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

[The Tangerine Cat]

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Chapter 1—The Girl in the Village


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The early spring air still bit in the mornings, but by late afternoon the sun had burned through enough to make the market street almost pleasant. Almost. The smell of grilled squid clung to the awnings, vendor stalls threw long shadows across the packed earth, and the Hokage monument loomed over the cliffside as it always did—four stone faces staring down at a village they no longer had to deal with.

Emiya wondered, not for the first time, whether retirement improved one's outlook or simply removed the need to have one.

He shifted the paper-wrapped miso paste to his other arm and continued down the street. He was five years old. The crowd parted around him without thinking—a quick glance, whose kid, gone.

He stopped at the counter of a dry-goods stall. The shopkeeper was mid-argument with the customer ahead of him, her voice carrying over the foot traffic.

"Eighty ryō. Same as last week, same as next week."

"Last week it was sixty, and you know it was sixty because I—"

"Eighty ryō, or you're welcome to walk to the south district and see what they charge."

The customer clicked his tongue and fumbled for his coin pouch. He dropped two ryō onto the counter and a third bounced off the edge onto the ground. The man swore under his breath, crouching to retrieve it while the shopkeeper watched from behind her counter, already smiling. He slapped the full amount down, snatched his purchase, and shouldered past Emiya on the way out without a grunt.

Manners in this village were a renewable disappointment.

Emiya stepped forward and set his coins down in a neat stack. "Kombu. The thicker cut, if you have it."

The shopkeeper looked at him, then at the coins, then at the miso paste under his arm. "Aren't you precious."

He was not, in fact, precious.

She retrieved the kombu. "Thank you for your purchase, Uchiha-kun!"

He raised a hand without turning.

The commercial district gave way to wider lanes as he moved south. The breeze picked up between the buildings, cool enough to prickle the back of his neck. The stalls thinned out as a woman swept her steps and hummed something off-key, and on the corner two men argued about a fence post.

"It's leaning."

"It's been leaning for six years."

"And one day it'll fall and kill someone's dog."

"Hah! Then the dog shouldn't sit there!"

They'd clearly been at this a while. Emiya sidestepped a delivery boy jogging past with a crate of bottles taller than he was, the kid weaving through pedestrians with his jaw clamped. He'd already dropped one today.

A brown tabby sat on a low wall ahead, cleaning its paw in a patch of afternoon sun, a red ribbon tied around its right ear. The cat looked up as Emiya passed, regarded him flatly, and resumed grooming.

A shout went up from the street behind him—two young, breathless voices.

"There—on the wall! Go left, go left!"

The tabby's ear rotated once and its paw stopped mid-lick.

Two genin in leaf headbands came barreling around the corner. The first one lunged. The cat twisted sideways, raked its claws across his outstretched forearms in a single fluid swipe, planted both back legs on the second genin's face, and launched itself off her nose into the gap between two buildings. The girl staggered backward, clutching her face, and the boy was already bleeding from both arms.

"I hate this cat," he hissed, and they scrambled after it down the alley.

Somewhere in a mission office, someone had filed that retrieval as D-rank. It was a generous assessment, given the apparent casualty rate.

He rounded the bend where the lane opened up, and his peripheral caught it—above and to the left, a blur on the crossbar of a utility pole that resolved like a heat mirage condensing into a solid shape. A porcelain mask sealed his face, canine in design, short muzzle painted with dark slashes across the eye slits. A shock of white hair stuck up above it at an angle that defied both gravity and grooming. The figure crouched with one knee drawn up, perfectly still, in the fitted gray armor vest and arm guards of an ANBU operative, oriented northeast toward something several blocks ahead, never once sparing his attention for the street below.

Emiya didn't slow. His sandals kept the same rhythm on the packed earth, and he filed the direction without turning his head.

When he glanced that up again—a half-second later, peripheral only—the crossbar was already empty.

The lane bent toward a small square. A dango vendor occupied one side, his charcoal grill trailing sweet smoke into the still air. An old man on the bench was losing a slow war with the breeze for control of his newspaper. The foot traffic was thinner here, and slower with it.

Emiya's stride shortened by a half-step as he spotted the figure across the space.

A girl was approaching the dango stall.

She was small—smaller than him, which at five was already not much. Her thin arms poked out of a white t-shirt with a faded red spiral on the front, the collar stretched out wide enough to show a sharp little collarbone. Orange shorts a size too large hung past her knees, cinched at the waist with a bit of cord. Her sandals were scuffed down to almost nothing on the heels. She looked like someone had dressed a sparrow in hand-me-downs and sent it out to forage.

But the hair was hard to ignore. A wild, bright mop of blonde caught the afternoon light and held it, wrestled into uneven pigtails with mismatched ties—one red, one blue—by someone working without a mirror. Three thin marks ran across each cheek, like whiskers, and beneath the mess of hair and the oversized clothes, the face was all round cheeks and wide, startling blue eyes and a small stubborn mouth.

