—no tension, no buildup. Just the warmth of Naruto’s hand brushing Sasuke’s jaw and a kiss that met him with the softness of a secret.

Sasuke froze. For a heartbeat, his whole body stiffened like a wound recoiling from air. His lips barely moved. His fingers twitched against the comforter.

But Naruto didn’t pull away. He didn’t demand. His lips stayed where they were—gentle, familiar, searching.

And then—Sasuke gave in.

He melted into it. His breath hitched through his nose, and his hand found Naruto’s hoodie, gripping the soft fabric like an anchor. Their mouths moved slowly, a rhythm unpracticed but remembered, clumsy but electric. Sasuke felt the warmth bloom from his chest, spreading to his throat, his stomach, his face.

When they finally pulled back—barely a few inches—Sasuke’s heart was beating so fast it felt like it might burst from his ribs.

Naruto blinked, surprised. “You kissed me back.”

“I…” Sasuke couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t lie. “…I didn’t mean to.”

Naruto huffed out a soft, breathless laugh. “But I’m glad you did.”

His hand didn’t leave Sasuke’s face. Instead, he moved closer, lips brushing Sasuke’s again, this time slower. His thumb traced the arch of Sasuke’s cheekbone, then down to the corner of his mouth.

“You’re warm,” Naruto whispered. “God, you’re still warm.”

Sasuke felt something inside him splinter—something brittle and exhausted and long-hollow. The kiss deepened, Naruto’s hand sliding into the dark strands of his hair, and Sasuke let himself be kissed, let himself be held. He felt hands on his waist, fingers trembling slightly as they curled under the hem of his sweater.

Naruto's palm grazed the skin of his lower back—Sasuke shivered.

When Naruto pulled him closer, Sasuke didn’t resist. He straddled Naruto’s lap without meaning to, thighs bracketing him, the sweater slipping further off his shoulder. His cheeks flushed; he could feel it, hot and raw.

“Don’t look,” Sasuke muttered.

Naruto blinked up at him. “Why not?”

“…I look stupid.”

“You look like Sasuke,” Naruto said, thumbing at his flushed cheek. “You’re beautiful.”

Sasuke’s heart stuttered. Then Naruto’s hand brushed higher, fingertips accidentally grazing one of Sasuke’s nipples through the soft knit.

Sasuke inhaled sharply and flinched.

Naruto pulled back immediately. “Shit—did I hurt you?”

“No,” Sasuke muttered, flustered. “They’re just… sensitive.”

Naruto blinked, realization dawning. He looked embarrassed for a second, then reached up again—slower this time. “Can I…?”

Sasuke gave a small nod.

Naruto’s fingers were warm, soft. He brushed over the tender skin gently, thumb grazing the peak through the fabric. Sasuke trembled—bit down a sound in his throat—but didn’t stop him. His body was flushed with heat, his pulse unsteady.

Naruto was watching him now—not with lust, not entirely, but with awe. With reverence.

“You’re shaking,” Naruto whispered.

“You’re holding me.”

“I’ve wanted to,” Naruto said. “Since I got back.”

Sasuke looked away, trying to hide how much those words meant. But Naruto leaned up and kissed his collarbone. Then his throat. Then the underside of his jaw.

Sasuke melted into it, knees pressed to Naruto’s hips, his hands curled in the hem of Naruto’s hoodie like he might fall apart without it.

Naruto held him for a long time. Quietly. Tenderly. And Sasuke let himself be held in a way he desired for, for the first time in a very long time.

                                                                           ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

Sasuke knew it had started the moment he couldn’t bear the texture of his own shirt against his skin.

The fabric chafed at his nipples like sandpaper. His fingers trembled when he reached to adjust it, but the motion only dragged it further, made his back arch off the bed with a sharp breath. There was a burn in his bloodstream—quiet at first, then swelling into something molten and consuming.

Heat.

