Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kakashi stirred awake as a slender ribbon of sunlight crept slowly across the round of his cheek, warm and insistent, like a finger gently nudging him from his dreams. He scrunched his nose, eyelids twitching, and let out a soft, sleepy hum. The blanket pooled around his middle as he shifted slightly, pulling himself from the warm tangle of sleep. His long lashes fluttered open, golden light catching on their edges, and he blinked at the blurry outline of his room.

He sat up with a slow, boneless movement, small shoulders rounding with a drowsy sigh as he rubbed his eyes with both fists. His hair, silver and unruly, stuck up in every direction, little tufts standing like tiny soldiers, stubborn and proud—just like Papa’s. He yawned, a quiet, squeaky sound, and peeked around.

At the foot of the bed, snuggled against the thick wool blanket, Pakkun lay curled like a loaf of bread left to rise. The little pug stirred lazily, lifting his head with all the reluctance of someone far too dignified for mornings. With a creaky stretch, his front legs reached forward, and his hind legs extended in a squat, belly sagging toward the bed like a sleepy old man easing into a hot bath. Then, after a single, half-hearted glance at the sunlight, Pakkun turned a slow, groaning circle and collapsed once more with a grunt.

Kakashi giggled behind his fingers, careful not to laugh too loud. "The sun's up, Pakkun," he whispered in that chirpy, sing-song voice that children reserve for beloved animals and sleepy grown-ups. "No time to sleep!"

The pug responded with a theatrical huff, one ear twitching slightly, but otherwise refused to budge. Clearly, Pakkun had already weighed the value of continued sleep against whatever nonsense Kakashi had planned for the morning—and had made his decision.

Kakashi blew a raspberry in exaggerated protest, but it ended in a breathy laugh as he rolled onto his knees. "Lazy," he muttered fondly, tapping Pakkun's back gently before slipping off the bed.

His small feet slid into the waiting slippers beside his bed, wool-lined and fox-faced, a gift from Kushi-neechan, and he padded toward the window with the clumsy grace of early morning. The thick curtains stood tall and still, trapping the light behind them. With a determined grunt, Kakashi grabbed the edge and tugged. The fabric whispered along the rod before yielding, and light poured in like honey, slow and golden.

The room bathed in that sleepy sort of light that made everything seem softer. It kissed the pale wooden floors, caught on the hanging terrarium ornaments, and stretched across the rug in wide, glowing strips. The walls, painted a faded green with pale blue borders, glowed with warmth, and the air shimmered faintly with the promise of a new day.

Outside the window, the garden was still wrapped in the hush of dawn. Birds had only just begun to chirp, their morning songs tentative and sweet. The sky was blooming into a soft rose-gold, the mist lifting slowly from the hedges below. Frost lingered on the edges of the glass, tiny fractals melting in the warmth of the rising sun.

Kakashi pressed his nose to the cold pane, his breath fogging a small patch. "Good morning," he said quietly to no one in particular, as if the whole world could hear him. The chill didn’t bother him. Like Papa, he was always warm, his little body running with an energy that pulsed just beneath his skin.

Not like Mama. Mama was always cold in April, even when the sun came out.

He smiled at the thought. Apropos!

Papa should be home already.

Mama had promised, voice soft and lilting, brushing his hair with the fine-bristled brush that never pulled too hard. "When you wake up, sweetheart," he’d said last night, tucking the blanket under his chin, "Papa will be home."

And Mama never promised what wasn’t true.

His heart gave a hopeful little jump. Kakashi spun around, his slippers squeaking against the wooden floor, and made a beeline for the door—but skidded to a stop halfway across the room.

Manda.

He couldn’t leave without checking.

Tiptoeing over to the tall glass terrarium that stood bathed in the morning light, Kakashi crouched in front of it like a tiny sentry. Inside, amid the warm sand, smooth stones, and coiled vine decor, a glint of lavender shimmered.

There lied Manda, his beloved snake, coiled in a perfect spiral. His smooth, purplish scales gleamed faintly in the heat of his lamp. His small, triangular head rested atop his coils, unmoving but peaceful.

Kakashi placed one hand gently on the glass, his palm warming slowly. "You okay, Manda? Still sleepy?"

The snake gave no response, but Kakashi watched closely anyway. There was movement beneath the scales—slow, methodical breathing, the slow pulse of digestion. Manda had eaten yesterday, and snakes were always slow after that. Still, Kakashi waited, watching for a long moment.

He remembered when they’d found him. Curled by the base of a park bench, too cold to slither away, his colour dulled and his body barely moving. Mama had knelt beside him first, but Kakashi had been the one to scoop him into his scarf.

"We can’t just leave him," he’d said firmly, chin tilted up.

And they hadn’t. Now, Manda had a home, a name, and someone who greeted him every morning.

Satisfied, Kakashi gave a nod, solemn and proud. "Rest well," he whispered, and turned on his heel.

Then he was off, out the door like a dart, his little four year old feet pattering quickly down the hall.

Papa was home. He just knew it.

He arrived at the door to his parents' room, his small hand barely brushing the polished wood as he passed under the archway, fingertips lingering for just a breath of a second. The hallway beyond was still and muffled in the hush of early morning, as though the great house itself still dozed. The polished floor glinted with the first touches of sunrise from distant windows, and the air smelled faintly of beeswax polish and rose oil.

In the gentle quiet, the familiar soft sounds of the household beginning to stir tickled Kakashi's ears—slippers whispering across hallway runners, the faint rustling of starched linen, and the delicate chime of silver meeting porcelain from the direction of the kitchens.

"Good morning, Kakashi-bouchan," one of the maids said with a low curtsy as she passed him, cradling a fresh bundle of pressed linens in her arms. Her voice was like velvet against the silence.

"Morning," Kakashi whispered back with a grin, one hand flopping in a little wave, his excitement causing his entire body to give a subtle bounce. The weight of his anticipation made it hard to keep still, but he knew better than to shout or run.

Reaching up with both hands, he pressed the door latch down and eased it open with exaggerated care, his brows furrowed in concentration. He slipped inside like a practiced shadow, the door closing behind him with a gentle click.

Inside, the bedroom was thick with stillness, a deep cocoon of quiet. The heavy velvet curtains—the ones Mama insisted upon, even in spring—were drawn tight over the tall windows, letting not even a sliver of dawn light in. The room glowed faintly with the dusky blue of shadowed corners, and the soft perfume of jasmine, linen, and old polished wood filled the air like a lullaby.

Kakashi's eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. His small feet sunk into the thick, plush carpet that silenced every step, and he tiptoed forward with care.

The grand bed loomed ahead, vast and regal, layered in fine embroidery and plush duvets. The carved headboard rose like a throne behind it, elegant with swirling woodwork—a forest of wolves dancing beneath a crescent moon.

He came to a gentle stop at the side, breath caught in the back of his throat.

There they were.

Mama lay curled on his side, black hair tumbling over the pillow in an inky spill. One arm was folded delicately beneath his head, the other resting lightly across the blanket, fingertips relaxed and motionless. His chest rose and fell with slow, peaceful rhythm.

Papa was behind him, pressed close with a kind of protectiveness that needed no words. Sakumo's strong frame was draped around Mama's slender form, one arm tucked under Orochimaru's head, the other wrapped securely around his waist, fingers resting against the swell of his belly. The way they lay together—so silent, so still—made the room feel sacred.

Their hands, resting atop that small, rounded hill beneath the blanket, were layered: Papa's large hand curved gently over the swell, and Mama's longer, elegant fingers rested over his, as if both shielded and anchoring it.

Kakashi's chest fluttered.

He eased out of his slippers, his movements as slow as falling petals, and placed one knee on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under his tiny weight. He climbed up on all fours, his small hands sinking into the warmth of the bedding, inching forward with the utmost care.

He didn't crawl toward their faces. He wasn't looking for kisses or cuddles—not yet. His attention was fixed solely on the curve nestled between them. That was where the magic was.

Settling on his knees beside the bump, Kakashi lowered himself down until his chin brushed the blanket. The heat radiating from the swell beneath was steady and comforting. He reached out, fingers splaying gently over the blanket like a child handling something fragile and full of light.

"Good morning, imouto... or otouto," he whispered, reverent and bright.

His words floated into the still air, a soft little breeze. A secret between siblings.

"It’s morning already, y'know," he added, leaning forward to rest his cheek just beside the bump. He smiled into the warmth, a grin so full it almost crinkled his eyes shut.

"I gotta wake up Mama and Papa," he explained in that singsong tone reserved for beloved toys and sleeping animals. "They promised we'd visit Jii-chan and Baa-chan! They just got back from Uzushiogakure. Mama said they brought sweets."

He waited a moment, as if expecting the baby to answer. When the silence returned, Kakashi merely nodded, undeterred.

"You can stay sleeping though," he offered, sage and kind. "You're still in Mama's belly, so you can’t see much yet. But when you come out... I’ll show you everything."

His fingertips gently traced an invisible pattern across the curve. "I'll introduce you to everyone."

Another beat of silence passed, heavy with promise.

"I can't wait until you're here," he whispered. "Then we can play together. I’ll show you my picture books and my toys, Pakkun and—and Manda, too. He's kinda shy, but he’s nice once you know him."

He paused, letting the words settle.

Then he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the blanket over the swell, lips barely brushing the fabric. His eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, everything was still.

The air was thick with love. A child’s devotion, folded into the quiet fabric of morning.

Suddenly, Kakashi felt fingers threading through his hair—not hurried or playful, but slow and warm, like the sun rising over frost-touched meadows. The touch was light and careful, combing through the soft silver strands with the patience of someone who had done it many times before. Each pass was like a silent lullaby, and when the fingers found a small knot, they paused to gently tease it loose, never tugging, never rushing. The sensation was so familiar, so deeply comforting, that Kakashi could only breathe out a soft, contented sigh.

He lifted his head, slowly, almost reluctantly.