She walked with her chin up and her shoulders set, small sandals scuffing the packed earth.

The vendor saw her coming.

Emiya watched his hands. The man had been arranging skewers on the display tray—spacing them, adjusting, the automatic rhythm of ten thousand identical afternoons. When the girl crossed into his line of sight, his hands just relocated. They shifted from the display tray to the counter's edge, palms settling flat against the wood. The body closed the distance between itself and the front of the stall the way a shopfront shutter rolled down at closing.

She hadn't even spoken yet.

The girl reached the counter and looked up at the skewers, her blue eyes tracking across the display. She'd done this before.

She opened her mouth.

"Not today." The vendor was looking past her, at the striped canvas of the produce stall, like she'd interrupted a thought he was already done with. "Come back later."

The girl closed her mouth. She stood there for a beat, then scratched the back of her head with one hand—a quick, rough gesture, fingers raking through the base of her ponytail. She hiked up the orange shorts that had slid down her hips during the walk and turned away from the stall like she'd just remembered she had somewhere else to be.

She didn't.

Three children were playing near the bench, chasing each other in loose formless circles. The blonde girl's path brought her within a few meters. The circles shifted. The two boys drifted toward the far side of the bench, the third child trailing after them, and the orbit recentered on the space furthest from where the blonde girl walked. No one looked at her.

She passed the bench and the produce cart. A woman carrying groceries walked past her—eyes landing on the girl for a full second before sliding forward without friction.

The girl sat down on the curb at the far edge of the square and pulled her knees up. The orange shorts bunched around thin thighs, the t-shirt hanging loose off one shoulder. She rested her chin on her knees and looked across the square at the dango stall. The smoke from the charcoal grill drifted between them.

The problem had been visible from across the square. Nobody was looking.

The dango vendor went back to arranging his skewers. The old man turned another page of his newspaper, or tried to. The children kept running.

Emiya turned and walked east. The kombu needed cold storage before dinner.

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The compound gate guards dipped their heads as he approached—a shade more deference than a five-year-old typically warranted. Emiya passed through without breaking stride.

The main path cut between low-walled residences, their tiled roofs catching the last of the evening light. The smell of cooking hit him as he passed the first row of houses—soy and garlic and steamed rice drifting from open windows. A pair of crows on a rooftop to his right scattered as his sandals crunched the gravel below, their racket carrying across the quiet lane. Voices floated from somewhere behind him now, a conversation about patrol rotations or a leaking roof falling away as he walked. The Uchiha discussed both with the same gravity.

The front door of the main house was open, light spilling warm across the engawa.

"Sasuke."

Emiya turned.

A woman stood in the doorway with one hand on the frame, an apron cinched at her waist over a dark blue house dress. Long black hair swept behind her shoulders, catching the kitchen light at the edges. She had the fine-boned structure that ran through the Uchiha women—sharp and composed—but her dark eyes were warm, and her mouth sat naturally closer to a smile than a frown.

"Mikoto." His dark eyes glanced up at her from beneath a fall of darker hair, set in a pale face that still had many years of growing to do, and small hands held up the paper-wrapped package. "Miso paste. And the kombu."

Her mouth twitched. The woman had given up on that particular battle a while ago. "Come in. Your father will be late tonight."

Emiya shrugged. Truly, no one could have foreseen this.

He removed his sandals and carried the packages to the kitchen. The miso paste went into cold storage and the kombu onto the preparation counter. He washed his hands, rolled up his sleeves, and started on dinner.

The kitchen smelled right within twenty minutes—the miso and dashi had caught, and the steam off the rice was clean, which meant the rinse had been thorough enough. He plated three servings for Mikoto, Itachi, and himself. Fugaku's portion was set aside in covered dishes for reheating. The man could learn to come home on time, but that was a separate issue.

Mikoto came through to set the table. She paused behind him, watching the knife work on the last of the vegetables for a half-second. Then her hand came up and brushed the hair off the back of his neck—quick, absent, the way she might straighten a frame in passing. She set a folded dish towel by his elbow and continued to the dining room.

He served, and they ate. Itachi was quiet tonight—quieter than usual, his chopsticks moving in the mechanical way they moved when his thoughts were somewhere else entirely. He'd come home later than expected and hadn't offered why. Mikoto didn't ask, and neither did Emiya.

"The Nakano planted a persimmon tree last week." She tilted her head. "I give it until the next frost."

Emiya didn't look up from his bowl. "Depends on the rootstock."

"Ara?" Mikoto's chopsticks paused. "You know about persimmon trees, Sasuke?"

"It was in a book."

It was not, strictly speaking, in a book. But similar excuses had been thrown about too often, and those around him had stopped trying to dig for more.