Not just a flush of embarrassment or a brief hormonal tug. This was biological warfare, a tidal pull that drenched his thighs with nothing but air between them. His breath caught as he shifted, trying and failing to ignore the sweet stickiness gathering beneath his waistband.

He didn’t want this.

He didn’t want to want anything.

But his body betrayed him.

The kids were gone—thank the gods. Naruto had taken them on a short trip to the outskirts of the village. Sasuke had claimed fatigue, a headache. Excuses. Anything to stay behind. Because he could feel it coming in waves: the hunger, the ache, the helplessness of it.

He stumbled into their bedroom, slammed the door shut behind him, and locked it. His hands trembled as he pressed his back to the wood, breath shaky and damp. Every nerve in his body screamed to be touched, filled, held.

But not by anyone. Only one.

Only Naruto .

His scent lingered—on the sheets, the pillow, the robe tossed over the chair in the corner. That old orange hoodie he loved, stretched at the cuffs and worn thin at the elbows. Sasuke fell on it like a man dying of thirst, burying his face into the folds of cotton that still smelled like him—clean sweat, a whisper of pine, something warm and wild and home.

“Fuck,” he gasped, clenching the hoodie in both fists, curling on the bed as the tears finally spilled over. “What the hell is wrong with me—?”

But he knew. His cycle had started early, triggered by stress or loneliness or maybe just how good Naruto had smelled last night when they sat on the sofa together, shoulders brushing, saying nothing while the kids slept nearby. Sasuke remembered every inch of that silence. He remembered Naruto’s thigh brushing his. His hand twitching beside him.

He remembered the way Naruto had looked at him and didn’t say anything.

And now—now Sasuke was unraveling.

He stripped out of his pants first, unable to bear the wet cling of them. Then his shirt, peeled from his too-sensitive skin. The cool air kissed his flushed nipples, and he whimpered, hating the sound. Hating the vulnerability. Hating the want.

He was alone.

So why did it feel like his body had already made space for someone?

He crawled onto the bed, dragging Naruto’s clothes with him. The mattress still smelled like his skin. Sasuke rolled in it, nesting like an animal in heat, stuffing the hoodie between his thighs, rocking forward once, twice, like that might make it stop.

But it didn’t. It only made it worse.

Every nerve ending flared. His breath came in shallow pants, hips twitching forward, seeking pressure. The fabric was damp already, soaked with slick, and it disgusted him and comforted him in equal measure.

His own scent was buried beneath Naruto’s —and that was the only thing that kept him sane.

Sasuke pressed his face into the pillow Naruto used every night. His fingers dug into the sheets as he gasped, chest heaving. His nipples brushed the mattress, sensitive, aching, driving him mad. A sob escaped him before he could catch it.

“Just—just for a moment,” he whispered.

He didn’t want to come. He didn’t want to give in to it. But gods, he needed something to make the pressure stop.

He ground forward, slowly, desperately, body tight with tension. His stomach trembled. Sweat clung to his neck, and every soft pant made his lips stick together. He closed his eyes and let himself imagine—

A dream—

Naruto’s voice came, quiet and soft, like a whisper through the warmth of the morning light.

“Hey… you okay?”

Sasuke blinked awake. He was curled on their bed, the one with rumpled sheets and the faint scent of laundry detergent mixed with something faintly woodsy. Sunlight spilled through the half-open curtains, casting golden pools on the floor. The air was warm and still, untouched by the weight of the world.

From outside the window, laughter floated in—high-pitched and clear. Arashi’s baby giggle tinkled like wind chimes, chasing after a low, teasing voice.

“Careful, Menma! You’ll trip!”

The teenage edge was unmistakable—Menma’s tone was sharp, impatient, but undercut with an invisible thread of care. No one babied him here. He was thirteen

, almost grown, trying to keep the younger ones safe in his own way.

Ren cooed softly from the crib near the foot of the bed, his tiny fists curled against the thin blanket. The newborn’s delicate breathing was steady, a quiet pulse of life that softened the room.

