Archive of Our Own ^beta

Minato Namikaze had seen war. He had faced monsters. He had looked death in the eye and died with a purpose.

But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for this.

He was lounging on one of the afterlife’s scenic overlook clouds, sipping tea from a cup that refilled itself, idly watching his son’s life unfold through the divine scrying pool. It was a thing they all did from time to time. Parental instinct didn’t vanish just because your soul moved to a higher plane.

It was evening in Konoha. The sun was setting in warm gold, casting a glow over the ramen stand Minato knew so well. His son, Naruto, was seated between two familiar figures — Sakura, looking slightly frazzled, and Sai, whose smile could be used to ice cakes.

Naruto didn’t look great. He was slumped, exhausted, nursing what appeared to be some kind of spiritual or chakra sickness. His hands were barely functioning. A bowl of miso ramen steamed in front of him, untouched.

Minato furrowed his brow, leaning forward a little.

“He’s not eating?” he murmured, concerned.

A dispute was underway. Sakura and Sai were bickering at full volume, both holding chopsticks, both trying to feed Naruto themselves. Naruto, poor kid, was caught in the middle, eyes wide, shifting back and forth like he was watching a kunai match between two emotionally unstable birds.

Minato relaxed.

Ah. Just overprotective teammates. That was fine. Kind of sweet, really. Sakura was clearly trying to care for him. Sai was… contributing, in his own creepy way.

And then—

Then he walked in.

Silver hair. Hands in pockets. Slouched gait like he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in a decade.

Minato smiled.

“Kakashi,” he said with fondness. “Now order something and sit down like a normal person—”

Kakashi did not order something.

Kakashi did not sit down.

Kakashi had the horrifying aura of someone trying to solve the problem. 

Then, Kakashi walked directly up to Naruto, picked up the chopsticks, looked his teammate in the face, and said, in the flattest voice Minato had ever heard—

“Here comes the choo-choo.”

The chopsticks advanced.

Naruto made a noise.

Sakura covered her mouth in slow horror.

Sai looked like Christmas had come early.

Minato’s brain blue-screened.

“Did he just—” He stood up abruptly, tea sloshing in its cup. “Did he just say that?”

Onscreen, Naruto flinched back, visibly traumatized, and still—still—Kakashi kept going, like he hadn’t just said the single most cursed string of words ever to come out of a jonin’s mouth.

Minato’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“…Kushina!” he called, voice cracking with disbelief. “Kushina, come in here! Your son’s teacher—he just—he said—choo choo, Kushina!”

There was the sound of a distant, “WHAT?!”

Minato grabbed the remote for the projection pool and slammed the rewind button.

The scene played again. Ramen. Bickering. Naruto. Kakashi. Chopsticks.

“Here comes the choo-choo.”

Minato slapped both hands over his face.

“I left my son’s soul in the hands of this man.”

He dropped onto the cloud like it was a fainting couch, muttering into his palms.

“I trusted him. I said, ‘Raise him like your own.’ Like your own, Kakashi! Not like some malfunctioning daycare uncle on sedatives!”

A pause.

Minato peeked through his fingers at the screen.

Kakashi was now blowing on the noodles.

Still expressionless.

Naruto looked like he’d aged ten years.

“…Oh gods. He’s committed to the bit.”

Minato exhaled shakily, one hand pressed to his heart. “I died. I died, so this man could live long enough to weaponize the phrase ‘choo choo.’”

He didn’t even notice the other Hokage gathering behind him to watch.

Hashirama leaned over his shoulder, squinting at the screen. “Is he pretending to be a train?”

Tobirama made a face like he’d tasted something sour. “This is what happens when you don’t enforce proper decorum in public.”

Hiruzen, rubbing his temples: “I helped train that man.”

Minato just stared at the screen, glassy-eyed. Kakashi was now adjusting Naruto’s headband so he could “fly the ramen plane.”

Minato whispered:

“I sealed the Nine Tails for this.”

Five minutes later, Minato was still lying on his back across the cloud like it was a therapist’s couch, one hand over his heart, the other shielding his eyes from the horrors of the living world.

He’d tried to recover. Truly. He had made more tea. He had breathed deeply. He had stared at a fixed point on the horizon and told himself, Kakashi is doing his best.

And then Kakashi picked up a napkin and dabbed Naruto’s chin like he was a toddler eating strained peas.

Minato let out a sound that could only be described as a spiritual whimper.

“Why,” he whispered to no one. “Why did I leave him unsupervised?”

Behind him, there was a sudden burst of laughter — bright, delighted, utterly unrestrained.

Rin had arrived.

She dropped to her knees on the cloud beside him, clutching her stomach, tears of laughter springing to her eyes.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, voice high with glee. “Did he just say ‘choo-choo?’ He really did. He really did!”

Minato peeked between his fingers.

“Rin. You’re early.”

“Early?” she choked, wiping her eyes. “Minato-sensei, I heard the phrase ‘open wide for the train’ echo across the afterlife. I ran.”

Minato groaned and rolled onto his side in defeat.

“He’s still going,” Rin said breathlessly. “Look! He’s making train noises. He is making train noises with his mouth. That’s the most horrifyingly deadpan choo-choo I’ve ever heard.”

At that moment, Obito arrived.

He appeared on the edge of the cloud like he’d just teleported in, arms crossed, aura of judgment preceding him like a thunderclap. He took one look at the screen and froze.

Kakashi, down below, was solemnly holding a second helping of noodles and murmuring, “Next stop: flavor town.”

Obito made a noise like a dying animal.

“No.”

Rin was crying. “Yes.”

Minato just groaned and buried his face again.

Obito took two slow steps forward, like approaching a scene of mass carnage.

“…What the hell am I looking at,” he said flatly.

Rin was wheezing. “He’s feeding Naruto. He took the chopsticks. He said choo choo. He even did the little arm motion.”

Obito looked like someone had shoved a senbon under each fingernail.

“No. He wouldn’t. He’s too—he’s not—he doesn’t have the range. He’s not that unhinged.”

“Oh, he’s worse,” Rin wheezed. “Watch this.”

Kakashi, onscreen, was now tucking a napkin into Naruto’s collar and saying solemnly, “All aboard the noodle express.”

Obito staggered back like he’d been struck.

“That’s not even a real train line! That’s not—that’s not a real thing!”

Rin collapsed into laughter again. “He’s improvising! Oh my god, he’s riffing.”

Minato moaned into the cloud. “I raised him. I raised that boy. I taught him Rasengan. I taught him leadership. Not this. Never this.”

Obito was pacing now, ranting to no one.

“I was supposed to be Hokage. I would never say ‘choo choo.’ I would rather die. Again. Twice.”

“Too late,” Rin said brightly. “You’re stuck here with us now. Enjoy the show.”

Obito turned back to the screen. Kakashi had just lifted the bowl again, utterly serious, and was saying in his calm, gravelly voice:

“If you don’t eat this, the train will crash and we’ll all die.”

A beat of silence.

Obito turned away.

“I need a different cloud. I can’t be on this one anymore.”

Minato was curled in a fetal position. “Tell him I’m proud of him. But also that I disown him.”

Rin wiped her eyes, still giggling. “You two are impossible. I think it’s adorable.”

Obito glared at her.

“Rin. He said flavor town.”