Itachi's eyes flicked sideways for a half-second, then returned to his rice.

Mikoto took a sip of her soup and set the bowl down. "Your father left his reading glasses on the counter again, by the way." She reached for Itachi's empty rice bowl. "I'm considering hiding them."

That got a sound from Itachi. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.

Mikoto stacked the bowl on hers, smiling to herself.

The dishes were cleared, washed, and dried.

Then Emiya took out a fresh container.

He packed it the same way he did the household's portions—rice leveled, vegetables arranged, miso soup sealed separately so it wouldn't bleed through. He wrapped the whole thing in a clean cloth and tied it.

He set the box on the far end of the counter, away from the evening's dishes and away from where anyone would reach for it or move it or ask about it.

One extra box.

He wiped down the counter, folded the cloth, and turned off the kitchen light.

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Next Chapter Preview

A boy stood on the river—

"Whoever it's for is eating better than most adults in this compound."

Something was sitting on the windowsill.

Still faintly warm.

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Author's Note

Hey—if you're coming over from my previous fic, welcome back (though I've never posted on QQ before, mostly been active on ffn, ao3, and spacebattles).

Yeah, I know. New series.

Before anyone panics: the Fate × PJO crossover is not abandoned. That one's still something I care about a lot—it's just… kind of a monster.

From the start, that story was planned with multiple timelines, overlapping events across different eras, and a lot of moving parts that all have to line up properly. It's the kind of thing that works on paper, but in practice, it means every chapter takes a ridiculous amount of planning to not break something three arcs later.

And because I was updating it every few months… that didn't exactly help. If anything, it made both the planning and the writing worse over time.

So instead of forcing it and burning out, I'm stepping back from it for now and planning to reboot it properly in a few months once I've smoothed things out.

This fic is… the opposite of that.

It's a lot more straightforward to write. The structure is tighter, the scope is more controlled (in terms of worldbuilding, but it'll still be very lengthy in terms of total word-count), and I actually have a much better sense now of what I can realistically maintain long-term.

More importantly, it lets me stay consistent.

Writing regularly matters more than I thought it would. Not just for updates, but for keeping the flow, the character voice, the pacing—everything. This is where I get to really refine that.

So this project is going to be:

long-running

consistently updated

and a lot more stable in terms of output

Current plan is twice a week (Wednesday & Saturday, Pacific Time).

There's already a solid buffer written, and the story is planned through pre-timeskip, with a clear path going forward from there.

Also—this is still very much an Emiya story, just in a different setting.

If you liked the character work, the tone, or just Emiya being dropped somewhere he absolutely doesn't belong… you'll probably feel at home here.

Anyway.

Thanks for sticking around, or for giving this one a shot.

Let's see where this goes.

 

[The Tangerine Cat]

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Chapter 2—The Anomalies


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A small green frog leapt from a lily pad, sending rings of jewel-blue ripples across the shallow bed of pebbles. The current carried them outward until they thinned into nothing. Cicadas pulsed in the distance, their rhythm rising and falling with the breeze.

A boy stood on the river, the water lapping beneath his feet without ever disturbing his balance.

His eyes were closed.

The wind shifted, leaves trembling overhead, and a faint ripple crossed the surface as he exhaled.

"Sasuke."

His eyes opened, and he tilted his head back slightly. "Itachi." His gaze settled on him. "Back already?"

Itachi had come back early. The elders had needed a document delivered to the administrative office—nothing that required more than an hour, and it hadn't taken even that. He'd taken the tree line instead of the main gate, following the stream where the path was quieter.

He had not expected to find his brother standing on it.

Water-walking was not, by itself, remarkable. Itachi had learned the technique young. There were records of children mastering it younger—wartime prodigies, most of them, names preserved in scrolls alongside the ages at which they'd died. Children who never got to be children, because the village needed soldiers more than it needed sons.

But that had been during war. The village had been at peace for most of Sasuke's life. Children his age were learning to hold kunai the right way around. They were not standing on rivers with their eyes closed, holding the posture of someone who had been doing this long enough to find it unremarkable.

He hadn't seen Sasuke practice tree-walking either. There had been no progression—no failed attempts, no chakra burns on the soles of his sandals, no frustrated evenings. One day, Sasuke simply could. The skill had always been there. He had merely decided to stop concealing it.

They walked back toward the compound. The grass was still damp from the morning, and the late sun cut through the canopy in long shifting bands. A crow called from somewhere deep in the trees. Sasuke walked a pace ahead, his sandals barely making sound against the earth.

Itachi watched him walk. He moved the way he always did, his dark hair falling untouched, his small shoulders untightened, his stride neither hesitating nor hurrying.

He thought, briefly, of his father taking him to a battlefield at four years old, after it was over—of a sandal lying on its side in the mud, small enough to have belonged to someone his age. He had stared at it for a long time before his father's hand settled on his shoulder and guided him away.