Naruto was beside Sasuke, shirtless, hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed himself. His skin glowed in the sunlight, warm and real. He reached out, fingers gentle against Sasuke’s cheek.

“I missed you,” Sasuke whispered, the words tasting like both hope and sorrow.

Naruto’s hand lingered, thumb brushing the line of Sasuke’s jaw, grounding him.

They kissed—slow, tentative, but full of the quiet promise that time hadn’t erased. It was the kind of kiss that healed cracks, that spoke of forgiveness and longing without words. Like the past hadn’t shattered them, like love had stayed buried beneath the pain, waiting to bloom again.

Naruto’s arms slid around Sasuke, holding him steady—strong, steady, sure.

“I’ll never forget again,” Naruto murmured into his hair, voice low and unwavering.

Sasuke’s tears came then, warm and unashamed, soaking into Naruto’s chest. But this time, it wasn’t the bitter kind of crying—the kind that leaves your soul hollow and cracked.

It was the good kind.

The kind that whispered, You’re safe now. You’re home.

And for the first time in a long while, Sasuke believed it.

He woke up trembling.

His chest was soaked with sweat and tears. The pillow beneath his hips damp. His thighs ached. His whole body pulsed like a wound—but the tension had eased slightly. His brain was foggy, but quiet. And he was still alone.

Still clutching Naruto’s hoodie like it might vanish if he let go.

Sasuke curled into it and buried his face.

The scent had faded slightly—but it was still there.

He didn’t feel good. Not really.

But he felt held.

And that was enough to let him fall asleep again.

                                                                                  ❦❧ ❀ ❧❦

Sasuke drifted in and out of sleep, trapped somewhere between dreaming and waking, barely aware of how many hours had passed. The room was dim, curtains drawn, and the muffled sounds from outside felt distant, like echoes underwater. The heat had softened since earlier, but not disappeared—it lingered in his limbs, a hazy hum beneath the skin, like the memory of a fever that hadn’t fully broken.

His sheets were a tangled mess around his legs, damp with sweat and other fluids, clinging in the folds behind his knees and under his thighs. His hips ached in that telltale, hollow way, his skin slick and flushed. But it wasn’t the same kind of heat anymore—it wasn’t burning. It was quieter now. Ache layered on exhaustion, layered on something else. Something he couldn’t name.

A soft breath escaped him, almost a sigh. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks as he stirred, too tired to move, too restless to stay still.

And then he felt it.

A strange, wet warmth—not between his legs this time, but higher. Unexpected. Foreign and familiar all at once. At first, it was faint. Dampness slowly seeping through the fabric of his clothes, spreading in two small circles beneath his chest. He shifted instinctively, and the fabric clung. The soft tug of pressure bloomed into something sharper—a dull, persistent ache that throbbed low and steady.

He frowned, sluggish, and struggled to push himself upright.

His limbs felt heavy, and his vision swam for a moment as he blinked against the haze. When he finally looked down, his breath caught.

Naruto’s hoodie—too big on him, warm and worn at the edges—was darkened across the front. Two spreading stains bloomed like watermarks around each nipple, soaking slowly through the cotton. A soft gasp broke from his throat, sharp and involuntary.

His chest ached.

His breath hitched, and he stared in disbelief, numb fingers reaching up.

The milk had returned.

He pressed a shaking hand to his chest—light, uncertain, not even sure what he was trying to feel—and the warmth met him instantly. His nipple was swollen, sensitive, the skin flushed and tight. As his palm brushed it, he felt a tiny spurt escape, dampening the inside of the hoodie further. Another droplet followed, then another.

His heart pounded in his ears.

“It’s back…” he murmured, not quite believing it. “Why now?”

Nearly a year had passed since the last time. The hormones had tapered off. His body had quieted. That part of himself had gone dormant, like a field left fallow. He’d told himself it was over. That even if his body remembered, even if the ache still echoed in his bones some nights—it didn’t mean anything. Couldn’t mean anything.

