Asuma knew four years was a long time. He’d returned a different man to who he was when he left, but almost foolishly, he expected the village and the people within it to remain the same. He felt a little less sure of himself now that he was back. Quietly, he looked at himself in the mirror. He saw his father stare back at him for a second, but he blinked, and then he was gone, replaced by his reflection tracking water in from the bathroom.

He pushed his damp hair up with his forehead protector and pulled a long-sleeved shirt over his head. Kurenai stood outside, just beyond the stairwell's frosted glass panels, making him swallow nervously. He’d only just returned the day before and while they had agreed to meet up, seeing her was still a shock.

Learning that she’d made Tokubetsu Jonin hadn’t sunk in until he saw her. The respect the rank commanded wasn’t something a letter could convey but he could tell she’d settled into the role by how she handled the chunin at the check-in point.

Before he could muster up the courage to open the door, she noticed him at the door, walking over until she could see him and beamed, forcing him to open it. She marched toward him, arms folded over her black t-shirt as she stared at his face.

“What?” he asked, ignoring the self-conscious prickles dancing across his skin. “Do I have something on my face?”

She stepped back and placed her hands on her hips. “...You just woke up, didn’t you.”

“Are we going or not?” He shook his head and walked in front of her.

“Slow down; you don’t even know where we’re going. It’s been so long you’d get lost without me to guide you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he scoffed.

She laughed and took the lead, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her red jogging bottoms. Asuma followed her with his head on a swivel, taking in the shops and sights like he’d never seen them before. Kurenai led him into a bustling side street off the main road. He looked up at the washing lines strung across the buildings and the street performers. The scent of freshly roasted meat wafted through the air and Asuma closed his eyes and pulled it in.

“Wait… I know where we’re going,” he said.

She smiled. “Guess I underestimated your memory. I’m glad you remembered this place, though. It’s not like it’s important, right?”

He winced at the edge in her voice—forgetting this place would have been a monumentally stupid move on his part. It was the restaurant where their jonin sensei took them after every major milestone: their graduation test, first C-rank, and eventual promotion to chunin rank.

If he ever had children, he'd probably bring them to Yakiniku-Q too.

“Where’s Raido?” Asuma asked as they entered the restaurant. “And do you think that lazy bastard can make it or is it just us?”

“We’re early, but there’s a bunch more people coming. You might not know all of them, though.” She sat in the booth nearest to the door. “Here.”

Asuma poured from an already prepared jug of water and pushed the glass across the table.

“...What have you done with the old Asuma?”

He laughed as he poured himself a glass. “Let’s just say my time out has been good for me and leave it there.”

“I’m glad,” she said with a smile.

It was almost comical how easily they slipped back into their old dynamic.

Kurenai rambled while he sat back to listen to it all. She paused every so often to check that he was still paying attention, which was usually his signal to chime in. Usually, his focus drifted and he found himself thinking about something completely unrelated and then she'd notice and fix him with the off-putting stare she was known for… which she was doing right now.

“I’m listening,” he said.

A raised eyebrow was all she needed to show her doubt.

“Really. You were talking about your promotion from chunin to tokubetsu jonin, right?”

She blinked slowly.

“Told you,” he said with a smile, “I’m a new man now.”

“You know,” she took a measured sip from her glass, “I could get used to this new Asuma.”

He smirked and rested against the sofa in self-satisfaction as she started back up again and slowly, his eyes began to close. Somewhere between three and five minutes in, she suddenly cut herself off. Asuma sat up, afraid he’d missed a question, but he came up blank.

He stared questioningly at her and she squirmed out an answer: she felt bad that she had spent fifteen minutes talking about herself and her life when they hadn’t seen each other for four years.

Asuma laughed harder than he could remember, wiping tears from his face and controlling his breathing. “It was just that? Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad our friendship’s the same.”

She smiled a little tightly and nodded. A strangeness clung to his insides, coiling and twisting—and he didn’t like it.