There were moments his brother would be overcome by an odd stillness. He couldn't quite place it; it was similar to people Itachi had met who carried things they did not discuss. Yet, at the same time, Sasuke felt more at peace, like whatever burden had seemingly eased or simply dulled in the back of the boy's mind.

A leaf drifted from the canopy and landed on Sasuke's shoulder. His brother slowed half a step, and it slipped off his shirt. He never spared it a single glance. Itachi almost said something then. He wasn't sure what—a question, maybe, or something that might have passed for one.

In the end, he did not ask. The list of things he had not asked about was growing longer, and he was beginning to suspect that was deliberate—on both their parts.

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The kitchen was already warm when Emiya came through the door. Mikoto was at the stove, one hand stirring, the other adjusting the flame. A strand of dark hair had escaped from behind her ear and was hanging in front of her face. She blew it aside without breaking rhythm.

"Itachi. Sasuke. You're late."

"I was at the stream."

"Mm." She reached for a lid without turning. "Wash your hands."

He was already at the sink. The water ran cold over his fingers and he dried them on the cloth she'd hung from the oven handle—the same spot she always put it, within reach of whoever was shorter.

Fugaku was at the table with a book spread open beside his plate and a cup of tea he hadn't touched. He did not look up when Emiya entered. He did not look up when Itachi came in a minute later. He acknowledged both of them with a single low hum that apparently served as greeting, commentary, and dismissal all at once.

At least one member of this household had mastered the art of communicating the absolute minimum required by social convention. Emiya could respect that.

Mikoto handed him bowls and he set them on the tray. Itachi carried it to the table while Emiya brought the pickled sides. Mikoto lifted the pot with both hands, steam curling from under the lid, and set it on the wooden trivet between the place settings.

"Careful," she said, though it wasn't clear who she was addressing. Possibly everyone. Possibly the pot.

They ate, and Fugaku's eyes never left the page. His chopsticks found his bowl, his mouth, and the bowl again without once requiring his attention—a routine so practiced it had probably outlasted several books. Itachi chewed in silence, his gaze resting somewhere past his bowl. Mikoto watched both of them for a moment, then sighed through her nose and took a sip of soup.

"Mrs. Nakano stopped me on the path today," she offered. "Apparently their roof started leaking again. Third time since winter."

Fugaku did not respond.

"She also mentioned the cherry trees near the east wall are budding early."

"They do that," Fugaku said, not looking up.

"And that her husband has taken up painting."

Fugaku's chopsticks paused for the first time. He looked up from his book. "Painting."

"Landscapes, apparently."

The chopsticks resumed. "Hm."

"She seemed proud."

"Hm."

Mikoto caught Emiya's eye across the table, the corner of her mouth twitching, and he returned his attention to his rice.

Itachi excused himself after finishing, his footsteps receding down the hall. Fugaku closed his book and relocated to the living room with his cold tea, which he drank anyway. Uchiha stubbornness was apparently a trait that extended to beverage temperature.

Emiya washed, and Mikoto took each bowl from his hands and dried it, stacking them in the cabinet without a word. The kitchen settled into the rhythm of running water and clinking porcelain.

"Sasuke."

He glanced over his shoulder. Mikoto was leaning against the counter, the dish towel draped over one arm. She was looking at him the way she sometimes did—warm and unhurried and slightly too attentive, like she was waiting for a shape to resolve.

"The bento from yesterday," she said. "Still on the counter?"

He didn't answer immediately. The water ran over a bowl in his hands.

"I was going to take it out."

"Ara." She tilted her head. "You packed it well. Whoever it's for is eating better than most adults in this compound."

"That says more about the compound's standards than it does about my cooking."

She huffed a breath through her nose—not quite a laugh, but close. "Be back before the lanterns go out."

He dried his hands, took the wrapped container from the far end of the counter, and slipped on his sandals at the door. Mikoto was still standing at the counter when he glanced back. She had picked up the dish towel again, folding it slowly, her eyes on the spot where the bento had been.

The evening air was cool against his neck. Lanterns were already flickering to life along the main path, and the compound had gone quiet except for the distant sound of someone's radio drifting through an open window. A neighbor's cat watched him from a fence post, tracking his movement without enthusiasm.

He walked without hurrying.

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The bread lady's shutters were already down.

Naruko stood in front of them for a moment, her hand still raised like she'd been about to knock. She lowered it, wiped her nose with the back of her wrist, and turned around.

The other shop—the one with the canned goods—had let her in last week, but only once. The man behind the counter had looked at her for a long time before shaking his head and pointing at the door. She hadn't gone back since.

Her stomach had stopped growling a while ago. That was fine. It did that sometimes. It would start again later, usually around the time she was trying to fall asleep, and then she'd lie there and listen to it until it gave up again.