But now… his chest was full again. Tender. Aching. Alive in a way it hadn’t been in months.

A tremor moved through him.

He lay back slowly, chest heaving beneath the soaked cotton, the hoodie clinging to his skin. His hands hovered at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. Everything was too much—too fast. Too real.

But even through the overwhelm, a quiet, impossible thought crept in.

I could feed again.

His throat tightened.

“I can… I could hold them again…”

Images flickered behind his eyes—memories that didn’t feel like memories, more like longing distilled into shapes and sound.

Ren, curled into his arms, tiny fists against Sasuke’s chest, mouth latching instinctively. The soft, snuffling breath of a sleeping infant. Arashi, toddling on unsteady legs, reaching up with chubby arms and whispering “Mama…” with that breathless, reverent wonder.

He bit down hard on his lower lip, but the tremble still escaped.

His body had remembered before his mind had.

The warmth of that thought wrapped around him like another blanket. Fragile, but anchoring. And yet—there was no peace in it. Not entirely. His body ached, but it wasn’t just hormonal. His hands trembled, restless, unsure. His chest throbbed with every breath, nipples stiff and slick. He needed to relieve the pressure, even if just a little. But he couldn’t help the shame that rose in his throat like bile.

He didn’t want this to be mistaken.

It wasn’t about desire. It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t even comfort, not fully.

It was need . Biological. Primal. Hormonal. A parent’s body, caught mid-shift, caught remembering what it was for.

He hesitated, then cupped his chest with both hands. The fabric of the hoodie pressed damply against his palms, sticky with fresh milk. He pushed it up, baring one nipple, swollen and glistening. His thumb moved in slow, careful circles—not to tease, just to coax relief.

Milk beaded again. His body responded with a deep, aching pull.

He gasped.

Not from pain—but from how alive it made him feel. How real.

The ache dulled slightly, the pressure easing bit by bit under his fingers. His shoulders sagged with the release.

But the tears came too.

Hot, stinging. A different kind of overflow.

He buried his face in Naruto’s hoodie, breathing in the scent—sun, sweat, warmth. Familiar. Anchoring. And let himself cry.

He cried not just from exhaustion, but from the sharp grief of memory, and the tentative joy of possibility . His chest ached, but it was a living ache. A hopeful ache. His arms felt empty, but maybe—maybe—they didn’t have to stay that way.

Under the weight of the blankets, curled into himself like a shell, Sasuke held onto that tiny thread of hope. Let it wrap around the hollowness in his chest like a soft tether.

He didn’t stop the tears this time.

Because this—this ache, this warmth, this body that had been so quiet for so long—was whispering something he had almost forgotten:

You are still capable of care.

And that mattered.

More than anything.

Chapter Text

Mist lay over the back garden like a veil of silver. The night’s rain still clung to every surface, tiny beads of water trembling on the edges of leaves. When Sasuke slid open the shoji door the wooden frame sighed against its track and the smell of wet earth drifted in. He stepped outside barefoot, the cool stones damp against his skin, and pulled his sweater tighter around his shoulders.

The garden was a modest one, planted long before the children were born. Low bushes framed the narrow path, their blossoms faded to pale husks that would soon crumble into soil. Here and there a stubborn flower held on, petals bruised and thin but still alive. Sasuke crouched near a clump of late chrysanthemums and touched one with the tip of his finger. It bent slightly beneath the weight of the dew yet did not break.

A soft scuff of slippers came from behind him. Menma appeared in the doorway, tall now, his hair sticking out from sleep. He did not speak right away. He only watched his mother’s back while the morning light stretched across the stones. When he finally moved forward the damp grass whispered beneath his steps.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Menma’s voice was low, still rough from the night.

“Woke early,” Sasuke said. The sound of his own voice surprised him. It felt steady, almost light.

Menma rubbed his arms against the chill and came to stand beside him. “Ren was fussing,” he said. “I checked on him before I came out. He’s fine now.”