A boisterous voice boomed behind them, “Did somebody say friends?”

Asuma popped his head out of their booth and grinned at his best friend’s scarred face. “Raido, that you?” He walked into the busy restaurant, clad in the standard shinobi uniform. “Looks like you’re still as stiff as usual. I mean, come on—who goes to a gathering in their uniform?”

“Someone in it for so long that it becomes their natural state of being. Leave him alone, we’ve all been there,” another voice chuckled, deeper and more gravelly than Raido’s. He whipped his head back to Kurenai, who smiled until her cheeks dimpled pleasantly.

He rocketed out of his chair and stepped around a grinning Raido to envelop his sensei in a bear hug.

“Easy there, wunderkind,” His sensei patted his back, “hugs from you have felt weird since you outgrew me a few years ago. I get all the ash and tobacco smell on me and have to explain it to my wife.”

Asuma broke the hug but gripped both his shoulders firmly. “That’s half the fun, Shikaku-sensei. You passed your filthy habit onto me and then quit, leaving me high and dry, so in my eyes: that’s the least you deserve.”

“I blame you for that till this day, sensei.” Kurenai wrinkled her nose and leaned out of the booth.

“Come now, Kurenai,” said Shikaku, trying for a smile. “We both know he would’ve done it anyway. I think you’re forgetting how rebellious he was as a brat.”

Their small booth quickly became a den of boisterous conversation. More friends arrived as they talked and drank—or so he was told. Asuma recognised the first few and gave them enthusiastic greetings but more unfamiliar faces began to pop up, either as their plus ones—so many people had arrived that they’d had to move to the first floor.

Orders were placed in no time and for a while, they all talked over sizzling cuts of beef. He found himself lingering on the edges, too unfamiliar with the topics of conversation to chip in but as he was the person everyone was dedicating the afternoon to, it wasn’t like he could just up and leave. That left him in a tight spot where he had to rely on his close circle—Shikaku, Raido, and Kurenai. Raido and Shikaku’s jobs were a round-the-clock thing, so they had to leave after two hours, leaving him with just one lifeline.

Asuma popped the last bite into his mouth and searched for Kurenai. He made his way through the clusters of socialising people, clutching a half-empty tumbler to his chest.

“Hey, erm… welcome back, man!”

He raised a hand to greet a group he didn’t recognise, slowing his stride down.

“Idiot,” a lady who must’ve been his friend hissed, “I told you his name was Asuma—so how the heck did you forget it in less than twenty seconds?”

“...Sorry, alright? I don’t even know the guy, even if he’s a jonin, he’s been gone for years!”

She dragged him away, directing an apologetic smile his way. Squeezing between them and a table, he weaved around half a dozen more people before he reached Kurenai—though he heard her laugh before he saw her.

She was part of a small circle of kunoichi talking animatedly to each other. Asuma froze as he watched life carry on around him. While he probably could’ve got her to come over, he didn’t—rather, he couldn’t. It was his party but it felt like he was the one intruding. Everywhere he looked, people were in the middle of conversations that he didn’t know enough about to disturb.

Still holding his half-empty glass, Asuma returned to his seat and called for another order of beef, settling the seasoned slices atop the grill and taking small, sour sips of his drink. He slipped a piping-hot side of beef over his tongue while the sounds of conversation boxed him in from either side.

He held a hand up for the waiter posted at the top of the first-floor staircase. “Waiter, another round of drinks for my friends, please.”

The simultaneous cheers from everyone didn’t make him feel better, but he raised his half-empty glass with enough false cheer to make himself grin anyway.

 

---

 

Asuma tugged at his collar and adjusted his tie so it wasn’t choking him anymore. He looked around the Sarutobi compound gate and breathed a sigh of relief. After that disaster of a welcome party a few days ago, hopefully, the family dinner would be a step up. He walked the lamp-lit streets of the Sarutobi compound, thankful it was late enough for his arrival to go unnoticed.