She took the back streets home. The main roads had too many people, and too many people meant more of the look—the one where someone's eyes landed on her and then slid sideways like she was a crack in the pavement.

A shutter banged somewhere above her. A woman leaned out a second-floor window and called a name—not hers—and a boy came running from around the corner, sandals slapping the stone, and disappeared inside. The door shut behind him. A pair of rats scurried along the gutter, the smaller one trailing close behind the larger, keeping pace. Even they had somewhere to go together.

Naruko kept walking.

Her apartment building stood at the end of the lane. It was tilting a little to one side, like always. She'd asked the old lady downstairs about it once, and the old lady had pretended not to hear her. Maybe the building was just tired. Buildings probably got tired too.

The stairs creaked under her sandals. She fished the key from the cord around her neck—it took her two tries because her fingers were cold—and let herself in.

The apartment was dim, and the wooden floor was cold under her bare feet. The kitchen counter still had an empty milk carton she'd forgotten to throw out sitting next to the sink. She kicked off her sandals—one landed by the door, the other skipped under the table—and padded toward the window to tug the curtain aside.

Something was sitting on the windowsill.

Naruko stopped.

A bundle had been left there, wrapped in cloth, tied neatly, and tucked against the glass on the outer ledge.

She leaned closer to the window and looked left down the alley, but it was empty. She looked right and saw only a stray cat picking through a toppled bin.

She slid the window open and reached for the bundle carefully, like it might disappear if she grabbed too fast. It was heavier than she expected. She brought it inside with both hands and set it on the table.

She didn't open it right away. She looked at it, leaned down and sniffed it, picked it up and turned it over, set it back down, and poked the cloth with one finger.

Nothing happened.

The knot came apart easily. Inside the cloth were two containers, one large and one small, both clean and plain.

She opened the large one first.

There was rice, packed neatly with not a grain out of place. Beside it lay slices of what looked like some kind of meat, thin and glazed and arranged in a neat fan. A rolled yellow thing she didn't have a name for had been cut into rounds, and vegetables in green and orange were tucked into the remaining space like someone had planned where each piece would go.

The smaller container had soup. She held it in both hands, and it was still faintly warm.

Naruko looked at the food, then at the door, which was locked, then at the window. The alley outside was empty.

Her stomach made its position known.

She set the soup on the stove and clicked the electric steamer on. The thing rattled on the burner—that same tinny vibration it always made, filling the kitchen with its low, persistent hum.

Naruko stood on her toes and peered down through the gap in the lid, and steam curled up. The smell hit her—miso and something deeper and richer underneath—and her nose scrunched, pulling the warm air in before she could think about it.

The soup was ready before her patience was.

She grabbed the container off the steamer with both hands.

"Ow—ow ow ow—"

It hit the table with a clatter. She shook her fingers out, hissing through her teeth, ran to the sink, shoved her hands under the cold tap, and let the water sting for a few seconds before wiping them dry on her shorts.

She marched back to the table.

The chair was too tall. She climbed up knees-first, swung herself around, and sat, her legs dangling off the edge. She pulled both containers close—the rice and the soup side by side.

She stared at the food and gulped.

She scooped up a heap of rice—too much for the spoon, a small mountain teetering on the edge—and opened her mouth as wide as it would go.

"Ahm."

Her lips closed around the spoon and her cheeks ballooned. For a second she sat very still, eyes squeezed shut, processing. Then the heat caught up.

Her mouth popped open into a tiny O, and she huffed short, frantic breaths as steam curled off her tongue. Her eyes watered as she fanned her mouth with one hand, chewing anyway, and swallowed hard.

She picked up one of the yellow rolled things with her fingers. It was warm and soft, and she wasn't sure if she was supposed to use the spoon for it. She bit into half, her cheeks puffing out. It tasted like eggs, but better than any egg she'd ever had, sweeter somehow.

She shoved the other half in before she'd finished chewing the first.

Her blue eyes caught the light from the window, wide and bright, almost sparkling.

The rice was good. The meat melted the second she bit down, and the soup tasted like what she imagined other people's kitchens smelled like.

She ate faster. The spoon scraped the container in quick little strokes, and she burned herself a second time on the soup—same huff, same fanning, same refusal to stop. She moved through it without order—rice, meat, the yellow rolled things, soup, rice again. Her spoon barely touched the table between bites.

Grains of rice stuck to the corners of her mouth, and her feet swung under the chair.

The warm yellow light of the apartment spilled softly through the window, out into the alley where no one was walking and no one was watching. Inside, the silhouette of a small blonde girl sat at a table too big for her, eating in quick, happy bites—never quite learning not to burn herself, but never once stopping either.

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The compound was dark when Emiya slipped through the front door, where he set his sandals by the step.