There, blinking with sleep-heavy eyes, was his father. Sakumo's hair, usually so sharp and well-kept, was now tousled and soft-looking, falling in unruly waves around his face. His eyes were still clouded with dreams, lids drooping slightly, but the fondness in them was unmistakable. A wide, drowsy smile curved his lips, the corners twitching up in quiet delight at the sight of his son.

Kakashi's face lit up like a lantern.

"Papa!" he whispered joyfully, grinning with so much force his cheeks nearly puffed. His whole body sparked with joy, but he didn’t jolt or jump—not here, not near Mama. Instead, he moved with care, crawling in a slow arc around the swell of Orochimaru’s belly, his small hands careful not to press too deeply into the mattress. Every movement was full of excitement but wrapped in softness, as if he too wanted to preserve the quiet stillness of the room.

Sakumo let out a soft chuckle, already beginning to untangle himself with the same gentle care. He turned slowly, mindful of the weight of his sleeping mate. With deliberate care, he slipped his arm from beneath the omega’s head, cradling it a moment longer to ensure it didn’t fall uncomfortably.

Orochimaru stirred.

A slight tightening of his brow. A small inhale.

Both father and son froze like statues.

But then the omega exhaled again, low and long, his breath settling into the same even rhythm as before. His head shifted slightly on the pillow, one hand falling open beside his face, the other draping naturally over the curve of his belly. The room returned to its sacred silence.

Sakumo's smile deepened, fond and careful.

Only then did he turn fully to Kakashi, arms open in a slow and welcoming gesture.

Kakashi didn’t wait. He moved forward, limbs scrambling gently across the blankets, a breathy giggle slipping from his lips. Sakumo caught him in strong arms, pulling him close and lifting the covers so that both of them were enveloped in the shared warmth.

He tucked himself into the crook of his father’s arm like he’d done so many times before, fitting perfectly against the solid strength of Sakumo’s chest. One small hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, twisting in the folds as if to anchor himself there.

Kakashi's nose pressed to the side of his father's neck, breathing in deep. It smelled like warmth and sleep and safety. It smelled like Papa.

Sakumo bent his head and kissed the top of Kakashi's hair, soft and lingering.

"How can someone so small be so mischievous this early in the morning?" he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and amusement.

Kakashi wrinkled his nose against Sakumo’s shoulder, pouting as he spoke, his voice muffled in the fabric and skin. "I’m not mischievous," he insisted, half offended and half shy. "I just told the baby that Jii-chan and Baa-chan are back. And that Mama and you promised we’d go."

Sakumo gave a quiet laugh, one that rumbled low in his chest and made Kakashi feel like he was wrapped in something big and gentle.

"We did promise," he said, reaching up to stroke Kakashi’s hair again. The motion was featherlight, like brushing away cobwebs. "But not today, little wolf. Your grandparents only just came back, and they’ll need a day or two to settle. Just like me. I came back very late last night, remember?"

Kakashi let out a little sound, not quite a whine but certainly not agreement. He pressed his cheek tighter into Sakumo’s chest, hand fisting more firmly into the shirt.

Sakumo smiled, shifting to scratch gently behind Kakashi’s ear—that spot that always made the boy melt.

"And Mama didn’t sleep well either," he continued. "Your little sibling kept him awake. Kicking and turning all night. He only just fell asleep."

Kakashi stilled again.

He looked up at his father slowly, expression thoughtful. Sakumo leaned in and kissed his forehead, tender and soft.

"You wouldn’t want your mother and sibling to be tired all day, would you?"

Kakashi was quiet. His little lips pressed together in a tight line. His brow furrowed, looking much like his mother in this moment.

Then, with a slow and serious nod, he whispered, "No... I guess not."

And just like that, he melted again, tucking himself back under his father's chin, the protest in him gone for now, replaced by the soothing rhythm of breath and heartbeat and the quiet sounds of morning not yet begun.

They continued lying there in the quiet warmth of morning, the stillness between them like a lullaby humming through the hush of shadows and linens. Kakashi lay nestled snugly in the crook of his father’s arm, his small body moulded into the curve as though he belonged there more than anywhere else in the world. His cheek was pressed against the worn cotton of Sakumo's shirt, where the older man’s steady heartbeat thudded softly beneath the fabric, a lull rhythm he knew by heart.

The room remained dim, muted by the thick velvet curtains. Their heavy folds let in no more than a whisper of light, casting a gentle twilight over everything. There was something timeless in the way the morning lingered here, as if the outside world dared not intrude.

Only the faint rustle of shifting blankets and the subtle creak of mattress springs broke the silence. Otherwise, it was a chamber of sleep and breath—of love drawn in and let out again.

Kakashi, though quiet, was very much awake. His sharp little ears caught the soft cadence of his father’s chest rising and falling beneath him, the breath of someone nearly asleep. From behind came the equally soft exhale of Orochimaru, still curled on his side, undisturbed, the shadows wrapping around him like another blanket.

Kakashi gave a soft nuzzle against Sakumo's chest, rubbing his nose gently into the warm cloth, and then lifted his head just enough to whisper, "Papa?"

Sakumo stirred faintly, one arm twitching reflexively around the small form he held.

"When will we go to the Uchiha estate?" Kakashi asked, voice light and gentle, as if the question itself tiptoed across the space between them.

Sakumo, who had been lulled back toward sleep by the steady quiet, blinked groggily, his brow creasing as he rubbed his face with one hand. His fingers moved slowly across his stubbled jaw, trying to chase the sleep from his bones.

"Mmm... maybe the day after tomorrow," he said, voice thick and rasping. "I’ve got some things to take care of first... at the Ministry of Defence."

Kakashi’s little mouth turned down slightly, and he let out a small huff, not quite pouty, but tinged with disappointment, nonetheless. He understood, in the way children do when they’ve heard the explanation before—important duties, important meetings. Papa was a general. That meant people waited on him.

Still, his shoulders dipped the tiniest bit.

Sakumo, even in his haze, felt it. It was like a flicker of cold air in a warm bath—not loud, not demanding, but unmistakably there.

Without a word, he drew Kakashi in tighter, his hand smoothing over the boy’s hair as he tucked him closer to his chest. Then, after a beat, his fingers curled at Kakashi's side, and he launched a sneak attack.

The tickling was swift and sudden, like lightning under the covers.

Kakashi let out a surprised yelp that quickly turned to quiet squeals, his feet kicking under the blanket as he tried to wriggle away, laughter bubbling from him in uncontrollable waves.

"Papa! Stop!"

"There’s that smile," Sakumo teased with a low chuckle, his voice warm and pleased as he relented and let his hand rest again.

Kakashi giggled breathlessly, twisting in place before finally melting into his father’s embrace once more. Whatever tiny sadness had lingered, it vanished like mist under the sun.

"How about this," Sakumo murmured after a moment, shifting just enough to glance down at him. "Later, if Mama wakes up soon and the weather behaves... maybe we could have a little picnic in the garden. Just the three of us."

Kakashi’s eyes opened wide, his face brightening instantly. The garden was his favourite place—with Genji-jii's carefully tended flowers, the sprawling green lawn perfect for cartwheels, and the old tree with its crooked branches and shaded bench beneath.

"Really?" he breathed, wonder blooming in his voice like petals unfolding.

Sakumo reached up and brushed Kakashi's fringe gently to the side, his fingers stroking through the tufts of silver hair.

"If the weather stays good," he confirmed with a sleepy smile. "I don’t see why not."

Kakashi gave a joyful kick under the covers, his legs wiggling with excitement.

"Can I take Pakkun too?"

Sakumo gave a half-snort of amusement, the image already forming in his mind—the little pug sprawled lazily on a picnic blanket, eyes half-lidded and belly up in the sun.

"You can," he said, lifting a brow. "But I can’t promise he’ll do anything but snore."

Kakashi gave a thoughtful hum. "He does sleep a lot... but maybe he’ll come if we bring sausages."

"Bribery," Sakumo said, nodding solemnly. "A powerful tool."

Kakashi giggled, his whole body wriggling with delight, clearly pleased with both his own cleverness and his father's approval.

Sakumo, his voice heavy again with the pull of sleep, rested his hand on Kakashi’s back, his fingers moving in slow, even strokes.

"Now that we’ve agreed," he murmured, breath warm against the boy’s hair, "do you think you could be kind enough to let us sleep a little longer? It’s still early."

Kakashi sighed—a long, theatrical sound that filled the room like a groan from a much older soul.

"I guess you can sleep a little longer," he said finally, as though he were granting a royal pardon. "Just a little."

He shifted again, twisting in place with sleepy determination. Then, as though he had been waiting all along for the moment of stillness, he found it—the exact nook where his father's body cradled his own perfectly.

His breathing slowed. The small twitches faded.

And soon, their breaths moved in tandem once more, quiet and steady.

The room folded itself around them again, soft and still.

Outside, the world waited.

Inside, it was enough just to be held.

For now, the only thing that mattered was this: the gentle weight of love and the promise of later.

Chapter Text

Kabuto loves his family. He loves them very much.

His Papa was the strongest and kindest person he knew. When Papa lifted him up, the world felt smaller and safer. His arms were solid and warm, his voice always deep and steady like a distant drum. Papa smelled like leather gloves, a little like tea, and always like the faint smoke from the fire he sat by in the evenings. In those arms, Kabuto could hide from anything. That scent clung to his scarves and coats, to the worn fabric of the chair Kabuto often curled up beside when Papa worked late.

His Mama was the most beautiful and smartest person in the whole world. He always knew what to say when Kabuto got nervous—like during thunderstorms, or when there were too many guests around and Kabuto felt too small. Mama had a way of making everything sound magical. Every moment had a story, every plant had a secret, every star had a name. He smelled like sweet vanilla and delightful jasmine, and Kabuto always felt calmer just holding Mama’s hand. He sometimes also smelled of ink and citrus balm from the salve he used when reading too long by candlelight. When Mama placed a hand on Kabuto’s forehead or guided him through a spell of nerves, the world quieted.

But Kabuto’s personal hero—the one he looked up to with stars in his eyes—was his big brother, Kakashi.

