Rising Blade, Falling Leaves (Fate x Naruto, EMIYA Centric)

[Dragon Bob]

Kinda pissed at Hiruzen right now.
Here he is, moaning and whining about the state the village is in to a five year old child, where a six year old child can get assaulted with law enforcement being present on the scene, who then proceed to put in a grand total of zero fucking effort to catch the perpetrators, and like – my guy, you're the one in fucking charge you dipshit.

He's the leader of what is essentially a military dictatorship city-state (if one technically subservient to the nation they reside in, but how relevant is the daimyō in canon anyway) and he doesn't like how it's being run??? Then do it differently you geriatric fuck oh my god what an asshat. Fuck, man.

Beyond that, thanks for the chapter!

Just to make it clear, I don't have an issue with how Hiruzen is written or anything, I'm pissed at the character not the writing, yeah?

edit:typo

Click to shrink...

In his very slight defense, there's not much he can do about the general hatred of Naruko. You can't force the village to like her.
As for the assault and the police issue, that's actually much more complicated than it appears. The Uchiha police tried to intervene, but the village hates them enough that the village managed to provoke one of the cops into attacking a chunin who committed no crime. That's not a good look and the Hokage can't act to favor the party that was very technically in the wrong, even if the Chunin deserved it.

The problem was easy to solve 10 years ago, now it's almost impossible without massively weakening the village. In another 5 years enough new ninja would have developed that he might be able to try fixing things, but of course he doesn't have 5 years. His real issue is that he keeps falling into short term thinking, Fix the issue in front of him as quickly as possible regardless of the consequences years later. Which can be excused a bit since the village was nearly destroyed by the Nine Tails and he didn't have many options. Still biting everyone now.

 

[The Tangerine Cat]

Kinda pissed at Hiruzen right now.
Here he is, moaning and whining about the state the village is in to a five year old child, where a six year old child can get assaulted with law enforcement being present on the scene, who then proceed to put in a grand total of zero fucking effort to catch the perpetrators, and like – my guy, you're the one in fucking charge you dipshit.

He's the leader of what is essentially a military dictatorship city-state (if one technically subservient to the nation they reside in, but how relevant is the daimyō in canon anyway) and he doesn't like how it's being run??? Then do it differently you geriatric fuck oh my god what an asshat. Fuck, man.

Beyond that, thanks for the chapter!

Just to make it clear, I don't have an issue with how Hiruzen is written or anything, I'm pissed at the character not the writing, yeah?

edit:typo

Click to shrink...

lmao no worries, i get it

yeah hiruzen is portrayed as a character who procrastinates too much in his old age, or is too indecisive. A lot of things could have been diverted—to some degree, at least—if he had acted sooner, put his foot down in the beginning.

In his very slight defense, there's not much he can do about the general hatred of Naruko. You can't force the village to like her.
As for the assault and the police issue, that's actually much more complicated than it appears. The Uchiha police tried to intervene, but the village hates them enough that the village managed to provoke one of the cops into attacking a chunin who committed no crime. That's not a good look and the Hokage can't act to favor the party that was very technically in the wrong, even if the Chunin deserved it.

The problem was easy to solve 10 years ago, now it's almost impossible without massively weakening the village. In another 5 years enough new ninja would have developed that he might be able to try fixing things, but of course he doesn't have 5 years. His real issue is that he keeps falling into short term thinking, Fix the issue in front of him as quickly as possible regardless of the consequences years later. Which can be excused a bit since the village was nearly destroyed by the Nine Tails and he didn't have many options. Still biting everyone now.

Click to shrink...

Yeah, there's definitely a lot of things that are too late to salvage even if Hiruzen decided to by the point they had happened.

Like you said, they could've been addressable 10 years ago, but his indecisiveness has dragged many things out for so long that they've gained too much momentum to opt out of.