Perched atop a roof, he squinted into the darkness and flitted to his family home. He’d only just landed on the south wall’s tiling when his heart sank.

“Why, hello there, young master. I knew you would enter through here. You always had a habit of sneaking around.”

“...Grannie. It’s been too long.” He hopped down in embarrassment and she gave him a toothy grin; the wrinkles on her face had deepened since he last saw her. “You’ve grown… old.”

“Haven’t we all?” She raised an eyebrow, “I was old when you were born, young master—and get rid of that, will you? You know your brother hates the smell; he’s brought Konohamaru with him.”

“Konohamaru?” Asuma crushed the half-disintegrated cigarette in his hand. “How is he?”

Grannie beckoned him to follow her as she circled back to the front entrance. “As much a terror as you were at that age. He drives your brother up the wall, that one.”

“Good.” He ignored the realisation that he wasn’t sure if Konohamaru was three or four. “He needs someone to loosen the stick he’s got jammed up his ass.”

She shook her head wryly. “Your foul mouth is still in action after all these years, I see.”

“You’d better believe it, Grannie,” he smiled.

They trudged across the well-cut lawn and rounded the building’s eastern side, bumping into the other servants finishing their day's work. He recognised some of them—they were people he’d seen around the clan compound growing up—but found himself consistently not recognising a good few. 

“Wait a sec, is that you, Asuma?”

Grannie stopped and wagged a finger in front of her face. “Sadao if I find that you’ve managed to foist off your work on one of the new hires, I will bring out the paddle.”

“Sadao?” Asuma was beyond shocked to find his childhood friend working as a servant in his own home. “What happened to you becoming a playwright?”

Sadao turned the corner dressed head to toe in the Sarutobi clan’s servant wear: black kung-fu slippers and a set of burgundy samue. He didn’t know who started the trend, but the servants had worn it for as long as he could remember.

“Ah-ah-ah—you’re jumping to conclusions, my chain-smoking friend.”

Asuma snorted when Grannie poked him in the ribs.

“It doesn’t matter what your relationship with the young master is, when you are at work, you will refer to him as such”

“Yeesh, Grannie.” Sadao rubbed his side. “I’m here part-time,” He stared pointedly at Grannie, “young master.”

“This a recent thing?” Asuma asked after he’d suppressed his laugh at being called ‘young master’ by Sadao of all people.

“No, he asked me for work shortly after you left,” said Grannie.

“...Right.” Because there was little else he could say in the face of something he wouldn’t have known about.

Sadao interjected quickly, “I’ve been working here for a few years to save up the funds for props and special effects—and so have a few of the actors and actresses; you might’ve seen them on your way here. In fact, my play’s going to be performed soon—I’d like you to come see it. You'll be in the VIP box and everything; I’ll mail you the tickets for the first screening next month.”

Asuma blinked. “I was wondering why some of them looked so unfamiliar. And sure, I’ll come. What’s it called?”

“The Life and Times of the Fourth Hokage and there isn’t a better way to find out about the Fourth Hokage than asking the Third Hokage. Plus the actors and actresses can get a feel for the lives of the people they'll be portraying.”

Sadao and his crew working as servants in his family home didn't feel any less weird with that information, but it made much more sense to him. Asuma looked to the dining hall, trying to keep the edge out of voice. “Does he even have time for you?”

His friend made a so-so gesture. “I’ve been working here for three years and only just finished the play so you tell me.”

“Go and make yourself useful, Sadao.” Grannie waved her cane threateningly at Sadao, who danced out of its range and hid around the corner.

Asuma spotted him sprinting down the engawa and into a side room.

“That boy… so, shall we continue, young master?”

“Sure,” he smiled and allowed her to lead him to the dining room.