Kakashi was the best of both their parents combined. Kind and calm like Papa, but quick-witted and elegant like Mama. He was never too busy to play, never too grown-up to listen. He shared his snacks, his stories, and his secret stash of chocolate coins hidden behind the fourth bookshelf from the right. His laughter echoed down the halls and filled up spaces like sunlight spilling through tall windows. He was patient and steady when things got hard, but also clever and mischievous, full of wild ideas and clever remarks that often ended with Kabuto giggling behind his hands.

They were a team, the two of them. When Kakashi pulled out an old book from the shelf and sprawled across the rug with Pakkun on his chest, Kabuto mirrored him with a picture book of his own. When Kakashi scaled trees in the garden, Kabuto followed, clinging to the lower branches, pretending they were great explorers navigating unseen worlds.

Usually.

There was one exception.

When Kabuto was sick.

Being sick was already unpleasant enough. His nose was stuffy, his head heavy, his chest warm and sore like there was a little furnace hidden behind his ribs. He hated the way his limbs felt all gooey and slow, like his body was filled with soup instead of blood. But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was Kakashi.

Kabuto hadn’t been properly sick very often in his five short years of life, but whenever he was, his big brother—his wise, majestic, beloved big brother—transformed into a walking catastrophe.

Mama knew how to take care of him. He’d enter the room silently, press his cool hand to Kabuto’s forehead, and say, "It’ll soon go away, my little moonbeam," with that perfect mix of love and knowledge. He’d quietly sing in the old dialect of Nagi Island, and his fingers would trace soft, cooling circles over Kabuto’s temples, kissing his forehead. There would be freshly steeped herbal teas, chilled cloths, and gentle lullabies.

Papa was warmth in human form. Soup—always from their head chef Ayko, always perfect—appeared like magic, and Papa would feed it to him with patience. Later, Kabuto would be tucked under Papa’s chin, rocked slowly to sleep while Papa walked around the room and hummed old ballads from his youth.

But Kakashi?

Kakashi was chaos incarnate.

At the first sneeze or whimper, he would slam open the bedroom door like a soldier on a rescue mission.

"I’m here! Stay alive, I brought—" and then blankets. So many blankets. Five, six, seven. Layered like pastry sheets until Kabuto could barely move. When he whined about the heat, Kakashi would panic, throw open the windows, then rush to tuck the blankets back when Kabuto shivered.

He brought tea. Or what he thought was tea. It was green, it was lumpy, and it smelled vaguely of toothpaste and pickles.

He brought books. Too long, too dense, too complicated for now, sometimes upside down. “We’ll read together!” he’d beam, flipping pages and making up half the words because he couldn’t pronounce the names.

He tried to sing. Once.

Kabuto had cried.

Last time, Kakashi had tried to copy Mama´s tea. The result had been something vaguely green and absolutely undrinkable. Kakashi took one proud sip, went completely cross-eyed, and still declared, “It’s... good for your insides!”

Which led to what was now known in the family as The Great Coughing Fit of Last Spring.

That was why Kabuto, wrapped in one of Mama’s softest shawls, had dragged his aching little body all the way to the library and was now hiding behind a massive blue porcelain vase that had once belonged to Great-Uncle Nori.

Because Kakashi was coming.

And this time… he had backup.

Gai.

Their parents were currently trapped in Tetsu no Kuni due to the heavy snow. The servants were no match for Kakashi´s brand of caring, and Yasuo-jii and Mariko-baa were away with their parents.

So, Kabuto was left to fend for himself.

He sniffled quietly. His nose was red. His eyes were watery. He tucked the shawl tighter and peeked over the curve of the vase.

Footsteps.

Kabuto inhaled sharply, shrank further behind the vase, and clutched the cooling hot water bottle to his chest.

He closed his eyes, and in a hushed whisper, invoked whatever divine mercy might remain:

“Please… let the Sage take me now.”

Kakashi didn’t usually fuss. He was, in fact, rather proud of his ability to remain calm under pressure, to think logically and efficiently even when others lost their heads. Papa had once said, with no small note of pride, that Kakashi was the kind of boy who could find his way out of a fire with his hair still tidy.

But that calm disappeared the moment something touched his family.

Right now, Kabuto was sick.

And not just sniffles and sneezes—his little brother was curled up under the covers, pink-cheeked and glassy-eyed, the tip of his nose red and raw, with a cough that rattled through his tiny chest. Their parents were stranded in Tetsu no Kuni due to the snows, the servants receiving a telegram this morning, and Mariko-baa and Yasuo-jii had gone with them. No one else was home except the staff—but he really didn´t want to delegate the work.

He was nine years old, but the heavy warmth of responsibility coiled tight in his chest.

He stood at the kitchen counter, a heavy book open before him—an old apothecary manual filled with carefully annotated notes in Mama’s neat hand, dried flowers still tucked between pages like pressed butterflies. The book smelled like chamomile and old ink, and Kakashi’s fingers trembled just slightly as he flipped a page.

“Chamomile or mint?” he mumbled, brow furrowed, one hand going to his mouth as he nibbled nervously on his thumb. “Chamomile to soothe, mint to breathe... but lemon balm might help too? What if it makes his stomach worse?”

Across the tiled floor, Gai was doing handstand push-ups, shirt untucked and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Every breath came with a grunt, and every grunt shook the floorboards.

“Kakashi!” he called, upside-down. “Why not just ask the servants?”

Kakashi froze mid-page, shoulders stiff. He didn’t look over.

“I can’t trust anyone else with Kabuto,” he said softly. There was no edge in his voice, but something weighty lingered behind the words, like a memory with sharp corners.

Gai dropped to the floor with a soft thud and sat cross-legged, blinking. “But aren´t they trained for this?”

“They weren’t when Kabuto was two.” Kakashi closed the book gently, brushing his hand over the spine like it was something precious. “He got really sick. Mama stayed awake for three days. He only left to change clothes. Papa didn’t speak for two whole dinners. They tried to hide it from me, but I saw. I remember Mama crying once, when he thought I was asleep.”

He moved to the counter where he had gathered herbs—mint, chamomile, lemon balm—and ran his fingers over the leaves, checking them for bruising. “He was so small. Could barely talk. And I couldn´t do a thing. Just watching.”

Gai said nothing, for once subdued. He watched his friend, eyes wide, as the usual spark of determination replaced the shadows in Kakashi’s face.

“I told myself I’d never let that happen again,” Kakashi continued. “Not if I could help it.”

Then, with a rustle of movement and the glint of a smile, Gai leapt to his feet, fists clenched in declaration.

“Then I shall help you, Eternal Rival! With the full spirit of youth, we’ll nurse your brother back to health! Together!”

Kakashi blinked, then laughed softly. It was quiet, but genuine.

“Thanks, Gai.”

He didn’t even flinch when Gai lunged for a hug.

(Well. He dodged at the last second and patted Gai on the back. But it still counted.)

Kakashi finished his concoction with the utmost seriousness, despite the bubbling uncertainty in his gut. The tea-like drink sloshed ominously as he poured it into a porcelain cup, the colour a deep, unsettling purple that had absolutely not been mentioned in Mama’s notes. He stared at it. It stared back.

Gai leaned over his shoulder, eyes wide. "Is it... supposed to look like that?"

Kakashi looked at the drink, then at Gai, then back again. He exhaled through his nose and muttered, "Probably."

"It looks like ink. But worse," Gai whispered, squinting at the cup. "Like if nightmares had a flavour."

Kakashi very calmly placed the cup on the tray next to a small cloth and a plate of sliced apple, all carefully arranged. He lifted the tray with both hands and took a deep breath. "Come on. Let’s go."

They exited the kitchen with a mission. Gai, ever the embodiment of enthusiasm, began walking on his hands down the corridor beside Kakashi.

"You’ll spill the tea," Kakashi warned without looking.

"The youthful spirit cannot be spilled!" Gai called, somehow managing to turn a corner upside down.

Kakashi was only mildly impressed.

When they reached Kabuto’s room, Gai landed on his feet with a flourish. Kakashi, balancing the tray with caution, opened the door slowly, expecting to be met with the soft sound of sniffles and blankets rustling.

The bed was empty.

Blankets were kicked to the floor. The window was shut. The room was silent.

Kakashi stared. "No. No, no, no, no."

He set the tray down with robotic precision and began tearing the room apart.

"Kabuto?! Kabuto! Where are you?!"

He pulled open drawers (too small), looked under the bed (only socks), rifled through the wardrobe (just coats). He yanked the curtains aside as if his brother might have fused into the fabric. Pillows were upended. The trash bin was inspected. The ceiling tiles got a suspicious glance.

"HE'S GONE," Kakashi declared. "MY LITTLE BROTHER IS GONE."

Gai tried to grab him as Kakashi began checking the floor for hidden panels.

"Kakashi!" Gai finally managed to intercept him, hands gripping Kakashi’s shoulders. "Calm yourself, rival! He cannot have vanished into thin air!"

"What if he did?! What if he was kidnapped?! What if he became delusional from fever and fell off the balcony?! What if the tea scared him off by smell alone?!"

"Kakashi!" Gai shook him slightly. "Focus. Think: where does Kabuto go when he wants to be alone?"

Kakashi paused, eyes darting back and forth. Then, with the clarity of sudden memory, he muttered, "The library."

Without another word, he turned and began powerwalking. Gai followed, matching his stride with dramatic, exaggerated determination.

They arrived at the library moments later. Kakashi flung the doors open with theatrical force.

"Kabuto!"

Silence.

He stepped inside, eyes scanning the grand rows of bookshelves. "Kabuto! Answer me! This tea is... mostly safe!"

Then—a sniffle.

Soft. Pitiful. Muffled.

Kakashi's head snapped toward the sound. He padded forward, weaving between shelves, until he reached the base of the massive blue porcelain vase that had once belonged to Great-Uncle Nori.

Peeking around it, he found a small bundle of shawl, limbs, and very red eyes.

Kabuto blinked up at him.

Kakashi exhaled all the air he’d been holding in. "Found you."