 

[The Tangerine Cat]

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Chapter 7—The First Crack

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The October air had turned overnight. The compound in the mornings was all damp stone and wet earth now, the persimmon tree outside the Nakano house dropping its fruit onto the path where nobody picked it up. The tiled roofs held dew until midmorning, and the crows had migrated to the south wall where the sun hit first.

Mikoto asked him to bring tea to the sitting room. The hallway was empty. The neighbors who usually stopped by the main house in the evenings had not come, and the two clan members he'd passed on the path outside had quickened their pace in the other direction.

He set two cups on the tray and carried it down the hall.

Yashiro Uchiha sat across from Fugaku at the low table. He was older than most of the officers Emiya had seen at the compound—ash-grey hair, squinted eyes that never quite opened all the way.

"—six months, Fugaku-sama. Six months in ANBU, and the clan has yet to see a single piece of actionable intelligence from the boy. The position was supposed to serve a purpose."

"The position serves the village. That was the arrangement."

"The arrangement." Yashiro regarded Fugaku for a beat. "With respect, arrangements that serve only the village have a tendency to forget who put the boy there in the first place."

"Itachi serves where he's placed. If you have concerns about his output, you're welcome to raise them at the next council session."

"Council sessions." Yashiro set his cup down. The porcelain touched the table without a sound. "We've had four this month, Fugaku-sama. The sessions are not the problem. The lack of movement afterward is."

Emiya set the tray between them. He poured Fugaku's cup first, then Yashiro's, and straightened.

Yashiro's squinted eyes tracked him. "Ah. The younger one. Sasuke-kun, is it?"

Fugaku's jaw tightened. "Sasuke."

"Top of his class at the Academy, I hear." Yashiro picked up his fresh cup. The steam curled past his chin. "Fine marks across the board. That chūnin instructor speaks well of him, apparently." He sipped. "Quite composed for his age. He has your bearing, Fugaku-sama. Though I suspect there's more of Mikoto-sama in there than either of you would admit."

The man had a particular talent for making compliments sound like inspections.

"He's six."

"Itachi was six once. Look how that turned out."

Comparing children to failed investments in front of Fugaku—the man's diplomatic skills were as impressive as his subtlety.

Neither of them spoke. Somewhere outside, a gate latch clicked shut. Fugaku's arms unfolded slowly, his hands settling flat on his knees.

"Will that be all, Sasuke?" His eyes hadn't left Yashiro.

"Unless your guest requires anything else." Emiya surveyed both men and left.

Behind him, as he walked back down the hallway, Yashiro's voice dropped half a register. "The clan cannot afford to wait for Itachi to decide where his loyalties are, Fugaku-sama. Others in the compound are beginning to ask questions that you and I will not be able to defer much longer."

The kitchen door was open, and Mikoto was at the counter, slicing daikon into rounds. A strand of hair had escaped behind her ear. She didn't blow it aside.

Emiya picked up the cutting board beside her and started on the carrots. They worked without speaking. The kitchen had its own rhythm—knife against wood, water running, the low hiss of the stove beneath its pot. Mikoto's knife landed a fraction harder than it needed to, and the pause between her cuts was a fraction longer. She hadn't asked what he'd heard in the sitting room, which meant she already knew enough to not want it confirmed.

"He visits every week now." Emiya didn't look up from the carrots.

"I know."

"It used to be every month. Talk about a first-hand demonstration of overstaying welcomes."

Mikoto's knife stopped. She set it down, pressed both palms flat against the counter, and stared at the daikon in front of her. "It's fine, Sasuke."

"Uh-huh." He peeled the next carrot. "I'm sure it is, Mikoto."

She sighed and picked up the knife again.

The pot hissed, and she turned to adjust the flame. Her hand lingered on the knob a beat too long before she let go.

Dinner was three place settings. Mikoto reached for a fourth bowl from the cabinet, held it for a beat, and put it back.

Itachi's chair was empty and no one mentioned it. Fugaku sat where he always sat, but the book was absent tonight and the tea beside his plate was hot. He intended to drink it. Fugaku paying attention to dinner was more peculiar than anything Yashiro had said in the sitting room.