Sasuke glanced at his son. Menma’s shoulders had broadened in the past year, and there was a quiet steadiness in his eyes that reminded Sasuke of his own brother long ago. Pride swelled, warm and unexpected.

“You watch over them well,” Sasuke said.

Menma shrugged, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Someone has to while you and Dad pretend to be morning people.”

The tease was gentle. Sasuke let it settle in the damp air, then reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Menma’s forehead. Menma stood still under the touch. For a moment the only sound was the slow dripping of rainwater from the eaves.

Beyond the path a robin called from a branch, its notes sharp and clear. The mist shifted as the first sunlight broke through, turning every droplet into a small prism. Sasuke inhaled the scent of wet stone and cedar. It smelled like change, like the beginning of another season.

He thought of Naruto still asleep inside with the younger children. He thought of the fractured memories that might never fully mend and of the quiet, careful way their lives had started to knit together again. The ache in his chest was not pain but a reminder of all that had endured.

Menma crouched to pick up a fallen stem. “Do you think these will bloom again next year?” he asked.

Sasuke studied the wilted petals in his son’s hand. “Yes,” he said after a pause. “Not the same flower, but the roots stay. They always stay.”

Menma nodded, eyes thoughtful. Together they stood in silence, watching the mist lift from the garden while the morning grew brighter and the sound of small birds filled the air.

When Sasuke slid the garden door closed again the house greeted him with a faint warmth. The scent of rice steaming in the cooker drifted through the hallway, mixed with the soft, milky smell that always clung to the nursery. Morning light pooled across the tatami in long pale stripes.

Arashi’s small cry carried from the children’s room, not sharp, just a questioning sound. Sasuke crossed the hallway and pushed the door open with his fingertips.

Arashi sat in her crib, hair tousled, cheeks still rosy from sleep. She blinked at him and then broke into a crooked smile that showed the first hints of teeth. The sight tightened something gentle inside his chest. He lifted her carefully, feeling the warm weight settle against his shoulder. Her hands curled into his sweater, tiny fingers kneading the fabric with unconscious trust.

Ren stirred in the bassinet beside the crib. His breath came in soft puffs, eyelids fluttering but not waking fully. Sasuke brushed a hand across the baby’s back, feeling the steady rise and fall, and a quiet peace settled over him. It was the simple rhythm of life continuing.

Footsteps padded behind him. Menma entered, rubbing his eyes, a teenager caught between boyhood and something older. He gave a quick grin that looked almost like Naruto’s.

“I’ll start breakfast,” Menma said, voice low so as not to wake Ren.

Sasuke nodded. “Thank you.”

Menma bent over the bassinet and gave Ren a careful pat before heading toward the kitchen. The faint clatter of pans followed, a homely sound that filled the hallway with its own kind of music.

Sasuke swayed slightly with Arashi in his arms until she rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. He remembered the years when every motion felt like survival, each day a test of endurance. Now the same motions felt like belonging. He pressed a quiet kiss to her hair.

From the bedroom at the far end of the corridor came a soft yawn and the creak of a mattress. Naruto stepped out, hair standing in every direction, sweatpants low on his hips. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, but when he saw Sasuke holding Arashi something in his expression eased.

“Morning,” Naruto murmured. His voice carried a rasp that once would have startled Sasuke. Now it sounded like home.

“Morning,” Sasuke replied.

Naruto reached for Arashi and she went willingly, small hands grasping his shirt. He kissed her temple, then looked at Sasuke with a quiet smile. “Menma already cooking?”

“Yes,” Sasuke said. “He woke early.”

Naruto chuckled under his breath. “Kid’s more responsible than we are.”

The three of them moved toward the kitchen together. Steam from the rice cooker fogged the window, and the smell of miso drifted through the air. Menma stood at the stove, stirring with the casual confidence of someone who had learned through necessity and stayed because he wanted to. He glanced over his shoulder and gave a small nod of greeting before returning to his task.