Fugaku was still in the living room, a lamp burning beside him, and a different book open on his lap. He looked up when Emiya entered. "You're back."

"I'm back."

His eyes held for a moment. "Good night, Sasuke."

"Good night, Fugaku."

Emiya walked down the hall. Behind him, the lamp clicked off, and the house went quiet.

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Next Chapter Preview

"Who is it for?"

Itachi had not intended to follow his brother.

The container was gone.

"You can't just say that."

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Advance chapters (up to 12 ahead) are available on P@ tre on:

/TheTangerineCat

Your support directly keeps the story going.

Thanks for reading.

 

[Kishhh]

Another Emiya-centric fanfic is always appreciated.

 

[materialalternative7]

Emiya-Sasuke, huh? I'll like to see where you take this.

 

[The Tangerine Cat]

Another Emiya-centric fanfic is always appreciated.

Click to shrink...

I know lol, i'm always searching for more emiya fics. never enough

Emiya-Sasuke, huh? I'll like to see where you take this.

Click to shrink...

ay, thx for reading, and hope you'll enjoy the ride

 

[The Tangerine Cat]

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Chapter 3—Strays

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Naruko turned the tap on full. The water hit the bottom of the container and sprayed back up in a cold burst that caught her square in the face.

"Ack—!"

She slammed the tap back down and wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist, blinking at the ceiling. Her shirt was wet, her chin was wet, and the counter was wet.

She turned the tap on again, slower this time, and held the container under the stream. The water ran cold over her pink fingers as she scrubbed the corners with her thumbnail, working out the last stubborn grains of rice. She dried it with the hem of her shirt, checked it twice, and carried it to the window.

She set it on the outer ledge, right where she'd found it last time, with the lid facing up.

The alley was quiet. A bird landed on the railing across the way, pecked at something, decided against it, and left. She climbed onto her bed and waited, kneeling there, watching the container through the window. Nothing happened. She put her hands together in front of it, squeezed her eyes shut, and wished very hard for the food to appear. She peeked with one eye.

It was still empty.

She counted to twenty in her head, lost track somewhere around fourteen, started over, and got bored before she reached ten.

Nobody came.

She pulled on her sandals and headed for the door. The morning air prickled her arms, and she shoved her hands into the pockets of her orange shorts. The left sandal strap was getting loose again, and she had to curl her toes to keep it from slipping.

The door swung shut behind her, then creaked back open, just a sliver. A tuft of blonde hair and a pair of blue eyes hovered past the gap, staring across the apartment at the container on the windowsill.

She looked at it for a long moment.

Then the door clicked shut.

The road was already busy when she skittered down the stairs. A woman with a basket on her arm adjusted her path without looking down. Two men outside a tea shop stopped talking as she passed and started again once she was a few steps beyond them. A shopkeeper sweeping his front step moved his broom to the other side of the doorway as she approached, like he'd suddenly found a very interesting spot that needed attention.

Naruko turned off the road before the market and cut through the alley toward the tree line. She squeezed between two trunks where the path narrowed, hopped over a root that stuck out of the ground like a bent knee, and kept going. The forest was better. The trees didn't care who walked under them.

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The bento was on the counter when Mikoto came into the kitchen.

Emiya had prepared it while the household was occupied elsewhere. The wrapping was the same as before, the knot tied the same way. He'd varied the contents from last time, swapping the glazed meat for grilled fish and adding an extra portion of tamagoyaki.

Mikoto spotted it immediately. She always did.

"Sasuke."

"Mikoto."

She picked up the container and turned it over in her hands, examining the wrapping. "Another one."

"So it would seem."

"Who is it for?"

Emiya turned back to the sink and rinsed the cutting knife he'd left soaking. "No one in particular."

"Ara." She set the bento back down and folded her arms. "You're making bentos for no one in particular. That's a lot of effort for no one."

"It's not effort. It's maintenance." He tapped the knife dry against the rack and reached for the dish towel. "Unattended problems have a tendency to get worse, and dealing with them later costs more than dealing with them now. Consider it pest management."

Mikoto's expression flattened. "That's not a very nice way to talk about a person."

"Who said anything about a person?" He draped the towel over the edge of the sink without looking at her.

"Sasuke."

He shrugged once. "It's a practical matter, Mikoto. Nothing more."

She studied him for a moment, then unfolded her arms and planted both hands on her hips.

"My five-year-old son is packing extra meals for someone he refuses to name and calling it pest management." She tilted her head. "Should I be concerned, or impressed?"

He arched an eyebrow. "You know, they say excessive nosiness is a sign of aging. Something about aunties who've run out of their own business to mind."

Mikoto blinked, her mouth opening and then closing. She stood perfectly still for a full second, her expression shifting through something Emiya couldn't quite track before settling on a look he hadn't seen before.