Mikoto served the rice while Emiya brought the sides—pickled plum, grilled mackerel, miso soup.

"The Nakano boy made chūnin last week." Mikoto reached for the rice paddle. "His mother was at the market. She seemed proud."

Fugaku picked up his chopsticks. "Hm."

"She also mentioned they're expanding the east patrol rotation. Adding a third shift."

Fugaku's chopsticks paused over his bowl. A fraction of a second. He resumed eating.

"A third shift."

"Starting next week, apparently."

"The mackerel is good tonight."

"Thank you." Mikoto took a sip of soup.

Emiya ate. The mackerel was, in fact, good. Mikoto's knife work on the daikon had been sharper than usual—the rounds were thinner, the edges cleaner. In six years of sharing a table with Fugaku, the man had never once complimented a specific dish. He was either developing a palate or running out of things he was willing to talk about.

They finished in the time it took for the soup to cool. No one lingered.

Fugaku excused himself from the table and walked back toward the sitting room. The door slid shut behind him. Yashiro's voice, low and measured, resumed on the other side.

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The front door opened while they were still washing up.

Itachi's footsteps came down the hall—quiet, precise. He hadn't shaken off the silent walk from his shift. He appeared in the kitchen doorway still in his ANBU blacks, the chest armor unstrapped but not removed, his hair loose from its tie.

Mikoto turned from the cabinet. "Itachi. There's a plate for you."

"I ate at headquarters." He glanced at the counter, then at the covered plate sitting where it always sat when he came home late, and picked it up anyway. "Thank you."

The Uchiha talent for saying one thing and doing another was evidently hereditary.

He sat at the table, the three chairs across from him pushed back at the angles people left them in.

Emiya dried the last bowl and set it in the cabinet. Fugaku's tea was still on the table, half-finished and going cold. Mikoto took his place at the table across from Itachi, her hands folded in front of her. She didn't ask where he'd been. She didn't ask why he was late. She watched him eat the food he'd said he didn't need.

"Yashiro was here." Emiya settled onto the edge of the counter stool, arms folded across his chest.

Itachi's chopsticks didn't pause. "I know."

"He's getting louder. I could hear him through the sitting room wall, and I wasn't particularly trying to listen."

"He's always been loud. The volume just used to be more evenly distributed." Itachi's eyes stayed on his plate. "Now it's concentrated."

"Your name came up. He seems to think the clan overpaid."

"It usually does."

Mikoto's hands tightened in her lap as the kitchen clock ticked twice.

"His exact words were closer to 'poor investment.'" Emiya tilted his head. "Fugaku didn't appreciate it. I suspect Yashiro didn't particularly care."

"Father rarely appreciates being told what he already knows." Itachi set his chopsticks down. The plate was half-finished—he'd eaten the rice and the fish and left the pickled plum, which was the opposite of his usual preference.

He stood. "Good night, Mother."

"Good night, Itachi."

He turned to Emiya, the look holding for a beat—the same look Itachi had been giving him since the river, since the deliveries. But tonight the lines around his mouth had tightened, and he held it a half-second longer than usual before letting go.

"Good night, Sasuke."

"Good night, Itachi."

His footsteps receded down the hall, and his bedroom door closed. Mikoto exhaled through her nose and pressed her fingertips against her eyes.

Emiya washed Itachi's dishes while Mikoto dried.

The rhythm was the same as always—he passed bowls, she took them, the cabinet opened and closed. Water ran, and porcelain clicked on wood.

"Is your father all right?" Mikoto's eyes stayed on the bowl in her hands.

Emiya turned off the tap and dried his hands on the towel she'd hung from the oven handle—the same spot she always put it, within reach of whoever was shorter.

"Fugaku is doing what he always does. Managing things he can't discuss with the people he wants to protect." He folded the towel. "It's not a particularly efficient strategy, but it's consistent."

