The ceiling creaked faintly as the wind rustled the eaves. Morning light—well, more like noon light—slipped between the half-closed shoji.
Uchiha Yamato lay in bed, one arm over his eyes. His body exhausted from the trek. He had hiked out beyond the training fields yesterday, past the eastern ridge where chakra-imbued grass grew in strange patterns, hoping to find relics buried beneath forgotten terrain.
He'd returned with nothing.
No fossils. No tools. No ruins.
Just blisters and a sore back.
"Another wasted day," he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
He forced himself up and went through his routine. Cold water to the face. Brushing teeth with a chalky herbal paste. A clean robe from the peg. His apartment was simple—half lab, half home, with scrolls and old bones stacked beside the rice sack in his kitchen.
By the time he stepped outside, the sun was high and unforgiving.
His stomach growled.
"Lunch it is then," he muttered.
He made his way through the quieter lanes of Konoha, occasionally nodding to familiar shopkeepers or genin running errands. No one really stopped him. Most didn't know who he was.
And those who did—well, the Uchiha name carried a strange weight these days. Especially when worn by a man with no Sharingan and no rank.
His special permit to leave the village still sat tucked inside his robes, stamped with the Third Hokage's personal seal. It had taken months of quiet persuasion and a dozen harmless half researched papers before Hiruzen had finally granted it.
"Every village needs a few eccentrics," the Hokage had once said with a laugh. "Better they work with us than vanish into the woods and come back shouting about forbidden truths."
---
He turned the corner, and the scent of grilled meat hit him like a jutsu to the gut.
The Yakiniku Q was already half full, smoke wafting from chimneys, meat sizzling on open grills.
Yamato hesitated a moment—then stepped in, rubbing the back of his neck. It had been a while since he treated himself.
He found an empty table near the corner and sat down, glancing over the menu.
That's when he saw them.
The Sannin.
Tsunade, gloomily leaning back with a half-empty sake jug in hand.
Jiraiya, laughing loud enough to rattle the grill.
Orochimaru, silent but sharp-eyed, methodically turning slices of meat with chopsticks.
They didn't notice him.
Yamato lowered his head slightly, half-hidden behind the menu, and let out a breath.
---
The scent of grilled meat had dulled his hunger slightly, but Yamato still ordered modestly — just a tray of sliced beef and rice, and some barley tea. He kept his eyes on his plate, trying not to glance again at the three figures a few tables away.
But it was impossible not to notice them.
Orochimaru sat like a shadow, sharp eyes lazily sweeping the room. He wasn't eating much, just watching — and now, watching him.
Yamato paused mid-bite as he realized it.
Their eyes met. Orochimaru's expression didn't change, but he gave a small, unmistakable nod. Acknowledgment.
Before Yamato could decide how to respond, Jiraiya turned around to see what had caught his teammate's attention.
"Oh ho?" Jiraiya grinned. "Is that who I think it is?"
Yamato blinked, already bracing himself.
Jiraiya stood and, before Yamato could protest, strode over and clapped him on the shoulder with a thump that made his tea spill slightly.
"Uchiha Yamato! You're hiding over here? Come on, you're sitting with us." Jiraiya laughed loudly as he shook his shoulder.
Yamato was hesitant, "I'm— I was just—"
"Relax," Jiraiya said, already dragging him by the arm. "You're not undercover, are you? Nah, you're probably out researching the mating patterns of stone frogs or something."
He laughed at his own joke as he pulled Yamato over. Yamato couldn't help but glance at Orochimaru, who offered a faint, unreadable smile.
And then, Tsunade looked up.
For a second — a flicker of something. Gentleness, Anger.
Then her eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a line, and she looked away, focusing back on her drink.
Jiraiya either didn't notice or pretended not to.
"Look who I found hiding in the corners like an unsocialized poet."
Yamato stood awkwardly at the edge of the table. He bowed slightly toward Tsunade, but she didn't return the gesture.
"I didn't expect to see you all here," he said quietly.
"You mean us legends?" Jiraiya grinned, tossing him a skewer. "War's over. Time to eat like humans again."
Yamato sat, feeling the temperature drop slightly as Tsunade remained silent.
He didn't need chakra to feel the wall between them.