A whole roasted chicken lay spread in the centre of the table, flanked by sides of vegetables and a massive bowl of steaming pilaf rice. Around it sat his family members. Seeing them, it felt like he’d been gone for ten years instead of four.

His father’s hairline had receded even further and his face was sagging with the weight of age. At thirty-five years old, his brother looked hale and healthy, though he could see the beginnings of his father’s renowned widow’s peak coming in—and his sister-in-law sported the odd grey streak in her dark hair.

“Asuma,” his father smiled.

“Hello, dad.” He shuffled on his feet, eyes flickering from his father’s to the table, and then back to his father’s eyes.

He raised an open palm. “Do take a seat.”

Asuma sat beside his brother and opposite Konohamaru, who’d been fastened to a highchair and returned his brother’s smile.

“How’re you settling in?” Seiji asked.

“Not too bad. Things have changed, but that’s life. How have things been going for you?”

“Not too bad; I became clan head last year. Father's getting up there in age, and he's been talking about stepping down for years, so here I am.”

 “...Congratulations.”

His brother smiled and began plating the assorted food, pushing the burden of conversation onto Asuma. He gave a small, tight-lipped smile towards Konohamaru, which soon proved to be a mistake.

“Hey… who’re you?” he asked, split between trying to lick his elbow and blinking curiously at him. Seiji dropped the plastic serving spoon in shock, scattering rice grains across the table.

“Dad, you need to be more careful; wasting food is bad.”

“Konohamaru,” Seiji sighed. “I told you before we came here: he’s your uncle, my little brother.”

“Yeah, but I don’t remember having an uncle.” Konohamaru flapped a hand, crossed his arms, and nodded to himself sagely. “And you forgot you had a little brother until today.”

“Sorry about this, Asuma,” said Yasuko, his sister-in-law, as she shushed Konohamaru. It didn’t seem to work though, because the kid was growing more belligerent with each attempt.

“Nah, it’s fine,” he said eventually—because, really, what else could he say? “He was barely one when I left, so I can’t expect him to remember me. Sucks for you guys, though.”

His father coughed. “Excuse me… but how?”

“Well,” Asuma grinned, “I’ve come dressed for the occasion and get to carefully give him the best impression of Uncle Asuma. In a few years reckon he’ll be coming to me for his every need.”

Seiji snorted. “Is that so? Remind me who you came to for everything important in your life.”

“Sure, but that was before I had the life experience I do now. I got to see the sights beyond the Leaf Village that you didn’t.”

“Yeah? Look where that got you.” There was a strange undercurrent to Seiji’s voice that Asuma didn’t like. He furrowed his brow and opened his mouth but his father beat him to the punch.

“Enough, Seiji,” his father said. “Your brother has been gone for years.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Asuma asked.

“Peace, son, I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just been so long since we’ve had dinner together—is it truly wrong of me to ask for a happy time between us?”

There was a strange staredown between the three of them. Not quite angry but it was clear that a decade of arguments and animosity couldn’t be solved by a single dinner. He dislodged bits of food between his teeth while he glared at his brother.

“Woah!” Konohamaru gave an airy laugh. “I like you, strange uncle.”

“Strange Uncle?” his father repeated and Asuma could hear the laugh in his voice. “I like it—but why is he strange?”

“Really, grampa?” He gawked and vaguely waved his stubby little arms. “Look at his clothes. They’re strange clothes, right mama?”

“Slow down there or you’ll fall over,” said Asuma as he leaned over the table, “I’ll have you know that these are the latest fashion in the Land of Fire. Know what they call them?

“What?” he asked, and staring at those curious blue eyes, he knew he’d won him over.

“They’re called suits.” Asuma leaned in and hissed at the end, causing his nephew to wriggle back with a shrill, excited laugh.

From there, things could not have gone better. Asuma baited him into asking about the suit before dialling back to the more hilarious aspects of his time in the Fire Capital—like the insanely opulent festivals the Daimyo would throw for the most inane reasons. This, of course, quickly extended to all the other mind-numbing things the Daimyo had done and Asuma didn’t quite realise how hair-brained it all was until he was away from the Fire Capital.