Mikoto's hands stilled on the cabinet door.

"He should talk to someone." Her voice had dropped.

"He should talk to you. But he won't, because telling you what's happening would mean admitting what's happening, and he hasn't decided what to do about it yet. When he does, you'll be the first to know. Or the last." He set the towel down. "With Fugaku, those tend to be the same thing."

She stared at him. "You know too much for a six-year-old."

"You say that every month, Mikoto. It hasn't gotten any more useful."

She reached out and tapped him on the head with two fingers. He let it happen. She closed the cabinet and untied her apron.

"Don't stay up too late."

Her footsteps receded down the hall.

The house went still. The murmur from the sitting room had gone quiet, and no sound came from Itachi's room.

Emiya stood at the counter in the dark kitchen and packed the bento—rice, grilled mackerel (he'd set aside a portion before dinner), pickled vegetables, the last of the tamagoyaki from the morning batch. Fugaku's reading glasses were still on the counter where he'd left them that morning, beside the spot where the book usually sat. He wrapped the bento in the same cloth, tied the same knot, and tucked it under his arm.

He slipped on his sandals at the door and stepped into the compound.

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The gate guards on the east side were new. Emiya recognized one of them from the festival—the young officer who had lunged at the crowd. Gate duty was a demotion. The man stared straight ahead as Emiya passed, jaw set, saying nothing.

The village was quiet, and he reached the eastern quarter without being seen.

The apartment light was on. Through the curtain gap, the girl was at the table with a pencil in her fist and what looked like homework spread in front of her, not looking at the window. He placed the bento on the ledge and left the way he'd come.

The compound gate was quiet when he returned. The guards had changed shifts—the pair on night duty inclined their heads as he passed, too accustomed to the clan head's youngest keeping odd hours to comment on it anymore.

He was three houses from the main residence when the front door opened.

Yashiro stepped out.

The man adjusted his collar against the October air and turned down the path. He spotted Emiya within a few strides and stopped.

"Out late, Sasuke-kun."

"I could say the same." Emiya didn't slow his pace. "Fugaku must value your company a great deal. Three hours is a long conversation."

Yashiro's chin lifted. A beat passed. "Your father and I have much to discuss."

"So it would seem. Although at this rate, you may as well save yourself the walk and move in."

The squinted eyes narrowed further. Emiya hadn't thought that was physically possible. Yashiro regarded him for a long moment, then clasped his hands behind his back.

"You speak very directly for a child your age."

Emiya shrugged. "I've been told."

"And that doesn't concern you?"

"Not particularly. Directness saves time, and nobody in this compound seems to have much of it to spare lately."

Yashiro was quiet for several seconds. Something akin to satisfaction filtered behind his posture. "How about the Academy? Does it keep you busy?"

"Busy enough for what the Academy offers. The curriculum isn't exactly designed for pace."

The man nodded once. "And your studies? The clan techniques—has your father begun instruction?"

"Fugaku has other priorities at the moment. I manage on my own."

"Itachi was a gifted child." Yashiro's voice had gone flat. "The most talented this clan had seen in a generation. But talent without loyalty is just a sharper blade in someone else's hand." He tilted his head. "I wonder what your generation will produce."

Emiya held his gaze. "Who knows? Something useful, I'd expect. The clan seems to be in need of it."

Yashiro didn't answer immediately. His chin dipped a fraction, and his squinted eyes creased at the corners.

"Hm." The sound was low, almost to himself. He inclined his head once, turned, and continued down the path. His footsteps faded between the houses.

Emiya watched him go, then walked the rest of the way to the main house, removed his sandals, and closed the door behind him.

The sitting room was empty now. Down the hall, the study door closed, and the lock turned once.

Outside, the persimmon tree tapped its lowest branch against the window, a faint rhythmic knock that nobody had trimmed it back far enough to stop.

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Next Chapter Preview

The study light was on when Itachi came through the front door.

Four in the morning.

"I landed more shuriken on the post today than you did!"