Kabuto slightly twitched at the familiar sound of his brother’s voice.

He didn't move right away. Instead, he hunched further into himself and pulled the shawl tighter around his shoulders, as though the thick folds of soft fabric could act as a shield—not just from his brother’s voice, but from the fever, the tightness in his chest, and the heavy swirl of feelings he didn’t have the words for.

Kakashi rounded the vase with visible relief lighting up his face. "Found you!"

But Kabuto flinched and turned his face toward the wall. His voice was raw and small. "Go away, Nii-chan."

Kakashi blinked, caught off guard. That was not the reaction he expected. He took a small step closer. "What? Why?"

Kabuto’s bottom lip wobbled. He sniffled and rubbed his nose with the edge of the shawl, but it only made things messier. His feverish cheeks puffed out as he tried to hold it together, but the moment cracked.

"Because," he burst out with a hiccup, his little voice catching and rising, "you’re always too much when I’m sick! You talk so loudly, and you make weird tea, and you don’t stop—and everything spins!"

His words came in short, uneven gasps, tears falling in fat drops from the corners of his eyes. "I know you try really hard! I know! But I don’t like it! I feel bad that I don’t like it! But I don’t!"

The confession dissolved into a messy coughing fit—loud, chesty, miserable. The shawl slipped from one shoulder, and Kabuto curled up smaller, as if trying to vanish into the floor.

Kakashi froze, hands twitching by his sides. He glanced at Gai helplessly, searching his friend’s face for a solution. Gai, visibly distressed, looked like he wanted to help but had absolutely no idea how.

Then—

Footsteps. Measured. Familiar.

Two figures appeared in the doorway of the library, brushing melting snow from their shoulders as they stepped inside. Tobirama and Madara still wore their winter coats, damp from the cold, boots clicking softly against the polished floor.

Tobirama was the first to move. His keen gaze swept over the scene, taking everything in with practiced precision. Without hesitation, he crossed the room in a few long strides. He rested a gloved hand gently atop Gai’s unruly hair, giving it a quick ruffle, then bent and pulled Kakashi into a brief but firm hug. A kiss was pressed to the crown of Kakashi’s head.

No words yet.

Instead, Tobirama crouched and scooped Kabuto up into his arms. The boy didn’t protest—only curled deeper into his grandmother’s coat, snot and tears now soaking into the fabric. Tobirama did not care. He adjusted his hold and began gently rocking, one hand steady on Kabuto’s back.

Madara followed closely. He lowered himself beside Kakashi and Gai, gathering Kakashi close with one strong arm and laying a steadying hand on Gai’s shoulder.

Tobirama joined them on the carpet, settling down gracefully with Kabuto tucked against his chest. He swayed gently, thumb brushing slow, soothing circles along the little boy’s spine.

After a moment, he finally spoke. "What happened, hmm? Why all the tears?"

Kakashi’s mouth tightened. His feet shuffled against the rug. He looked down, ashamed, and mumbled, "I wanted to take care of Kabuto... because Mama and Papa aren’t here... but I messed it up. I made him feel worse."

His eyes brimmed. The tears that fell were silent—thick and glistening, rolling down round cheeks.

Gai fidgeted, chin trembling slightly. "We really just wanted to help."

From the warm cradle of Tobirama’s arms, Kabuto peeked out, red-eyed and still slightly hiccupping. "Nii-chan means well," he sniffled. "But it’s always so much. Everything spins. I didn’t know how to say it. So, I hid."

Tobirama pressed a kiss to his temple. "You did very well, sweetheart."

Madara’s arm gave Kakashi a firmer squeeze as tears continued to fall. "Love doesn’t always come out perfect the first try. But it matters that you tried."

Madara and Tobirama let the children cry.

It wasn’t a long moment, but it was full and hushed. The kind of silence that stretches thick with emotion, where nothing needs to be said aloud. Madara cupped the back of Kakashi’s head gently, letting the boy bury his face into his coat, fingers clinging slightly to the fabric. Kakashi hiccupped once, then twice, his breaths stuttering as he slowly calmed under the weight of his grandfather’s quiet presence. Tobirama, across from them, swayed softly with Kabuto in his arms, still humming that low, comforting note—one that Orochimaru had once learned from him in his youth.

Finally, Tobirama tilted his head, his pale hair cascading over his shoulder like falling snow. “All right,” he said in a low murmur, “now that the worst is out, tell us what happened properly.”

Kakashi rubbed at his eyes with the back of one hand, his voice small and raspy. “Kabuto wasn’t feeling well yesterday already. And Mama and Papa… they’re still stuck in Tetsu no Kuni. The snow is really bad.” He paused, his lower lip trembling again. “Usually, they take care of us when we’re sick. Mama makes the tea just right, and Papa always brings the soup. But they weren’t here. So, I thought… I should try to make Kabuto better myself.”

Madara gave a slow, approving nod, his thumb brushing a stray tear from Kakashi’s cheek. “A thoughtful decision.”

Kakashi sniffled. “I tried to do it right,” he whispered. “I really, really tried. But… Kabuto didn’t like it. I didn’t mean to mess up, but I think I did. I think I did too much.”

Tobirama leaned in, his voice steady and warm as his hand passed gently through Kabuto’s hair. “Mmm. That happens. Love is loud when you don’t know how to hold it yet.”

Still nestled in Tobirama’s coat, Kabuto peeked out, his voice hoarse but sincere. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I like that Nii-chan cares. But maybe next time... just a little less... loud.”

Madara gave a quiet laugh, low and fond, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Now that we’re here, leave the noise and fussing to us. We’re very experienced at both.”

Kakashi blinked up at him with big, damp eyes. “But why are you here? How did you know?”

Madara chuckled again and ruffled his hair. “Your parents sent us a telegram. Asked us to come and look after you both until the snow clears. They’re safe and thinking of you.”

“They sent a message?” Kakashi echoed, hope blooming under the words.

Tobirama reached out, cupping Kakashi’s chilled cheek with a surprisingly warm hand. “They said they miss you both and should be home in a few more days.”

Kakashi leaned into the touch without hesitation. “Okay.”

Madara pulled him closer with one arm and turned to Gai with a playful glint in his eyes. “That means you’re under our care too, Gai-kun.”

Gai puffed his chest out proudly. “I vow to uphold youthful health and warm blankets at all costs, Madara-sama!”

Tobirama raised a brow, amused. “Good. Come on then, let’s get Kabuto back to bed.”

They left the library as one, feet quiet on the polished floors, the warm light of the hall casting soft halos on their coats.

In Kabuto’s room, Tobirama tucked him back under the covers—only two blankets this time, light but warm. Then he carefully brewed the same blend of tea Orochimaru always prepared: a measured mix of mint and chamomile, steeped precisely at the right temperature and swirled gently to avoid bitterness. When he returned, Kabuto was already yawning.

The cup nestled into Kabuto’s small hands, its gentle warmth seeping into his chilled fingers like sunlight through frost. He sipped slowly, the steam curling around his lashes, each swallow loosening the tightness in his chest. His eyes fluttered, heavy with comfort.

Just as drowsiness began to pull him under, he stirred faintly.

“Kakashi…” he murmured, his voice no more than a breath.

Kakashi leaned in, and Kabuto reached out, his fingers seeking and then gently curling around his brother’s hand. A soft squeeze. Not urgent. Not fragile. Just steady.

“Don’t be sad,” Kabuto whispered, eyes slipping shut at last.

And then he slept.

Kakashi lingered for a moment longer, his fingers still curled lightly around Kabuto’s even after the younger boy had drifted off. The rise and fall of Kabuto’s breathing steadied, lashes resting like little fans against his cheeks, the faintest trace of a smile left on his lips. Only then did Kakashi carefully slip his hand free and pull the blanket up a little higher.

He padded back across the room, quiet as a shadow. Tobirama had stepped out to fetch more blankets just in case. Madara, meanwhile, had made himself at home on the thick rug, seated cross-legged on a cushion. His sleeves were rolled up, the familiar old deck of playing cards already fanned between his fingers.

“Kabuto´s asleep?” Madara asked with a small grin, glancing up at Kakashi without pausing in his shuffling.

Kakashi gave a little nod and dropped into place beside him with a sigh, the weight of guilt and worry finally giving way to the warmth of company.

Gai beamed from the other side of the cushion, scooting slightly to make room. “Kabuto sleeps with the peacefulness of youth restored!” he announced, his voice hushed so as not to wake the younger boy. Then, more gently, he added, “You did good, Kakashi.”

Kakashi muttered a quiet thanks, fingers brushing over the edge of the rug, his eyes still flicking occasionally toward the bed. The shadows there were soft—just the curve of Kabuto’s bundled form under Tobirama’s careful tucking.

Madara’s joints gave a loud crack as he shifted to deal the cards. “I’m too old for floors,” he grumbled without much heat, though the warmth in his tone betrayed his fondness. “But I’ll trade a sore back for some peace any day.”

Gai gave a solemn nod. “A noble sacrifice. Now, we engage in the time-honoured tradition of victory and defeat!”

Madara raised an eyebrow as he dealt the cards. “Try not to sprain anything being youthful.”

Kakashi let out a small, quiet snort as he picked up his cards. From the bed came the sound of a sleepy sigh, but Kabuto didn’t stir.

Outside, snow continued to drift lazily past the windows. Inside, the air was filled with the scent of tea, the quiet rustle of cards, and the steady beat of a home full of love and old, unshakable care.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting warm golden hues across the sitting room of the Hatake estate. It was a room both elegant and warm, the kind of sitting room where refined taste met everyday comfort. Every surface meticulously cared for, yet softened by the marks of life lived well—polished hardwood floors gleamed in the sunlight, and plush cushions in deep earth tones gave the space a touch of intimacy. The fire murmured in the hearth, casting a golden shimmer over the lacquered table where a porcelain tea set waited, the rising steam curling gently into the air. The scent was one uniquely theirs: pine from the forest outside, crisp parchment from the open books on the side table, and the subtle sweetness of green tea lingering warmly in the air.

