It's been days since Fugaku promised that arranged play-date—er, fiancée—and still zero updates. Talk about slow service.
Makoto slapped his thigh. When I'm clan head, first order of business: reassign Fugaku to toilet-scrubbing duty.
Clan head, janitor—same team, different mop. All for the family.
He marched straight to the study. The wooden hinge squeaked as he pushed the door open. Fugaku was hunched over the desk, back poker-straight, scribbling on a map.
Dipped the brush in red ink, added another dot. The whole village layout was peppered with tiny red marks—Uchiha patrol posts.
A yellowed sheet on the corner read, in charcoal: "Kumogakure Ceasefire Signing – Police Force Deployment." The strokes were so heavy they nearly tore the paper.
Who'd guess the super-serious clan head secretly binged Jiraiya's Icha Icha Paradise and Icha Icha Violence on the down-low?
"Boss-man," Makoto sidled up, glanced at the map, saw real work in progress, and added casually, "Carry on."
Fugaku didn't look up. Brush scratched across paper.
That "Boss-man" made Fugaku's brow twitch—like ice cracking under pressure. Kid only used titles when he wanted something.
Makoto caught the twitch, eyes spinning with mischief. He drifted to the corner shelf and pulled out a gold-embossed hardcover.
Jiraiya's latest—Icha Icha Violence—glinting with "Limited Edition" in the corner. Fugaku's precious stash.
Makoto flopped into the pear-wood chair, flip—pages rustling loud in the quiet room.
Fugaku's peripheral vision snagged the cover. His hand jerked; ink bled into a dark blob over "South Kayagawa" on the map—like a blood splatter.
Face soured. Caught red-handed again. Thought I hid it deep enough.
He inhaled, throat bobbing, the stern clan-head mask slipping into something almost grandfatherly. Finally looked up, voice low and gravelly.
"What's up, Makoto?"
Makoto set the limited edition on the desk, tapped the cover. "That thing you promised—how's it coming?"
He sounded like he was the one running the clan.
Fugaku blinked, confused. What thing? Then Makoto's finger started poking an illustration in the book. Oh. Right. The fiancée.
"Already picked the girl."
"Who?" Makoto's eyes lit up; he scooted forward, chair legs screeching.
Fugaku set the brush down, brow furrowing. Kid's spoiled rotten. She'll have to fix that.
"After the Kumogakure ceasefire signing, I'll talk to her mom. Too swamped with patrol rotations right now."
Makoto thought it over. Signing was in a few days. Fine. Good things come to those who wait—can't rush hot tofu.
He watched Fugaku dive back into work, gave the spicy illustration one last poke (don't forget), then swaggered out with the book.
Fugaku stared at the door until it slammed. Then—snap—the brush broke in his fist, ink blooming like an ugly flower.
Brat. Enjoy it while it lasts.
…
Next morning, sky still dim, the last morning star fading.
Itachi—who'd snuck in sometime overnight—pushed the door open without a sound, socks silent on the floor.
His eyes were redder than ever, but his spine stayed ruler-straight as he headed for the Hokage Tower.
Lately he'd been avoiding Makoto—didn't want Orochimaru defection rumors upsetting the kid again.
He knew Makoto loved cash, so plan: grind missions, stack ryō, keep the little guy smiling.
Makoto woke to sunlight sneaking through the window crack, a golden stripe across the floor.
He stretched, yawned—no Itachi in sight. Whatever, dude's always busy.
After breakfast, he strolled the compound. At the gate, he nearly tripped over a tiny, puffed-up figure.
Sasuke stood on the stone steps, hands clasped behind his back like Makoto, cheeks stuffed like chipmunks.
Still sulking over the flower-moving incident—no praise. When he spotted Makoto, his lips pursed so hard you could hang a soy-sauce bottle. He spun away—but stayed exactly half a step behind.
Half a block later, Makoto still hadn't acknowledged him.
Sasuke snuck a side-eye. Nothing? Doesn't he see I'm mad?
Makoto bought a mountain of snacks—charged to Fugaku's tab, naturally.
Then dumped the whole armful into Sasuke's chest. "Hold these."
Sasuke froze, instinctively hugged the crinkling bags.
Makoto still ignored him—but Sasuke trotted behind anyway, steps lighter, pout softening.
He didn't even like most of these snacks, but Makoto gave them to him. Fine. He'd graciously forgive the jerk.
…
Moments later.
The Uchiha private training ground—sun-warmed slate tiles, a few curled dead leaves jammed into the edges from kick impacts.
Makoto lounged in a rattan chair, munching potato chips—crunch-crunch—dust swirling in the breeze.
His gaze drifted past the haze to two girls sparring hard in the center. A lazy grin spread.
Nothing beats watching girls throw hands.
Beside him, Sasuke clenched tiny fists, glaring daggers at Makoto.
Great. He's ignoring me AGAIN…