“No way,” Yasuko gasped, wiping streaming tears off her flushed cheeks as she turned to his father, a desperate amusement layered in her voice. “Please tell me it’s not true.”

“Unfortunately,” he chuckled before finishing the last bite on his plate, “our Daimyo’s wife, and thus our Daimyo, did indeed create a national holiday because Tora—that’s their pet cat, Konohamaru—did not disappear for three consecutive months. Since last year, every village in the Land of Fire has had a national holiday on the last Friday of April.”

Asuma looked around at the various emotions at the table: amusement from Yasuko, bemusement from Seiji, sheer confusion from Konohamaru, and his father’s helplessness at having to corroborate it all. Seizing the moment, he clapped his hands and continued while the emotions were still fresh. He told them of his exploits as one of the Twelve Guardian Shinobi—toned down for Konohamaru’s sake, successfully captured the entire table’s attention.

For all his father’s knowledge about the Daimyo, he rarely concerned himself with matters outside of national security—meaning even he sat rapt as Asuma spoke. He stopped only when his throat was dry (and slightly hoarse) from all the talking.

Pouring out a glass of water, he felt a swell of pride at the empty plates. He’d entertained the table and then some. “So, what now? Is dinner over?”

“Over?” Seiji smiled. “No, no, no. What about dessert?”

“Dessert? Last I checked, our family didn’t do dessert, did it?” Asuma frowned at his father.

“Things change, my son. I’m quite fond of those frosted cakes, myself. It’s a fairly recent import from the Land of Tea but it’s taken the village by storm.”

“Dessert, huh?” he muttered, before shaking his head. “Okay then, I’ll go help Grannie—why are you looking at me like that Seiji? You know she won’t stop unless we force her to.”

His elder brother stuck his hands up and started to say something before Asuma—to Konohamaru’s obvious amusement—waved him off. He walked the familiar narrow halls to the kitchen, where Grannie was loading various cakes, pastries, and puddings onto a rattling cart.

“Let me help you there,” said Asuma as he swooped over her—because she was just that small—and wheeled the cart out of the kitchen. “Don’t even try to talk me out of it, you know it won’t work.”

“Young master… alright. But be careful. The ramp from the kitchen to the main house—”

“I’ll be fine.” Asuma smiled at her, clearing the small ramp without any problem. “See?”

She wrung her hands together before clasping them in front of her. They walked side by side across the house, carefully turning corners to avoid incoming passersby, and simply enjoying each other’s company without a need for words. Still, it was Grannie who broke the silence first, making a strange noise.

“What is it?” Asuma asked. “Did we leave something behind?”

She shook her head. “No, nothing like that. It’s… I’ve missed you, young master. Truly.”

“Oh…” Smiling, he looked ahead and continued pushing the small cart forward. “...I’ve missed you too, you know. I—how do I say it? I guess I needed to leave. These past few years have been good for me and even though I was away from you all… I don’t regret it, but I missed you.”

Silence blanketed the small corner of the hallway they stood in. Asuma looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

“When we last met, I feared for your future. You and your father always had your differences but you were… you were so hateful and bitter that it scared me.”

He winced, not at being called bitter and hateful—but at the implication that he was no longer like that. His time outside of the village had healed many things, but his relationship with his father was not one of them. He struggled to formulate a reply before they returned to the dining hall.

“No, that’s not what I meant!”

Asuma and Grannie shared a glance as the yelling grew louder. He parked the tray to the left of the door, making sure it was out of the way.

“Why, mama?” Konohamaru, still bound to his chair (though it was rocking back and forth), ignored his mother’s pleas to stop. His forehead was scrunched in focus as he asked, “Why was he gone for so long?”