Orochimaru reclined in the corner of the deep, overstuffed sofa, one long leg stretched out beneath the folds of his loosely wrapped black yukata, the other tucked beneath him in a way that seemed habitual. The silk slipped off one shoulder, revealing the elegant line of his collarbone and the soft curve of his heavily pregnant belly, which rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic motion. He cradled his tea with slender fingers, though he wasn’t drinking anymore—his gaze was fixed on Sakumo with something between affectionate exasperation and veiled amusement, golden eyes half-lidded, the firelight reflecting in their depths like twin suns.

Sakumo sat on the floor with the sprawl of someone who had long given up the idea of dignity. His back leaned against the sofa, sleeves rolled to his elbows, silver hair tousled and wild. His storm-gray eyes scanned the battlefield before him: scattered sheets of parchment littered the floor, bearing names ranging from the poetic to the downright absurd. Some bore neat brushstrokes, others frantic scratches. A few hopeful ones had been folded and set aside like rescued soldiers. Most, however, lay crumpled and discarded like fallen warriors.

"We’re going to have to decide eventually," Sakumo said, lifting his gaze to meet Orochimaru’s with a crooked smile. The light caught the silver in his hair, turning it almost white, like frost kissed by the sun.

Orochimaru’s lips twitched. "You sound like Tsunade."

"That’s because Tsunade is right," Sakumo replied solemnly, though warmth coloured his voice. "We can’t keep calling the baby ‘hey you’ forever. That’s a sure way to saddle them with an identity crisis."

The omega snorted into his tea, nearly spilling it. His shoulders trembled as he chuckled. "You act like you didn’t once suggest ‘White Fang Jr.’ with an entirely straight face."

"I’d never," Sakumo said, feigning scandal as he plucked a half-folded sheet with dramatic flair. "Now, let us consult this masterpiece of a list you insisted on making."

Orochimaru set down his cup with care, arching one elegant brow. "Which one? The one you attempted to categorize by theme, or the one I compiled from noble family registries buried in archival dust?"

Sakumo squinted at the page like it might hex him. "This one. With names like 'Hisakage' and 'Byakurenmaru.'"

"Those are historically significant," Orochimaru replied, tone syrupy-sweet but entirely unrepentant, the glint in his golden eyes betraying any pretence of innocence.

Sakumo flattened the parchment against his knee. "They sound like the names of mythical swords or the tragic spirits that guard cursed shrines."

"Exactly. Wouldn’t it be delightful if our child sounded like something immortal?"

"Our child needs to learn to spell their name before they attempt to summon thunderstorms with it."

Orochimaru laughed—quiet, bright, and utterly unguarded. His fingers drifted over the gentle swell of his belly, the gesture tender and absentminded. "Fine. Go ahead. Read them."

Sakumo cleared his throat dramatically, as if preparing to announce a royal decree. "First on the list: Bonsai."

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to crackle more quietly, as if leaning in with curiosity.

Orochimaru blinked slowly. His golden eyes narrowed with suspicion. "...Bonsai?"

"Yes." Sakumo’s lips twitched, fighting a losing battle against the grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He held the page aloft like it was damning evidence in a courtroom. "You wrote that down. Right here. Plain as day."

Orochimaru stared at the offending script, then sighed and dragged a hand down his face. "I was delirious when I made that list."

"Clearly," Sakumo said cheerfully, tossing the paper aside with a flick of his wrist and grabbing another. "Alright. Moving on. Next up: Hikoboshi."

"It’s poetic," Orochimaru countered immediately, tone edged with faux dignity. He lifted his teacup back from the table with refined elegance, trying to reclaim his honour.

"It’s also a mouthful," Sakumo said, eyes gleaming with amusement. "You expect me to yell, ‘Hikoboshi, don’t climb the tree again!’ or ‘Hikoboshi, don’t draw all over the walls!’ Or how about, ‘Hikoboshi, don’t smear jam into the carpet!’ That poor kid will never survive school roll call."

Orochimaru rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand. "Fine. Next?"

Sakumo bit his cheek, barely suppressing a chuckle as he picked up the next page. "Pudding."

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Orochimaru froze mid-sip, golden eyes narrowing in horror. He lowered the cup very carefully, like it might detonate. "What?!"

"You wrote ‘Pudding,’" Sakumo said, his grin widening to wolfish proportions as he held up the page like a trophy.

Orochimaru leaned forward, snatched the sheet, and glared at the traitorous ink. "That must have been Jiraiya’s doing," he muttered, voice dripping with indignation. "He was hovering while I wrote this. Lurking and breathing down my neck like a mangy stray."

"A tragedy," Sakumo said solemnly. "Pudding Hatake had potential."

Orochimaru scowled, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "You’re impossible."

Sakumo sat back on the sofa, smug and utterly content, his storm-gray eyes glinting beneath the flickering firelight. "Alright then, how about something meaningful? From our families."

Orochimaru tilted his head, fingers resting lightly on the swell of his belly. "You mean like your parents’ names?"

Sakumo nodded, the mischief in his face softening into something more tender. "Fuyumi and Kenji. They were good people. They loved me well. But it’s tradition in my family to name the firstborn son after his grandfather."

Orochimaru raised a brow. "So, your grandfather’s name was—?"

"Kakashi," Sakumo said quietly, reverently. The name fell like a hush over the room. "He was wise and kind. He led our family through some dark times and into better ones. My parents adored him. He’s the one who first placed a wooden sword in my hands."

The fire crackled again, low and steady. Orochimaru didn’t speak at first—just reached out and curled his slender fingers around Sakumo’s hand, warm and silent.

The omega’s lips curved faintly. “Kakashi…” he repeated, letting the name roll slowly off his tongue, as if weighing its sound and meaning in the air. “It’s strong.”

Sakumo’s smile softened into something almost boyish as he watched his mate’s expression shift—tension easing from Orochimaru’s shoulders, his gaze turning contemplative.

“What about your parents?” Sakumo asked, voice quiet but earnest.

Orochimaru hummed, eyes flicking toward the fire as he reclined further into the cushions, one hand cradling the swell of his stomach. His fingers moved in slow, idle circles—thoughtful, tender.

“I’ve considered my mother’s name—Okimi—if the child is a girl,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Sakumo’s gaze softened. “It’s beautiful.”

“She was beautiful,” Orochimaru replied with a fragile smile, golden eyes briefly shimmering with memory. “My father—Arata—wouldn’t have cared whether the child bore his name or not. He wasn’t bound by such things. Bloodlines and noble titles amused him more than anything. He thought names meant little if they weren’t backed by love.”

A wistful laugh escaped him—thin and dry, like the last note of a forgotten song. “He’d have said love is what gives a name its weight.”

Sakumo leaned forward, closing the space between them. His large, calloused hand found Orochimaru’s, their fingers tangling together gently.

“Then this baby will be named with love,” Sakumo said, his voice rough with emotion. “And they’ll grow knowing that every single day, Oro.”

Orochimaru blinked as warmth gathered at the corners of his eyes. He gave a faint, tear-laced chuckle and squeezed Sakumo’s hand. “I know.”

The fire flickered, casting soft shadows that danced along the floor. Silence settled like a blanket between them—comfortable, golden, whole.

Then, with all the grace of a whispered vow, Orochimaru spoke. “Kakashi for a boy. Okimi for a girl.”

Sakumo’s breath hitched—just barely. “Are you sure?”

A smile bloomed on Orochimaru’s face, crooked and sincere. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

Sakumo lifted his hand and pressed a kiss to Orochimaru’s knuckles, reverent and slow. “Then it’s settled. Kakashi or Okimi. A name full of memory and love.”

“Agreed,” Orochimaru murmured, brushing his thumb along Sakumo’s wrist. “But if this child turns out like you—wild, chaotic, utterly impossible—we may still need to circle back to Pudding.”

Sakumo barked a laugh, head thrown back, the sound filling the room like a burst of sunlight. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Orochimaru rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the curl of a smile tugging at his lips.

Their laughter mingled with the fire’s gentle crackle, the golden afternoon folding into amber dusk around them. For now, nothing else mattered.

Chapter Text

It was a cold, stubborn spring day—still early March—and the chill seeped into the bones despite the faint sunlight outside. Madara sat at the long, polished table in the daimyo’s conference room, the fire in the hearth doing little to warm the cavernous space. He was here instead of where he would have much preferred to be: at home, with his mate and children, enjoying the familiar warmth of the manor and the comfort of conversation.

His expression remained the picture of composure, though inwardly he couldn’t quite decide if his mood leaned more toward irritation or boredom. The war had been over for four years, yet here they all were, summoned once again for reasons left deliberately vague. In Madara’s experience, that usually meant another one of the daimyo’s indulgent gatherings—long-winded discussions about matters of little urgency. Still, as one of the two field marshals in all of Hi no Kuni, refusing was not an option.

What made it worse was that Hashirama was away in Uzushiogakure on a diplomatic errand, leaving Madara without his usual conversational partner and co-conspirator in side remarks. Without him, the already dreary room felt that much quieter.

The alpha leaned back in his chair, waiting for the meeting to begin, eyes half-lidded but ears still keen. To his right, the easy, low voices of two other generals—Ozawa and Sakaguchi—drew his attention. They spoke with the unhurried warmth of men who had known each other for years.

Sakaguchi, a broad-shouldered man with a weathered face, was recounting his most recent weekend. “Took my omega daughter out,” he said, a proud, almost boyish smile tugging at his mouth. “We went to the cafés, then shopping, and even the theatre. She actually talked to me the whole time—properly talked. Haven’t seen her so animated in years. I’m glad I listened to you, Ozawa.”

Ozawa chuckled, a warm, knowing sound, and clapped Sakaguchi on the shoulder. “Told you, didn’t I? It’s a good trend. I do the same with my omega boy—just the two of us. I want him to know how he should be treated by his future mate. Not to go falling for someone who comes along spouting poetry with no actions to back it up.”