She stepped forward, reached out, and tapped him on the forehead with two fingers—light and warm, the pad of her index and middle finger pressing gently against the skin above his brow and holding for a beat before withdrawing.

Emiya blinked.

His forehead was still warm where she'd touched it.

Mikoto stared back at him with a smile growing on her face, slow and pleased, like she'd found exactly the reaction she was looking for.

"...I'll be back before dinner." He picked up the bento.

"Don't stay out too late," Mikoto called after him without turning from the stove.

---———---<<O>>---———---

​

Itachi had not intended to follow his brother.

He'd been returning from the training grounds when he spotted Sasuke leaving through the compound's east gate with something tucked under his arm. It was late afternoon, the light already turning amber through the trees, and Sasuke was walking at the same unhurried pace he used for everything.

Itachi kept his distance and told himself he was simply headed in the same direction, which was technically true for the first stretch and became less defensible with each turning.

What drew his attention first was the route. Sasuke took a side street that ran parallel to a patrol path, turned before the intersection where a chūnin checkpoint was typically positioned, and cut through a narrow alley without once looking back. He moved casually, hands in his pockets, but every turn happened to take him out of a sightline just before someone in uniform would have rounded a corner. Nobody noticed him.

The residential blocks gave way to older buildings near the eastern quarter, where the streets narrowed and paint peeled from shuttered storefronts.

Sasuke turned down a lane that ended at a tall, leaning apartment building and ducked into the alley beside it.

Itachi watched from the corner of the adjacent street.

For a moment, there was nothing. The alley was dark and narrow, cutting between the apartment building and the one beside it. Then a figure stepped out the other end.

He wore white robes and a red and white hat, the kanji painted clean on the triangular brim.

Itachi's eyebrow twitched.

His brother, henged into the Third Hokage of Konohagakure, walked to the base of the building and looked up. The apartment was near the top, several stories up, with a narrow balcony and a window where the curtain was drawn. Nobody was home.

The figure crouched once and leapt, the single push off the ground carrying the Third Hokage to the balcony railing, where he landed without a sound. He picked up the empty container from the windowsill, replaced it with the wrapped bento, and adjusted the knot so it faced outward. Then the figure straightened and stood on the railing for a moment, silhouetted against the evening sky in full Hokage regalia.

Itachi watched the Third Hokage leap down from the balcony, land softly, and walk back into the alley. He waited.

Sasuke emerged from the other end a few seconds later, the empty container tucked under his arm, hands back in his pockets, walking at the same unhurried pace as before.

Itachi pressed himself flat against the wall as his brother passed the intersection without a sideways glance.

He remained where he was, looking up at the building, at its tilting frame, at the balcony where the bento now sat on the ledge.

He knew whose building this was. Everyone in the village knew, even if most chose to act otherwise.

His eyebrow was still twitching.

His body flickered once, and the street was empty.

---———---<<O>>---———---

​

The forest had been all right. Naruko had found some mushrooms near the big root that looked like an elbow, but she wasn't sure if they were the eating kind or the other kind, so she'd left them alone. She'd also found a good stick, long and mostly straight with a pointed end that looked a little like one of those tantō the older kids carried during practice. She'd swung it around for a while, slicing at invisible enemies, before propping it against a tree where she could find it again next time.

The walk back was longer than the walk out. It always felt that way. Her legs got heavier going home than they did going anywhere else.

She climbed the stairs and fished out the key from the cord around her neck. It took two tries because the lock was always stiff. The door swung open and she kicked off her sandals.

The window.

The container was gone. In its place was a new bundle, wrapped in the same cloth, tied with the same knot, set on the same spot on the outer ledge.

Naruko stood very still.

She reached out and picked it up with both hands. It was heavier than last time. She held it against her chest and looked down the alley, left and then right. The same stray cat from before was sitting on a crate, watching her with half-closed eyes, but nobody else was around.

Someone had come while she was out. They had taken the empty box, left a full one, tied it the same way, and put it in the same place. They kept doing it.

She brought the bundle inside, climbed knees-first into the chair, swung around, and sat with her legs dangling. She set the bundle in front of her and rested both hands on the cloth. The warmth bled through the fabric into her palms.

She sat like that for a while, just holding it.

The knot came apart easily, and she opened the lid. Inside was rice, grilled fish this time instead of meat, the yellow rolled things, and vegetables—different from before, but packed the same way, every piece in its place.

She picked up the spoon, then set it back down, then picked it up again.

She ate slower this time, not because she wasn't hungry—she was—but because the food was warm, and the apartment was quiet, and nobody was going to take it away.

---———---<<O>>---———---

​

The residential lanes were mostly dark by the time Emiya came back through the village. The empty containers clinked softly under his arm. Lamplight spilled from windows where families were finishing dinner or hadn't drawn their curtains yet. A dog barked somewhere behind a fence, got bored, and stopped.