Asuma carefully circled the table and returned to his seat. His father watched the affair sadly, his wrinkled hands intertwined and placed in front of him on the table. Seiji sipped his water and raised an eyebrow towards Asuma. Yasuko, growing sick of her son’s constant questions, lifted him out of the rocking chair and left the dining room.

“What was that about?” Asuma asked—to which his father gestured towards the empty high chair.

“You happened, Asuma,” said Seiji, the edge in his voice returning. “You returned to our lives so suddenly, expecting everything to be the same—that’s what happened.”

“What… that’s—no, I—”

His father interrupted, “Enough, Seiji.”

“No, father. I’m in the right here and you know it.” Seiji glared at Asuma. “Do you think you’re the only one who couldn’t stand it? That you were the only one with problems? I saddled down and faced them but you? You ran, and then you came back one day completely out of the blue.”

“Seiji… I couldn’t stay,” said Asuma, smiling pleadingly. “If I did… I don’t know what would’ve happened. I hated this place and…” He glanced at his father and shook his head. “Listen, I’m sorry I hurt you.”

His brother scoffed and folded his arms. “Don’t apologise to me. Apologise to my son who doesn’t remember my brother—his uncle. Tell me, did you ever plan on coming back, or did it take ten of the twelve esteemed guardian shinobi dying to remind you of your family?”

With that one question alone, the confidence he’d erected over the last few days came crashing down. He could see it in their faces: his father's and his brother’s. He could see that this wasn’t the first time they’d asked themselves that. That they too didn’t know if Asuma would return. Truth be told, even he didn’t know if he would return until it happened—and for him to just waltz in and pretend otherwise?

He snorted as if he’d heard a bad joke.

“Seiji,” his father barked before his voice softened. “Asuma…”

“What are you doing?” Asuma frowned at him. “You’re… you’re treating me like… like I’m going to go and run away.”

“Aren’t you?” Seiji asked.

Asuma whirled on him, furious, but then the wind left his sails and he sighed. “Father,” he said, feeling more tired than ever before. “May I be excused? I just… I can’t do this right now.”

His father nodded sadly, dragging a heavy hand over his face.

“What did I just say, Asuma? Running away won’t solve your problems, it just throws them to someone else!”

“What do you want, Seiji?” Asuma snapped, turning around a few paces before the door. “Do you want me to throw myself to the floor and cry? Will that make you feel better—tell me!”

Seiji flushed and, for a moment, looked like he wanted to hit him very, very hard. Instead, he shook his head, looking almost as exhausted as he did. “No. I just want you to realise that I suffered too.”

He gave him a long, searching look and muttered, “You don’t think I knew that?” 

Shaking his head, he walked out of the door just as the beginnings of an argument erupted between his father and his brother. Grannie stood outside the dining hall, wiping tears from her face. He passed Yasuko further down the corridor; she smiled apologetically.

The fact that none of them had said anything against his leaving only proved him right: things had changed, and he couldn't tell if it was for the better or the worse.

 

---

 

He cracked his eyes open and bent halfway over the table while preparing a cup of tea. Dishes from the day before piled inside the sink and random clutter from the Fire Capital littered the kitchen countertop. He didn’t wait for the water to finish bubbling before tipping out the kettle’s contents into a red mug and leaving the kitchen as he found it. The living room was in an entirely different condition: save for his unpacked suitcase shoved into the corner of the room and his suit from the abysmal dinner hanging limply over the door, it was completely bare.

He collapsed onto his couch with a low grunt, careful not to spill any of the tea onto the carpet. Common sense dictated that spending a day in self-flagellation was not healthy behaviour—but common sense wasn’t stopping him from feeling to blame for his situation. Konohamaru’s tantrum was a symptom of something much more harmful: there was a tangible distance between himself, and the people he loved and cared for.