Madara’s attention sharpened. He had been only half-listening before, but now a thread of curiosity tugged him fully into the exchange. He turned slightly toward them, the faintest smirk curling at the corner of his lips.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” he said smoothly, his deep voice carrying a calm authority without a hint of malice. “What exactly do you mean by trend?”

The two generals turned toward Madara, posture instinctively straightening under the weight of their superior’s presence before softening again into ease. Ozawa was the first to break the brief pause, a slow, almost conspiratorial grin spreading across his face.

“My wife told me about it,” he began, leaning back in his chair as though preparing for a good, long explanation. His tone carried a note of amusement. “Apparently, it’s something that started among the high society in Tori no Kuni. Alpha parents taking their omega children out for proper, dedicated outings—restaurants with the best service, evenings at the theatre, leisurely shopping sprees through the more elegant districts… you name it.”

Beside him, Sakaguchi’s smile deepened with memory, and he inclined his head. “It’s meant to strengthen the bond between parent and child,” he said warmly, “but also to teach them how they should expect to be treated by their future partners.”

Madara arched a single brow, his attention now fully caught, watching as Sakaguchi chuckled and continued. “I’ll admit, I was sceptical at first. When Ozawa mentioned it—and then my husband backed him up—I wasn’t convinced it would work. My daughter’s been caught up in her teenage moodiness for some time now, and she doesn’t talk to me nearly as much as she once did.”

Ozawa folded his arms across his chest with the air of a man who had proven his point. “Hiko, my son, was the same. Quite distant. But after we started doing these outings together, our relationship improved almost immediately. He opened up.”

He glanced toward Madara, as if expecting the question before it was voiced. “I was suspicious at first too. It felt like I was buying my child’s time,” he admitted with a small shrug. “But my wife explained—it’s not about the money. It’s about carving out that time, intentionally, and spending it together. Learning what truly interests them. It’s different with our alpha children; we naturally spend more time with them, training them to be the next heirs. My alpha daughter and I have a great bond because of that.”

At this, Sakaguchi nodded vigorously. “But with our omega children, it’s not the same. We’re out of the house so much for duty’s sake, and we miss out on all the little details mothers seem to gather without trying. Setting aside time just for them—really listening—makes all the difference.”

Ozawa’s mouth softened into a fond smile as he added, chuckling under his breath, “I learned my boy loves birds. We’re planning a proper bird-watching trip soon.”

Sakaguchi’s eyes crinkled with mirth as he chimed in, “And I learned my daughter loves strawberry shortcake so much that we’ve been to nearly every bakery in Konoha. Now we’ve made it our mission to try them all.”

Sakaguchi then fully turned toward Madara, curiosity glinting in his eyes as he leaned in slightly, almost conspiratorially. “You have children as well, don’t you?”

Madara allowed a faint smile to soften his otherwise composed features, the barest shift in expression making the two men straighten instinctively before relaxing again. “Indeed. Two—one alpha, one omega—and they are my everything.” His voice, usually so measured and reserved, held a thread of warmth that was rare enough to make both generals take note.

Ozawa grinned at this unguarded tone. It was not often they saw their superior display anything other than sharp irritation or the cool detachment of command. “And how do you spend time with them?” he asked, leaning forward slightly, genuine interest in his eyes.

The question caught Madara off guard. As he thought back, he realized he was in the same position they had been. “Lately, I have spent much of my time with Jiraiya,” he admitted, his deep voice thoughtful. “Training him, attending his matches, taking him along on my duties across the Dukedom—teaching him the responsibilities of leadership.” His words slowed, a flicker of regret darkening his eyes. “But I have not spent as much time with Orochimaru as I would wish.”

A small scowl tugged at his mouth at the admission, puzzling the other two alphas. “Now that we are speaking of it,” Madara continued, his tone firming with intent, “I see I have neglected the opportunity to be with my elder child more. That will change.”

He fixed them with a direct look. “What would you suggest for a fourteen-year-old omega?”

Ozawa and Sakaguchi exchanged a glance, an almost mischievous understanding passing between them before identical knowing smiles appeared. “Quite a few things, actually,” Sakaguchi said, settling back as though preparing to unveil a tried-and-true list.

They began tossing out ideas with the enthusiasm of men who had seen such outings work wonders—trendy clothing boutiques with fabrics as soft as clouds and fashionable cuts beloved by the younger elite; a newly opened café in central Konoha with an indoor fountain, a bakery with imported, decadent Kaminari no Kuni desserts; quiet, well-stocked bookshops hidden in side streets; a grand performance soon to open at the Konoha theatre, already being spoken of as the season’s highlight.

Madara listened with the attentiveness of a man absorbing battlefield intelligence, each detail carefully noted in the small, neat script of his list. When they finished, he reviewed his notes with a quick, precise glance, ensuring nothing had been omitted.

He inclined his head, the gesture measured but sincere. “Your help is appreciated.”

Both men smiled, clearly pleased. “We’re happy to assist,” Ozawa replied warmly. “You’ll have to tell us how it goes.”

“I will,” Madara said, the faintest glimmer of amusement sparking in his eyes.

At that moment, the great chamber doors swung open, and the daimyo entered, the rustle of attendants and the soft thud of footsteps signalling the start of what Madara suspected would be yet another long, needlessly drawn-out meeting.

Once the meeting was over—and, as Madara had predicted, it turned out to be an utterly unnecessary debate about something as trivial as reorganizing ceremonial parade routes for the next royal celebration, an event still half a year away—he was more than ready to leave. The carriage wheels hummed a steady rhythm against the cobbled road, the gentle sway of the cabin rocking him as the early evening light streamed through the window in soft gold. He drew the folded list from his coat pocket, the paper warm from being pressed close to his body all afternoon. Leaning back into the plush upholstery, he tapped a contemplative finger along his jaw, mentally shuffling the possibilities—pairing some destinations together, imagining the looks on Orochimaru’s face, discarding others for later.

The thought of carving out dedicated time for his elder child stirred more warmth in him than expected. How long had it truly been since he and Orochimaru had shared a moment that was entirely theirs? Not the passing exchanges at breakfast, not the polite questions at dinner, but genuine conversation, uninterrupted. The answer pressed heavily on his chest: far too long. And beyond that, the idea of showing his son—by his own example—how a future spouse should cherish and respect him ignited a fierce, protective pride. Whoever intended to court Orochimaru would have to vault a bar set high enough to touch the clouds.

By the time the carriage rolled to a stop before the estate’s wrought-iron gates, the sun was melting into the horizon, staining the sky in amber and rose. Inside, a wave of familiar warmth met him, carrying the faint, calming fragrance of freshly brewed tea. He moved through the corridors without hesitation, boots quiet on the polished floorboards, heading straight for Tobirama’s study. As expected, Tobirama was there—bent over his desk, pen in hand, the thin frames of his spectacles sliding down the bridge of his nose as he worked in focused silence.

At Madara’s entrance, Tobirama looked up, setting aside his pen and slipping the spectacles from his face. He rose to greet him, and they exchanged a kiss—brief but tinged with the comfort of long familiarity—before Madara drew the omega close in a grounding embrace. Tobirama’s mouth curved faintly as he asked how the meeting had gone. The grimace that twisted Madara’s features drew an amused, low chuckle. “That bad?”

“Not bad,” Madara replied, easing back slightly, “just insufferably dull. And entirely unnecessary.”

Still smiling, Tobirama returned to his seat while Madara dropped into the chair opposite, his deep voice carrying through the quiet room as he unspooled his grievances in vivid detail. When at last he fell silent, he reached into his coat, produced the neatly folded paper, and slid it across the desk with deliberate care. “At least there was one worthwhile outcome,” he murmured, a faint, satisfied curve ghosting his lips.

Tobirama accepted the sheet of paper, his crimson gaze sweeping slowly over the neatly written list. His brow drew together—not in disapproval, but in a puzzled sort of contemplation. These were all names he’d heard before, usually in passing when the children or his niece chattered about their day: the café with the indoor fountain, the grand theatre with its new performance, the tucked-away boutiques draped in silks and lace. But the image of Madara in such settings was… difficult to reconcile.

When his eyes lifted from the paper, there was a spark of dry amusement beneath the curiosity. “Madara,” he said, his tone deceptively mild, “are you having some sort of… midlife crisis? Or is there another reason you need to be frequenting these places?”

Madara spluttered, his head snapping up. “What? No! This isn’t for me—these are places I want to take Orochimaru.”

The sceptical tilt of Tobirama’s brow deepened, inviting explanation. Madara leaned back in his chair, settling into a deliberate cadence as he relayed his afternoon: how Generals Ozawa and Sakaguchi had spoken of a fashion from Tori no Kuni where alpha parents took their omega children on special outings—meals, plays, shopping trips—not only for leisure, but to strengthen bonds and set an example of how they should be treated by their future partners. His voice softened slightly as he admitted that, in recent weeks, he had spent far more time with Jiraiya—training, attending matches, guiding him in the affairs of the Dukedom—while Orochimaru had been given fewer moments alone with him.

Tobirama listened without interrupting, the faintest glint of understanding in his eyes. When Madara added that he had jotted down the other alphas’ suggestions, Tobirama’s lips curved in a small, approving smile.

“Now that you mention it,” Tobirama said, unhurried, “I’ve heard of this as well. A few of my colleagues spoke about it, though I admit I never paid it much mind.” He glanced down at the list again, then met Madara’s gaze, warmth threading through his expression. “It’s a splendid idea. You should tell Orochimaru at dinner.”

Madara’s answering grin was almost boyish.

That evening, the family gathered around the long, polished dining table. The chandelier’s golden light caught in porcelain and silver, the air still scented with roasted meat and warm bread. Conversation wound easily through the remnants of the meal.

Jiraiya launched into an animated retelling of his day, his hands painting shapes in the air as he spoke about a classmate’s failed grand declaration in the courtyard that had everyone laughing, then segueing into a tale about a science experiment gone wrong—his sound effects earning a shake of Tobirama’s head and a muttered “drama queen” under his breath.