He heard them before he saw them.

"Billboard Brow. I said it before and I'll say it again. Bill. Board. Brow."

Three girls stood at the edge of the lane. The one doing the talking had purple hair cut in an uneven bob, arms crossed, chin up. Her two friends flanked her like backup singers waiting for their cue to laugh.

A pink-haired girl stood between them and the nearest lamp, shoulders drawn inward, a red ribbon tied across her forehead. And in front of her, a blonde in purple with her ponytail pulled tight had planted herself with her arms straight at her sides, looking up at the ringleader like the height difference was the ringleader's problem.

"Say it one more time." The blonde stepped forward. "I dare you."

"Ooh." The purple-haired girl glanced at her flanks. They laughed on schedule. "What are you going to do, Ino? Throw another flower at me?"

"Worked last time, didn't it?"

"You got lucky."

"And you got a daisy down your throat. Want to try for a rose? I hear the thorns add flavor."

The pink-haired girl flinched, her fingers tightening on the strap of her bag.

Emiya kept walking.

"Hey." The purple-haired girl's head snapped toward him. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing worth stopping for." He didn't slow down. "You're picking on someone for having a big forehead. She'll grow into it. You might not grow out of this."

He heard one of the flanking girls choke, and the ringleader tried to say something that didn't survive past the first syllable. Then sandals scuffed stone, retreating fast, as the three of them scattered down the lane.

The pink-haired girl's hand went to the ribbon on her forehead, her lower lip catching between her teeth. The blonde beside her had gone very still, watching him walk away.

He was a dozen paces past when he heard someone running after him, a single set of footsteps closing the gap fast. The blonde girl appeared in front of him, skidding to a stop and planting herself square in his path with her arms out.

"You can't just say that."

Emiya shifted the containers under his arm. "Say what."

"Big forehead. You said big forehead. Right in front of her."

"Nothing wrong with a big forehead."

Ino clenched her jaw. "You don't get to say something mean and act like nothing happened."

"Oh?" He stepped around her and kept walking. "Then tell her the forehead isn't the problem. The people who convinced her it was are."

Behind him, Ino stood in the lane, then turned, one hand raised, her mouth already working.

"You..."

It trailed off as she worked her jaw. She looked back over her shoulder at the pink-haired girl who was standing where they'd left her, head down, bangs fallen forward over her eyes.

Ino's hand dropped, and she turned and ran back.

The compound gate was visible at the end of the road, the lanterns on either side still lit. The empty containers clinked under his arm.

---———---<<O>>---———---

​

Next Chapter Preview

The written test was forty minutes. Emiya finished in eight.

"He's just—Akamaru, stop—he's holding it for me!"

"Hm... Not bad."

"Stop saying that!"

---———---<<O>>---———---

​

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[Starman25]

She retrieved the kombu. "Thank you for your purchase, Uchiha-kun!"

Click to shrink...

This reminds me of the fanfic where Shirou was a ghost who possessed baby!Sasuke and was also Sasuke's servant.

 

[The Tangerine Cat]

This reminds me of the fanfic where Shirou was a ghost who possessed baby!Sasuke and was also Sasuke's servant.

Click to shrink...

wtf, lol, i didn't even know such a fic existed

 

[Starman25]

Shirou can finally meditate in peace (while reading this scene I imagined Shirou in a meditative pose in the water instead of standing in the water)

A small green frog leapt from a lily pad, sending rings of jewel-blue ripples across the shallow bed of pebbles. The current carried them outward until they thinned into nothing. Cicadas pulsed in the distance, their rhythm rising and falling with the breeze.

A boy stood on the river, the water lapping beneath his feet without ever disturbing his balance.

His eyes were closed.

Click to shrink...

Speaking of meditation: meditating in Naruto: you turn to stone.

meditating in the Nasuverse: you learn to transform your body into a magic circle.

And if Shirou retained some magic circuit, he can transform "natural energy" (or odd energy in Nasuverse terms) into magic energy, since magic circuits are magical air purifiers.

Edit:

wtf, lol, i didn't even know such a fic existed

Click to shrink...

It only had about 3 chapters and then it stopped.

 

[Starman25]

A leaf drifted from the canopy and landed on Sasuke's shoulder. His brother slowed half a step, and it slipped off his shirt. He never spared it a single glance. Itachi almost said something then. He wasn't sure what—a question, maybe, or something that might have passed for one.

Click to shrink...

How many leaves can Sasuke hide in his clothes for chakra control training, and also to strengthen them with chakra for improvised shurikens?

"Hey." The purple-haired girl's head snapped toward him. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing worth stopping for." He didn't slow down. "You're picking on someone for having a big forehead. She'll grow into it. You might not grow out of this."

Click to shrink...

This reminded me of that girl's face, and she was really ugly.