The meal was quiet at first. Just the sound of meat sizzling and Jiraiya chewing louder than necessary. Yamato sipped his barley tea, occasionally exchanging small talk—weather, how nice it felt to have peace, which food vendors had gone out of business during the war.
Eventually, Jiraiya leaned back and patted his stomach.
"I'm thinking of getting back to writing," he said, grinning. "Something new. I was scribbling down an idea during one of the lulls in the war. Thought it might make a good book."
"Oh?" Yamato raised an eyebrow. "Is it… serious?"
Jiraiya laughed. "It was going to be called Icha Icha Paradise. Unlike the gutsy ninja book, that one was something for kids. But lately I've been leaning toward something a little more… mature."
Tsunade rolled her eyes and muttered, "Here we go."
"I'm just saying," Jiraiya said with mock innocence, "a man risks his life in the battlefield—he deserves the right to explore… romance, right?"
"You mean perversion," Tsunade snapped.
"I call it passion." Jiraiya winked at Yamato.
Yamato chuckled softly. "Well, whatever you write, I'm sure it'll make an impact. You've got a gift, Jiraiya-san."
Jiraiya lit up. "Ha! Now that's what I like to hear."
Yamato added, "I published my first research paper recently, actually."
That made Orochimaru look up, eyes sharp and focused on him.
"It took you long enough," Orochimaru said, voice smooth, unreadable.
Yamato gave a shrug, " Well, It was… thorough. Pre-chakra hominids. Dated back almost seven million years. It's in the library archives now."
"You think I'd find it interesting?" Orochimaru asked.
"Definitely. Maybe not useful," Yamato said, "but it's the kind of thing I think you, in particular, would appreciate."
Jiraiya raised a brow. "Pre-chakra? So… cavemen?"
"Not quite. Something more fundamental." Yamato looked at each of them. "Take it as a time way before chakra molded who we are. What we became."
For a moment, the conversation slowed. The fire crackled at the center of their grill. The tension, often sharp when shinobi and scholars crossed paths, was absent. Just old friends—and something like peace.
Yamato rose from his seat and moved around the table.
Tsunade didn't look at him as he sat beside her. She turned her face to the side with a soft, dismissive hmph.
Still, Yamato gently took her hand into his. She didn't pull away.
"It must've been hard," he said softly. "The war. Losing people. Leading. Healing. Fighting."
She didn't answer right away. Her fingers twitched in his grasp.
"And losing people closest to you. No matter what, they will always be here with you. "
After a long moment, she exhaled. "It was hell," she whispered.
Yamato nodded, brushing a thumb over her knuckles. "I know you tried to help me once as well. When I was stuck. I never thanked you for that."
Tsunade glanced sideways. Her eyes were glassy, but not from the alcohol. "You didn't have to thank me. I just didn't want to see you waste yourself."
"I didn't see another way," Yamato said quietly. "I couldn't keep up with everyone. But I could still… understand the world. Write about it."
Her lips trembled, then curled up slightly, her gloom disappearing ever so slightly,"You always were stubborn."
He grinned. "Says the woman drinking sake before sundown."
Tsunade glared at him. "Don't push it."
He laughed, the warmth between them slow and hesitant, but real.
---
One Hour Later…
The sun was lower now. Konoha's streets cast long shadows, and the laughter from the Barbeque restaurant faded behind them.
Yamato walked with Tsunade leaning against him, arm over his shoulder. She stumbled a little but didn't trip.
Two ANBU on a rooftop watched silently as they passed—neither intervened. It was clear this wasn't the first time.
The Senju house loomed quietly in the distance, mostly empty now, large and heavy with memories.
Inside, Yamato helped her onto the couch. She let him guide her like drifting wood.
He fetched a blanket from a nearby shelf and draped it over her, tucking it gently around her legs.
Just as he turned to leave, Tsunade stirred.
"…I'll read your paper," she said softly, her voice raw, eyes half-lidded and red.
Yamato paused at the door.
"I'm most glad you will," he said, smiling warmly. "Out of anyone else in the world… it means the most coming from you."
Tsunade's cheeks flushed, a faint pink glowing under her eyes. She looked away sharply.
"Idiot," she muttered.
Yamato chuckled, turning to go.
As the door shut softly behind him, Tsunade lay back on the couch, her hand resting over her chest.
"…You lovable fool," she whispered.