Orochimaru, ever composed, offered shorter contributions. He spoke of an upcoming literature assignment that had caught his interest, and of newly acquired botanical illustrations in the school library. His words were precise, his golden eyes brightening subtly when the topic touched on his passions.

When the plates were cleared and tea poured, Madara set his cup aside and turned toward Orochimaru. “In a few days,” he said, voice lower and gentler than usual, “I’d like to take you on an outing. Just the two of us. A day for something you enjoy. Would you like that?”

For an instant, Orochimaru only blinked, caught off guard. Then the surprise dissolved into a rare and unguarded smile, his features lighting with anticipation. “I would,” he said, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. “I’m looking forward to it.”

The day of the outing dawned bright and mild, the morning light pouring like warm honey over the estate grounds, glinting off dew-slick grass and the faint buds of spring blooms. The scent of damp earth mixed with the faint sweetness of early blossoms drifted on the air. Madara and Orochimaru departed together for Konoha, the carriage awaiting them at the front steps, its lacquered wood gleaming in the sun, brass fittings polished to a mirror sheen. The coachman stood at attention, hat in hand, the horses shifting with quiet snorts, their harnesses jingling softly.

Jiraiya had remained behind with Tobirama, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he moved easily alongside his mother in the garden. The spring beds were alive with green shoots and the dark, rich smell of turned soil as they planted the new batches of medicinal herbs Tobirama prized, his hands deft and assured as he pressed seedlings into the earth.

Inside the carriage, Madara took his place on the upholstered bench opposite his son, the seat creaking slightly beneath his weight. Orochimaru sat with an almost statuesque composure—spine perfectly straight, chin tilted just so, gaze fixed on the slow-moving scenery beyond the glass. His hands rested neatly in his lap, pale fingers laced loosely. The pale blue silk of his dress caught the light, giving it a subtle sheen; the bodice clung in a tailored fit, white embroidery curling delicately along the neckline and cuffs like frostwork. The skirt fell in generous folds, whispering faintly each time the carriage swayed. Over his shoulders lay a light spring cloak in a richer shade of blue, fastened at the throat with a small silver clasp in the shape of a camellia. His hair, glossy and black, had been gathered into an elegant bun at the nape of his neck, a few artful wisps left to soften his profile—Tobirama’s unmistakable touch in both attire and grooming.

Madara, too, had dressed with deliberate care, forgoing his familiar uniform. The black shirt was crisp and smooth, buttoned precisely to the collar beneath a red vest woven with subtle black patterning. Black trousers fell in straight, immaculate lines to polished leather shoes that caught the light when he shifted his feet. A tailored coat of black, with red and gold trimmings catching the sunlight, rested across his shoulders. He could all but see Tobirama’s hand in the choice, more for the private appreciation upon their return than the public eye. It pleased him nonetheless; so long as he looked the part and brought no embarrassment to Orochimaru, he was satisfied.

Settling back with arms crossed loosely, Madara studied his son. “How have you been lately? What’s going on at school? Anything in particular catching your interest these days? Friends?”

Orochimaru turned from the passing streetscape to meet his father’s gaze. His golden eyes caught the morning light, glinting with a warmth that softened the cool elegance of his face. His voice, when it came, was quiet, measured, as though weighing each word—but soon, as he spoke, it gathered ease and momentum.

He described his school project, due the following week, explaining the research he had chosen and the angles he intended to pursue. His words then spilled into his fascination with biochemistry, sparked after shadowing Tobirama at the university for one day and sitting in on a lecture. “It’s… orderly, but unpredictable at the same time,” he explained, “patterns you can follow, and yet the smallest change shifts everything. It feels alive.”

Madara listened with genuine interest, nodding when appropriate, his dark eyes intent. “And do you think it’s something you might want to study more seriously?”

“Perhaps,” Orochimaru allowed, a flicker of thoughtfulness crossing his features before the conversation carried him onward.

Then came the inevitable complaint: the tea parties. His mouth twisted into an expression that was pure Madara. “The other omegas,” he began with a huff, “are dull. They only ever talk about marriage, children, and titles. That’s it. As if there is nothing else in the world worth knowing. I sit there, smiling politely, but I want to scream.”

Madara chuckled, the sound low and genuine. “And what would you rather discuss?”

“Anything,” Orochimaru replied, spreading his hands with mild exasperation. “Science. Politics. History. I could listen to someone talk about irrigation systems and be less bored than I am listening to who is courting who and how many silk gowns they ordered for the season.”

“That is, admittedly, more stimulating,” Madara agreed, leaning forward slightly. “But those gatherings… they are a game, one you will have to play at times. You can play it on your own terms, though. You may find ways to steer a conversation to your advantage.”

Orochimaru’s brow furrowed as he considered this, then he gave a small nod. “Perhaps I could. It would be more tolerable, at least.”

The talk wound easily from there—schoolwork to the excitement of discovery, from the dull rituals of polite society to the rare satisfaction of true conversation. Madara offered anecdotes from his own youth: moments of defiance, the rare mentors who had left a lasting impression, the hard-won lessons hidden in casual words. He spoke not as one lecturing, but as one sharing confidences, letting Orochimaru pick the meaning for himself.

As the carriage slowed on Konoha’s outskirts, the air between them was lighter. Orochimaru’s voice, once tentative, now held an unguarded ease; laughter had passed between them more than once, and there were moments when they overlapped in eagerness to speak. Madara found himself smiling without conscious thought. For him, it was not merely a journey into the city—it was another step toward closing the distance between them, a strengthening of their bond with every shared word.

The first place they went was the boutique that Ozawa and Sakaguchi had promised was worth the trip. The carriage rolled to a stop before tall glass windows framed in wrought iron, through which the gleam of silks and satins could be seen. Madara and Orochimaru stepped inside, greeted instantly by the neatly-uniformed staff, who had been expecting them—Madara had reserved the entire boutique for their private visit. The polished wood floors shone under the mellow glow of crystal chandeliers, and mannequins in the latest fashions stood like elegant sentinels along the walls. A faint scent of lavender and pressed linen lingered in the air. Madara glanced sideways at his son, catching the telltale brightening in Orochimaru’s golden eyes despite the youth’s oft-voiced boredom with fashion talk. Teenagers, Madara mused with a faint, private smile, forever contradicting themselves.

The attendants appeared swiftly with armfuls of dresses, guiding Orochimaru toward the plush changing rooms. He emerged first in a deep emerald gown with a fitted bodice and sheer lace sleeves, the hue rich against his pale skin, making his eyes appear even more vivid. He turned slowly before the gilded mirror, then faced Madara, lifting one sleeve with a faint frown. “The cuff is too loose,” he murmured. Madara, lounging on the wide velvet sofa placed directly opposite, tilted his head in appraising calm. “Easily fixed. The colour suits you—it brings out your eyes.”

Next came a soft lavender dress, airy and light, the hem and bodice embroidered with tiny sprays of flowers that cascaded delicately down the skirt. Orochimaru gave a small twirl, the fabric catching the light and rippling like water. “Pretty,” Madara said simply, the corners of his mouth curling when his son’s cheeks flushed faintly. “But perhaps more for casual afternoons.”

The third was a dramatic black creation with a high collar and tiered, layered skirts, the faint sheen of the material catching each flicker of light. Orochimaru’s lips curved into a sly smirk. “This one feel… powerful.” Madara chuckled low in his throat. “It looks powerful. We’ll take it.”

More followed—an elegant silver gown with pearl beading glinting along the bodice, a pale-yellow day dress cinched at the waist with a neatly tied sash, a robin’s-egg blue creation edged in delicate lace. Each time Orochimaru emerged, he would turn toward Madara with the same question, “How does it look?” and each time Madara answered with honest deliberation, never dismissing a choice outright, always noting the cuts, colours, and fabrics that brought out his son’s natural poise and bearing.

At last, Orochimaru stepped out in the dress he had chosen for the upcoming spring festival: a vision in white, the perfect marriage of airy chiffon and intricate lacework. The high lace collar framed his throat like a coronet, the bodice fitted close with sheer sleeves that whispered against his skin, and the skirt fell in soft, flowing layers, a subtle train drifting behind. The detailing combined the romantic delicacy of fine antique lace with the clean, refined elegance of the newest seasonal designs.

Madara’s breath caught before he could check it. In that instant, he saw not only the composed young omega before him but the child who had grown into grace, leaving behind uncertainty for confidence. For a heartbeat, he imagined Orochimaru years from now, walking down an aisle in another white dress, serene and radiant.

“This dress looks absolutely gorgeous on you,” Madara said softly. “We’ll definitely take it.” Orochimaru’s cheeks warmed to a delicate pink, and he smiled at the praise—a rare, unguarded smile.

When his son vanished back into the changing room to don his own clothes, Madara rose and turned to the head clerk. “We’ll take every dress he just wore.”

By the time Orochimaru rejoined him, Madara had already signed the bill and arranged delivery. Together, they stepped back into the sunlight, the promise of fine fabrics and future occasions folded neatly into each carefully wrapped parcel, ready for their next destination.

The next destination was the bookstore—a place Orochimaru adored without reservation. The shop was still relatively new, having opened only a few years ago, but in that short time it had earned a reputation as the largest in Konoha. The tall glass doors, framed in dark wood, swung open to reveal a vast, airy space where the scent of fresh paper, binding glue, and ink hung in the air. Sunlight filtered down through high windows, catching motes of dust that drifted lazily in the beams. Towering shelves marched in orderly rows into the distance, each fitted with polished brass rails and sliding ladders to reach the highest tiers. The floorboards, aged to a warm gloss, creaked softly underfoot, and the muted hum of other patrons mingled with the rustle of turning pages.

Madara felt a genuine warmth as he caught the almost imperceptible lift at the corner of Orochimaru’s mouth the moment they stepped inside. His son moved with quiet purpose, gliding from one shelf to the next with the measured precision of a researcher in a laboratory. Long, pale fingers traced the spines as if reading their stories through touch alone, occasionally pausing to draw out a volume and scan its contents. The stack in his arms began to grow quickly—dense tomes on advanced chemistry, rare botanical compendiums, anatomical studies—yet tucked between them were lighter spines, novels in muted bindings that hinted at less academic pursuits.