Sasuke set the table. Naruto settled with Arashi balanced on one knee. Ren slept on in the nursery, the baby monitor humming softly. The house filled with small sounds: chopsticks clinking against bowls, the gentle gurgle of boiling water, Arashi’s quiet babble as Naruto whispered to her. Nothing dramatic, nothing grand, just a family inhabiting a morning.

Sasuke paused with a pair of cups in his hands. He watched Naruto lean close to their daughter, saw the way Menma moved around the kitchen, and felt a weight lift that he had carried for years. Life was not perfect. Memories were still fractured. But in this moment the rhythm was steady, and it was enough.

He set the cups down and let the warmth of the room seep into him. The day outside might bring rain or sun. The flowers in the garden would wither and bloom again. For now there was only the quiet pulse of a home that had endured, and the knowledge that they were all still here.

By midafternoon the light had softened. Clouds moved slow and heavy across the sky, but a pale gold still filtered through them and settled over the garden. Sasuke stepped outside with a shallow basket in one hand and felt the faint give of damp earth under his sandals. The air smelled of cut grass and the faint sweetness of fallen petals beginning to dry.

Arashi ran ahead of him, a small blur of excitement, her shoes scuffing the path. She bent to pick up a twig, then a smooth stone, offering each discovery as though it were treasure. Sasuke accepted every gift and placed them carefully in the basket beside the flowers. Menma followed more slowly, long legs awkward as he tried not to step on the small shoots pushing up from the soil. He carried Ren against his chest, the baby drowsy and warm in the wrap.

The garden was no longer the neat place it had been in early spring. Stems leaned under the weight of late blooms, petals bruised by last night’s rain. Yet the sight did not feel sad to Sasuke. It felt alive. He reached for a cluster of cosmos, their edges curled and darkening, and cut them with a quiet snip. The scent rose sharp and green.

Naruto came last, carrying a clay bowl of water. He set it on the old wooden bench and stood beside Sasuke without a word. They moved together through the rows, fingers brushing from time to time, sharing the quiet labor. When Arashi darted toward a low branch Menma called a soft warning and she slowed, turning it into a game of tiptoe and giggle.

Sasuke placed each stem in the basket, watching how the wind tugged at the petals. Some drifted free and scattered across the path, flashes of color against the dark soil. He thought of the years when loss had been constant and merciless. Now the falling petals seemed different, not a sign of ending but a reminder that change was simply part of living.

When the basket was full they carried it to the bench. Naruto crouched beside Ren and tickled his tiny hand until the baby blinked awake and grasped his father’s finger. Menma sat with Arashi on his knee, pointing out the clouds as if naming their shapes might keep them in the sky a little longer.

Sasuke knelt and began arranging the flowers in the bowl of water. He did not try to hide the bruised petals. He let them fall where they would, each one a small truth. The stems leaned together in quiet harmony, some strong, some already fading, all still part of the same whole.

A soft breeze moved through the garden and lifted the scent of earth and rain. Sasuke felt it slide across his skin and close around the small circle of their family. Naruto reached for his hand. Their fingers fit with a familiarity that carried no urgency, only a calm recognition of what remained.

The children’s voices rose and fell like birdsong. Ren cooed in his brother’s arms. Arashi began to hum a tune she had learned from the radio, off key but steady. The sound mixed with the rustle of leaves until it became something larger than any single voice.

Sasuke looked at the bowl. Some petals were already loosening, drifting on the surface of the water. They would wilt before nightfall. Yet the stems stood upright, green and certain. He felt the quiet strength of that image settle in him, a truth he could carry.

Naruto squeezed his hand once, light but sure. Sasuke turned his palm upward and returned the pressure. There was nothing left to say.

Clouds gathered thicker above them. The garden dimmed to a gentle gray, and the first cool drops of evening touched the back of Sasuke’s neck. He welcomed the weight of them and did not move. The flowers would bend in the coming rain, and tomorrow new shoots would reach for the light.

They remained together in the fading afternoon, a family shaped by what had been lost and what had survived. Wilted, but still here.