So, with nothing else to do, he latched onto what-ifs, managing to crawl his way out of bed. The first thing he did was look around his lifeless apartment, walking across the cold wood, a stranger in his home. Asuma saw his reflection in the television screen ahead of him, slouched and slack.

The heat from the tea barely registered as he took sip after sip, its warmth radiating across his body. His mind slowed to a crawl and though his eyes looked straight ahead, he couldn’t see anything, nor could he hear anything—meaning he missed the first knock at the door.

The second snapped him out of his self-constructed purgatory and Asuma nearly dropped his mug on the third; the tea sloshed dangerously against the sides of his mug as he shot to his feet.

Who had come to see him of all people?

He crept to the door, looking through the peephole, staring blankly at a man he hadn’t seen in years. Like Grannie, he’d grown older and more wrinkled, the cross-shaped scar on his chin had faded a little, but it stood out on his bronzed skin. By the looks of it, the bandages that wrapped around his head now extended down to his right arm… but that eye remained the same.

It frightened him as a child; he never quite understood how it could be that fierce but as an adult—a shinobi—he understood exactly why and it was all the more reason to question why the Shinobi of Darkness was at his front door.

“...Elder Shimura,” he said, carefully stepping aside to allow him in.

“Are you not going to invite me in, Asuma?”

“Make yourself at home, Elder Shimura. You know my home is yours.”

“Much obliged.”

Danzo gave him a small smile and entered the house cane-first. He left his shoes by the closed door and looked at Asuma; the corners of his lips curved up. 

He was already painfully conscious of how empty his home was. Danzo looking around in silent judgement only made it worse—but there was little he could do now that he was past the threshold. Reaching the living room, Danzo looked between the couch facing the television and the armchair facing the dining table, lowering himself into it.

“Can I get you anything? Tea or coffee?”

Danzo rubbed his scar with his thumb and index finger. “What kind of coffee?”

“It’s the Daimyo’s special blend,” he confessed. “I’m not one for coffee so it’s been sitting in my cupboard, but he gave it to me as a gift.”

“I see. I’ll have the coffee then.”

Asuma entered the kitchen and prepared it absent-mindedly. He pulled a mug down from the topmost shelf of a cupboard and poured out the coffee, bringing it back to the living room. Danzo took the offered mug with a smile and sniffed the steam wafting out of it.

“Indeed,” he hummed, “this is an exquisite blend. How did you know I took my coffee black?”

“It’s… part of the method.” Asuma swallowed his shock—he’d been so preoccupied with trying to figure Danzo out that he forgot to add milk and sugar. “The Daimyo told me that it was best taken that way.”

Danzo smiled pleasantly and closed his one eye. Asuma picked up his half-empty mug and sipped the fragrant tea, waiting until he’d finished the now-lukewarm drink to breach the silence. “While this is nice and all, I’d like to know what it is I can do for you, Elder Shimura.”

“Ironically, this particular visit is little more than a social call.” Asuma raised an eyebrow in disbelief and Danzo smiled. “Is it wrong to visit my friend’s son?”

“When you haven’t seen him since he was eleven?” he snorted. “Yes.”

“Are you truly upset that I stopped coming?” Danzo’s lone brown eye shone amusedly.

“No, just curious. Why did you stop coming?”

“It was not my choice. Following the Fourth’s tragic death… your father and I had a disagreement on what direction our village should move in. Militarily, we were—are—the weakest we’ve ever been. The only reason the other villages didn’t make any open moves against us was because of the Sannin—but thanks to the Snake, that defence fell apart. The rest of the Elemental Nations have no clue that the Slug Princess has abandoned our village but they will find out eventually.”

“Things aren’t that dire, are they?” asked Asuma.

Danzo raised his only visible eyebrow. “All we have left of the legendary trio is the Toad Sage—and we both know he is rarely in the village. So, where does that leave us? Tell me, what did your father do when the Cloud delegation attempted to kidnap the Hyuuga heiress underneath our noses? Did he gather our strength and have their war-mongering Kage face retribution? No, he readily offered the life of Jonin Hizashi Hyuuga.”