It was one of these that drew Madara’s eye: a slim, well-bound romance novel, the cover graced with delicate watercolour illustrations. With a flicker of curiosity, he plucked it from the pile, idly turning the pages. An amused glint lit his dark eyes. “Since when do you like these kinds of stories as well?”

Orochimaru turned sharply, and to Madara’s satisfaction, a faint blush dusted his pale cheeks. Avoiding his father’s gaze, he reclaimed the book with careful fingers. “They’re for Jiraiya,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “He enjoys reading them.”

Madara’s chuckle was low, genuine, and tinged with amusement. He let it go, though he remembered perfectly well both of his children reading through that same series a while ago. There was no need to comment.

When Orochimaru’s selections were finally complete, the pile had become a small, precarious tower. Madara took it without protest, carrying it to the counter where payment was handled swiftly and the books were wrapped neatly in brown paper and string, marked for delivery.

By the time they emerged back onto the street, the sun had climbed high enough to bathe the rooftops in warm light. “It’s nearly lunch,” Madara remarked. Orochimaru inclined his head in agreement, and without further discussion they made for their next destination—a celebrated restaurant famed for the grand fountain in its heart.

The maître d’ greeted them at the door with a courteous bow and led them upstairs to the first floor. Their private booth was perfectly placed; through the arched balcony railing, the fountain below could be seen in its entirety, water leaping in graceful arcs before falling in silver threads into the sunlit basin. The sound of it was a soft, steady backdrop to the room’s quiet elegance.

Madara took Orochimaru’s spring cloak with a smooth, practiced motion, folding it neatly over the back of his chair before pulling the seat out for him. Once they were settled, menus were presented. Madara’s gaze went straight to his favourite—inarizushi, plump golden pouches filled with seasoned rice—while Orochimaru studied the list in thoughtful silence before settling on a delicate egg custard paired with perfectly layered tamagoyaki, its golden folds precise and neat.

When the waiter departed, their conversation began again with the same easy rhythm it had held in the carriage. Orochimaru launched into a summary of a recent scientific paper he had read—on rare mineral compounds and their potential application in long-term energy storage. As he spoke, his hands made subtle movements, sketching invisible diagrams in the air, his golden eyes alight with intellectual fervour.

Madara listened, nodding now and again. “And the structure of these… compounds, you said? They can hold more energy than… what was it?”

“Lithium-based cells,” Orochimaru supplied, leaning forward slightly. “It’s not just the capacity—it’s the stability over time. Under the right conditions, they could last decades without significant degradation.”

“I see,” Madara said with a small smile. In truth, he did not see entirely, but the cadence of his son’s explanation, so reminiscent of Tobirama’s when lost in thought, was familiar and oddly comforting. “And these conditions… they’re difficult to maintain?”

“Challenging, yes, but not impossible,” Orochimaru replied, clearly pleased at the engagement. “It would require precise environmental control—temperature, humidity… every variable monitored.”

Madara inclined his head as though weighing this. “Sounds like a great deal of effort for something so small.”

“That’s the point,” Orochimaru said, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “It’s always the smallest things that change the world.”

Madara’s own mouth curved faintly at that, and for a moment he simply sat back, letting the sound of the fountain fill the comfortable silence between them.

The food arrived soon, each dish placed before them with careful precision, the aroma of freshly prepared delicacies drifting upward and mingling with the faint, sweet fragrance of flowers from the courtyard beyond. Steam curled gently from plates, and the faint sound of the fountain inside underscored the moment. After a warm and heartfelt “Itadakimasu,” they began to eat at an unhurried pace, appreciating each bite. The flavours were rich and harmonious—the inarizushi perfectly seasoned with subtly sweet rice, the egg custard smooth and silky on the tongue, carrying the warmth of comfort food. Orochimaru’s tamagoyaki was cut into generous slices, each piece perfectly layered and golden, and after a few bites, he delicately slid one onto a small plate and offered it across to his father without a word. Madara accepted with a small nod, a quiet hum of approval escaping him, the corners of his mouth softening in affection.

Conversation wove naturally between mouthfuls, threads of talk and easy silence alternating like an old rhythm. Orochimaru’s voice shifted with faint exasperation as he spoke about the current frenzy overtaking his classmates. “Ever since the spring festival was announced, it’s all they talk about—who is going to invite whom, what they’ll wear. It’s gotten to the point where it’s disrupting class.”

Madara, recalling the striking white dress Orochimaru had chosen that very morning for the same festival, let a knowing tone colour his words. “Is there someone you’re interested in?”

The question stilled Orochimaru’s hands. He lowered his chopsticks with deliberate care, a blush blooming faintly across his pale cheeks as he turned his gaze toward the gentle spill of water from the fountain. Lips pressing into a subtle pout, he answered softly, “I don’t really like anyone. But… it might have been nice to be invited by someone.” His eyes returned to Madara, his tone sharpening as he continued. “Alphas tend to avoid me. I’m smarter than they are, I talk back, I have dreams that don’t only involve having children. I’m from the Uchiha family, and they’re afraid of you. And…” A small pause, then a cool, dry addition: “I don’t pretend to be meek and quiet to make them feel bigger.”

Madara blinked at the candour, then his expression eased. Reaching across the table, he placed a large, steadying hand atop his son’s head, his palm warm against the smooth strands of hair. “You shouldn’t worry about that. Those are cowards. The right one will be delighted by your qualities. You only have to wait a little longer.”

Orochimaru’s shoulders eased under the touch, the tension flowing out as he leaned into the gesture, a small smile ghosting across his lips. The moment lingered in the air, a quiet affirmation, before they both returned to their meal.

Once the plates were cleared away, they stepped out into the gentle afternoon. The park was bathed in golden light slanting through branches tipped with new buds. The air was laced with the fresh, green scent of early blooms and the soft buzz of awakening insects. They walked at a leisurely pace, pausing to admire clusters of blossoms unfurling after their winter slumber. At a small vendor’s cart, Madara purchased a strawberry crepe, passing it into Orochimaru’s hands. The omega’s face lit with unguarded joy at the simple indulgence, his fingers careful not to disturb the neat swirl of cream and fruit.

Their last stop brought them to a newly opened art exhibition housed in a grand gallery hall, the kind where the air seemed to hush upon entry. Light poured through tall windows draped in gauze, diffusing across paintings and sculptures alike. The works of a renowned painter and sculptor from Sunagakure filled the space—canvases of sweeping desert vistas and intimate portraits, each brushstroke deliberate and layered with meaning. The sculptures, towering in pale stone, stood like sentinels, every curve of muscle and fold of drapery captured with breathtaking precision.

They moved slowly between each display. Before a vast canvas of wind-swept dunes, Orochimaru’s eyes traced the painted ridges. “The layering in the sand here… it’s almost like the strata in geological formations. You can see the history in it.”

Madara’s gaze lingered on the same piece, seeing it through a different lens. “It feels… solitary. Harsh, but not empty.”

At a sculpture of a warrior frozen in lifelike tension, Madara murmured, “This reminds me of the old Uchiha war memorial.”

Orochimaru’s focus narrowed to the hands, the fine veins and sinews beneath the stone surface. “It’s the detail in the hands that makes it real. You can almost imagine them moving.”

They continued on, pausing before each new work to exchange impressions—sometimes finding the same meaning, other times drawing different truths, but always meeting in mutual respect for the artistry before them.

Dusk settled slowly over the city, the fading light of day pooling in muted gold across rooftops and spilling gently through the carriage windows in shifting patterns. Outside, the streets began their slow transformation from the lively hum of afternoon into the gentler rhythms of evening; shopkeepers drew shutters closed, voices lowered, and one by one, lanterns flickered to life along the roads. Their warm glow glimmered on cobblestones still damp from a midday shower, casting faint halos that followed the carriage as it rolled past.

Inside, the atmosphere had softened, the bright curiosity of the day mellowing into a shared, quiet contentment. This time, Orochimaru had chosen the seat beside his father instead of opposite him, the choice itself speaking of ease. His posture was relaxed in a way it never was before strangers, one shoulder lightly touching Madara’s arm. Glancing down at him, Madara asked in a tone both casual and genuine, “Did you enjoy the day?”

Orochimaru leaned just slightly closer, the fine strands of his hair brushing against Madara’s sleeve. He gave a single, deliberate nod. “I really enjoyed it,” he said, voice warm but softened with the weariness of a long, full day. “I’d love to do this again.”

A chuckle rumbled low in Madara’s chest. He shifted his arm to wrap fully around the omega’s shoulders, drawing him in until Orochimaru was settled snug against his side in an embrace meant to last the journey. “Then we will,” he promised simply.

The wheels murmured over the road, and the gentle sway of the carriage wrapped them in a cocoon of stillness. At some point, the sound of Orochimaru’s breathing changed, growing slow and even. Madara looked down to find his son completely at rest, eyes closed, the faint lines of focus gone from his face. There was a softness to him in sleep, a trust few were allowed to witness.

Madara leaned fractionally, pressing the lightest kiss to the crown of his son’s head before tightening his hold by a degree, pulling him a little closer. Through the glass, the scenery shifted—the city’s edges blurring into quiet stretches of countryside, trees dark against the deepening sky. His own reflection wavered in the window, and he found himself smiling at it.

The meeting a few days earlier might have seemed inconsequential, yet overhearing Ozawa and Sakaguchi’s conversation had been far from meaningless. Today had reminded him of something easily buried under duty and expectation—that it was in small, deliberate moments that the strongest bonds were forged.

When the manor’s silhouette finally rose against the twilight, Madara’s smile deepened. In his mind, threads of ideas for their next outing began to weave together—places and moments that might once again spark that rare light in Orochimaru’s eyes. The thought settled into him like a quiet vow, certain and unshakable: this would not be the last day like it.