"She's got spirit."

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[Starman25]

Four in the morning.

"I landed more shuriken on the post today than you did!"

"She's got spirit."

Click to shrink...

Itachi's thoughts: Sasuke invited a girl to train with him at the compound!?
They grow up so fast... just a short time ago he was quiet and alone, and now he already has a girlfriend!

 

[The Tangerine Cat]

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Chapter 8—Shisui

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The study light was on when Itachi came through the front door.

It was four in the morning. The compound was dark except for the main house, where a thin band of yellow leaked from beneath Fugaku's door and cut a stripe across the hallway floor. Itachi removed his sandals without sound and set his ANBU mask on the shelf by the entrance. The porcelain was still warm from his face.

The door to his study was open. The hallway smelled faintly of cold tea and ink.

Fugaku sat at his desk, surrounded by a stack of papers, a cup that had stopped steaming hours ago, and his reading glasses folded beside it. He had a ledger open in front of him—patrol schedules, from the look of it—but the pen in his hand hadn't touched the page.

Itachi stopped in the doorway. "You haven't slept."

"Neither have you."

"I was on assignment."

"So was I." Fugaku set the pen down. His thumb pressed into the space between his eyes and held there. "Yashiro brought three new signatures to the council tonight."

Itachi leaned his shoulder against the frame.

"They moved us to the edges of the village and stripped our authority back to traffic disputes and drunk genin." Fugaku lowered his hand and looked at his son. "I have spent six years asking for a seat at the table and getting handed the same set of excuses in different order. At what point does asking start looking like begging?"

"When you stop caring about the answer."

Fugaku's chair creaked as he leaned forward. "I care about the answer. That's the problem. I've cared about it longer than anyone in this clan, and every year the answer gets smaller."

The lamp on the desk flickered. A moth had been circling it; it tapped the glass once, twice, and veered away.

"There are other paths."

"Name one that doesn't require the village to act in good faith."

Itachi was quiet for a long time.

"Patience stops being a strategy," he said, "when it costs more lives than action would. Not before."

Fugaku settled back in his chair and closed the ledger.

"Go rest. You look terrible."

"So do you."

"I'm the clan head. It comes with the territory." The corner of Fugaku's mouth moved, and he reached for his glasses, remembered they were already folded, and withdrew his hand.

Itachi inclined his head and left.

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He did not go to his room.

The engawa faced the garden on the east side of the house. Itachi slid the paper door open and sat on the wooden edge, his legs hanging over the side, his back against the frame. The air had the sharp, clean bite of a season turning. The garden was all grey shapes—stones, low shrubs, the faint outline of the persimmon tree at the far wall. The only sound was the drip of condensation falling from the eaves onto the stepping stones below.

He closed his eyes.

"You look like you haven't slept in a week."

Itachi opened his eyes. Sasuke stood in the doorway behind him, barefoot, his dark hair pressed flat on one side from the pillow, his arms folded, a crease running down his left cheek.

"I just got back."

"I'm aware. The study door was open and neither of you bothered keeping your voices down." Sasuke rubbed one eye with the heel of his palm. "For a household of shinobi, the operational security leaves a lot to be desired."

Itachi looked at him—six years old, with a pillow crease on his face and a critique of operational security on his tongue.

"ANBU keeps demanding hours." Sasuke stepped onto the engawa and lowered himself against the opposite frame, his legs drawn up, his chin resting on one knee. "Real slave drivers."

"You don't know what ANBU demands."

"I know you come home at four in the morning looking like someone drained you and forgot to throw out the container." He ran his finger along a crack in the wooden edge of the engawa, a split in the grain that hadn't been there last week, and pressed it flat with his thumb. "That's enough."

The muscles around Itachi's mouth moved and stopped.

A bird called from somewhere deeper in the compound. Water still fell from the eaves, measured and unhurried. The sky above the roofline had begun to lighten.

"Sasuke."

"Hm."

"What do you think a shinobi is for?"