Asuma stared at his empty cup of tea in thought before looking up. “What was he meant to do, Elder Shimura? We didn’t have the manpower to go against the Cloud—not after the Nine-Tailed Night.”

“That is not what I’m saying. It’s simply an example of the reason why your father and I do not get along anymore.” Danzo took a moment to breathe. “...I mean no offence when I say this, but it is what I think: Hiruzen should not have taken the hat after the Fourth died. He’d grown too soft, and if that wasn’t bad enough, he allowed his grief to blind him and ignored the cliff that our village is hurtling towards…

“I mourned the Fourth too—but not like your father. I did not know him personally, only professionally, and here is what I thought: Minato Namikaze was the ideal shinobi—the ideal Hokage. There is a time for diplomacy and a time for strength; Minato Namikaze—no, the Fourth Hokage—knew this. As did your father… once,” said Danzo, stopping to take a sip of his drink. “That day has long since passed.”

“...Why are you here?”

Danzo smiled. “To the heart of the matter, then. I’m here to talk about you. As one of the Daimyo’s shinobi retinue, you acquired a bounty of 35 million ryo and are listed in every Bingo Book besides ours. And, towards the end of your tenure, you put your duty as a shinobi above personal ties—that is something I respect, Asuma.”

The night he fought his sworn comrades to the death pushed itself past the surface. He, Chiriku, Nauma, Tou, and Seito had fought the others until only he and Chiriku remained. 

Involuntarily, he looked up and found a grim understanding in Danzo’s eyes.

“What do you want, sir?” he hissed, in no mood for beating around the bush.

“Patience,” he said, and still, Asuma found no pity in his eyes—only understanding. “The Cloud has let us be after the Hyuuga Affair, but what of the other villages? The Fence Sitter and his ilk will not break the peace, even if they could; they left the war with the heaviest losses. By their own making, the Mist is a non-factor, and that only leaves the Sand, who is our ally, whatever good that brings us.”

The Sand was forced into an alliance with the Leaf at the end of the war, but instead of building back their forces through missions and funding, the Wind Daimyo limited the Sand’s funding and outsourced many of their high-paying missions to the Leaf.

To Asuma, it wasn’t a question of if the alliance would break down, but when.

He looked at Danzo. “We’re not much better. Our military isn’t so hot, and the only reason we’re doing so well—comparatively—is because of our good relationships with the smaller villages through trade and joint missions. That, and Lord Atsuhiko likes us a lot.”

“You sell yourself short,” said Danzo. “He is fond of the Leaf because of you. Your actions secured the backing of Daimyo Atsuhiko for years to come. What we need is ideal shinobi who embody the creed, not glorified samurai stuck to notions of honour and kindness.” Their eyes met and Asuma blinked owlishly at the implication that he could be the shinobi ideal like the Fourth was; Danzo smiled and clasped his sleeve-covered hands in his lap. “Asuma, I would like to invite you to my residence next week—for tea.”

“Why?”

“Because you returned at the perfect time and returned with achievements, accolades, and strength. This village needs more jonin-ranked shinobi to dissuade anything like the Hyuuga Affair from ever happening again. If the Cloud did it once, who’s to say the Stone won’t do the same—or even the Sand.”

“And you think I can be the one to do that?” Asuma held back a laugh at the implication. “You overestimate me, Elder Shimura.”

“Do I? To me, you’re underestimating yourself.” He rose with his cane in hand. “I look forward to hosting you.”

Asuma followed him to the door and returned the older man’s nod, watching him return to the heart of the village from the balcony. Danzo was an unexpected disturbance, a man he didn’t expect to see in a thousand years.

Returning to the living room, he collapsed onto the sofa and returned to staring at his reflection on the television screen.

“The ideal shinobi, huh?” he muttered.

- - -