Sasuke's hand stilled on the wood. He was looking at the garden, but his eyes weren't focused on anything in it.

"A tool." The word came out flat. "That's the honest answer. A shinobi exists to serve a function determined by someone else. The village, the clan, the mission desk. The system doesn't require the tool to have an opinion about its purpose."

Itachi waited.

"But tools don't sit on porches before dawn wondering whether their father is right." Sasuke glanced at him. "The question has a contradiction built into it. You already know that, or you wouldn't have asked."

He stood, dusted his knees, and walked back inside. At the door he stopped without turning.

"Breakfast will be ready in a bit. I'll leave yours at the door if you'd rather not move."

The paper door slid shut.

Itachi sat on the engawa and watched the sky lighten. The answer had come too quickly. Not the words—the words were careful enough. But the pause before them had been measured, not uncertain. That was the difference between a child thinking and a child deciding how much to show.

The drip from the eaves had stopped, and the stepping stones were drying.

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The Academy bell rang at three. Emiya collected his things, passed Iruka's desk without stopping, and walked out into the yard.

The afternoon light had gone amber. Parents gathered near the low wall, their shadows long across the packed dirt. Somewhere near the old tree, Kiba's puppy was yapping at something it couldn't reach.

"Hey! Uchiha!"

He kept walking.

Naruko caught up near the gate, breathing hard, her bag bouncing against her hip. She planted herself in front of him the way she always did—feet wide, chin up, fists at her sides.

"I landed more shuriken on the post today than you did!"

He glanced at her. "You're counting cumulative throws across a month against a single session."

"What?"

"You threw thirty shuriken over three weeks. You landed six. I threw five today. You landed more total hits than I did today." He tilted his head. "That's not beating my score. That's beating my Tuesday."

Her face scrunched. Her ears went pink. "That still counts, dattebayo!"

"By that logic, a puddle is deeper than the ocean if you measure it every day."

Naruko opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. "I don't—that doesn't even—you're so—" She jabbed a finger at him. "Tomorrow! Tomorrow I'm actually beating you! For real!"

"I look forward to it. Although, given the current trajectory, I'd suggest packing a lunch for the attempt."

She made a strangled noise, pivoted on her heel, and stomped toward the main road. One of her sandal straps had come undone and was slapping the dirt with every step, and she didn't notice. The orange jacket Kakashi had sent was still too long in the sleeves. She'd grow into it by next winter.

"She's got spirit."

Emiya didn't turn—he'd felt the presence on the wall for the past minute. "She's got volume. Spirit is debatable."

Shisui dropped from the wall and landed beside him without a sound—dark curly hair, easy posture, the headband he never tightened sitting crooked across his forehead. He had almost two full heads on Emiya, all long arms and loose joints.

"Itachi's been buried in work lately." Shisui fell into step beside him. "Figured I'd swing by and make sure his baby brother isn't getting lonely."

"When have I ever given you the impression I need looking after?" Emiya raised an eyebrow. "You're the one who leaves crumbs on the hallway floor every time you raid Mikoto's rice cracker jar. If anyone here needs supervision, Shisui, it isn't me."

Shisui laughed. Not a polite laugh. It came out before he'd decided to let it. "She told you about that?"

"She didn't have to. The crumbs have a trail. It starts at the kitchen and ends at Itachi's door."

"I'm working on my stealth."

"Evidently."

The road from the Academy ran east toward the training grounds, the trees thickening on either side as the village thinned. Shisui's stride was loose and unhurried, but his eyes moved—quick arcs across the rooftops and tree line.

"You do the same thing, you know." Shisui glanced down at him. "The scanning. Every time we pass an intersection, your eyes go to the roofline before the road." He grinned. "My grandmother used to do that. She couldn't sit with her back to a door either."

One breath passed before Emiya answered. "Your grandmother sounds like a practical woman."

Shisui's mouth twitched, and he didn't push it.

The compound walls fell behind them, replaced by the outer village houses and then open ground.

"How's the house been?"

"Quiet."

"Quiet good or quiet bad?"

"Quiet the way houses get when everyone in them is managing a separate conversation they won't have out loud."

Shisui didn't answer immediately—his grin stayed, but his eyes didn't.

They reached the fork where the village road split toward training ground three. The trees were thicker here, the canopy filtering the light into broken patches on the dirt path. Shisui stopped walking.

"I've got about an hour before I need to be somewhere." He turned to face Emiya. "Want to spar?"

"You're asking a six-year-old to spar."

"I'm asking Itachi's brother to spar. There's a difference."

"The difference being that Itachi would break both your arms if he found out."

"Probably." Shisui's grin came back. "That's what makes it fun."

"Fine."

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​

Shisui came along the riverbank path and spotted them before they'd noticed him.

Itachi sat on the dock, legs hanging over the edge, Izumi beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. She was talking with her hands, small gestures, and Itachi's head was tilted toward her just enough to show he was listening. The Naka River moved beneath them, copper-tinted and unhurried.

Shisui exhaled through his nose and slowed his pace.

He landed on the dock behind them, the old planks groaning under the impact. "Am I interrupting?"

Izumi flinched. Itachi didn't.

"You're always interrupting." Itachi didn't turn.

"That's what makes me reliable." Shisui settled cross-legged at the dock's edge and leaned back on his hands. The wood was warm under his palms. "You two look cozy."

Izumi's cheeks went pink. "We're not—I was just—Itachi-kun was helping me with a technique and—"

"On the dock."

"We took a break!"

"Izumi-chan." Shisui leaned forward. "Do you always practice techniques while sitting this close to someone?"

"It's a—the dock is narrow—"

"The dock is three meters wide."

"Shisui." Itachi's voice dropped half a register. "Stop."

"Fine, fine." Shisui spread his hands. "So. I went to check on that baby brother of yours today."

Itachi's shoulders stiffened a fraction. "...You went to see Sasuke."

"At the Academy. Walked him partway home." Shisui picked up a flat stone from between the planks and turned it in his fingers. "Had a spar with him too."

Itachi turned fully. "You sparred with a six-year-old."

"I sparred with your six-year-old. There's a significant difference." He weighed the stone in his palm. "Kid's got a mean arm and an even sharper mouth. Man, if only I had a brother like that. Things would never get boring."

Izumi smiled faintly. "That's one way to put it." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Last time I came over he told me my kunai grip would get me killed in a real exchange, and then went back to peeling carrots. I still don't know if he was helping me or insulting me."

"Both." Shisui laughed. "Definitely both."

A dragonfly skimmed the surface of the river and banked toward the reeds on the far side.

Izumi stood and brushed off her shorts. "I should head back. Mother wants me home before dark." She glanced between them, lingered a beat, then dipped her head. "Good night, Itachi-kun. Shisui-san."

"Night, Izumi-chan." Shisui waved once.

Itachi inclined his head.

Her footsteps receded along the dock and faded onto the path. The planks settled back into stillness.

Shisui rolled the stone between his thumb and forefinger. The copper light was thinning. Downstream, a leaf caught the current and pulled under.

"He's going to be fine, you know." Shisui didn't look at Itachi when he said it. "Whatever happens. That kid is going to be fine." His thumb ran along the stone's edge. "Everything's going to be fine."

Itachi didn't answer for a while. "...You sound certain."

"Of course I am." Shisui flicked the stone.

It left his hand in a shadowed streak, kissing the water without breaking it as it glided across the Naka River. A tail of rippling light followed. The stone cleared the far bank, clattering into the rocks on the other side.

"I'm Shunshin no Shisui, after all."

---———---<<O>>---———---

​

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Sparks arced between two blurs clashing across the training ground.

"Damn good for a kid your age."

"No zoning out during a fight!"

He pulled the blanket over her and tucked the edge beneath her shoulder.

---———---<<O>>---———---

​

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