Chapter Text
The village of Konoha was alive with movement, the streets bustling with merchants, children, and villagers going about their daily business. Miyuki walked beside her mama, her pale fingers curled around Mebuki’s hand, green eyes taking in everything with keen attention.
Merchants shouted over each other, balancing trays of goods and haggling over prices. Children darted between their parents’ legs, laughing and jostling each other as they ran to the fountains or the market stalls. Ninjas walked in small groups, chatting quietly, their expressions calm but alert, and Miyuki watched them carefully, noting the way they carried themselves.
In the midst of it, she caught sight of a man with golden hair moving gracefully through the crowd, accompanied by a tall red-haired woman who smiled at a passing child. Miyuki didn’t know their names yet, of course. She only knew they stood out — their presence calm and warm, like sunlight breaking through the ordinary bustle of the streets.
Miyuki pressed her lips together, studying them from afar. There was something almost magical about the way they moved through the crowd, unshaken, observing without haste. She wished she could move like that — confident, strong, capable of walking without tiring, of holding her head high.
But she didn’t. Her body was delicate, easily fatigued, prone to sudden weakness. She had learned early to swallow her frustrations and hide them, lest she worry her mama and papa.
So she walked alongside Mebuki, silent, thoughtful, her mind cataloging the small details of village life: the tilt of a merchant’s hat as he bowed to a customer, the small smiles exchanged between neighbors, the way sunlight caught the edges of the rooftops. She was a quiet observer, a child aware of how the world moved and yet kept apart from it, tucked safely in the love of her parent
⸻
The path home wound past the Academy grounds, and even before they reached the corner, Miyuki could hear the sound of it — wooden kunai clattering, instructors barking orders, the shrill cries of children straining to impress. When they turned the bend, she slowed, her green eyes fastening on the wide practice yard where boys and girls her age darted about in flurries of movement.
Her steps faltered. For a heartbeat, she let herself imagine what it would be like to stand there too — forehead protector glinting in the sun, her hair tied back for sparring, the crowd of children laughing with her instead of without her. The longing curled tight in her chest like a fist.
“Miyuki.”
Her mama’s voice was gentle, but not blind. Mebuki had noticed the look in her daughter’s eyes.
“Do you wish to be a ninja?”
The question made Miyuki stiffen. She knew it was impossible — her body fragile, her health unreliable. Even if she could train, she would only be tolerated because the war needed warm bodies to throw at enemies. And hadn’t she seen little Uchiha Itachi? Four years younger than her, yet already being polished into a weapon. That wasn’t a life. That was a sentence.
Still, her throat tightened as she turned to her mama. Mebuki’s face was composed, stern as always, but her eyes — her eyes were soft enough to undo her. Mama would give her the world if she asked. Papa too. And wasn’t that the cruelest part?
So Miyuki put on the mask of her own making: spoiled princess, imperious and untouchable.
“Please, Mama,” she said with a dismissive flick of her hand. “Ninja work is all sweat and dirt. Hours of running in circles, throwing sharp things, tumbling about in the mud. I’d sooner lose myself in Papa’s puzzles or finish the ending of my new story than waste all that time. Why should I sully my hands with something so… pedestrian?”
Her voice carried the sharp edge of a child too clever for her own good, too indulged to fear speaking plainly. But under it, she felt the bitter twist of truth — the envy that made her chest ache.
Mebuki raised a brow, unimpressed, though there was the faintest curve of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “Pedestrian, is it? And yet, you do enjoy our mother–daughter pottery classes. You could make friends at the Academy too. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“I have friends,” Miyuki countered swiftly. “You and Papa. That is enough.”
“Enough for now,” Mebuki teased, nudging her shoulder gently. “But perhaps not forever. And besides—” her smile turned sly “—maybe I need more friends. Don’t you think your poor Mama deserves some?”
Miyuki huffed like a cat disturbed from her nap, though her lips betrayed her with a twitch of amusement. Her mother always knew how to blunt her sharpness, to ease the bitterness she tried so carefully to keep hidden.
And so she said nothing more, holding her mama’s hand a little tighter instead, as the sounds of the Academy faded behind them.
That earned her a soft laugh, Mebuki ruffling her white hair. For a moment, Miyuki almost forgot the ache in her chest as she listened to the other children training behind the Academy gates. Almost.
—————-
The smell of broth simmering filled the kitchen, steam curling from the pot as Mebuki chopped vegetables with brisk, steady strokes. Miyuki stood nearby, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, carefully peeling carrots. She liked helping her mama — it made her feel useful, less like the fragile doll everyone tiptoed around.
But halfway through her task, the room tilted. Her hand stilled on the knife.
“Mama…” she whispered, the word catching in her throat as the world blurred at the edges.
In an instant, Mebuki abandoned her chopping, the knife clattering onto the counter. She caught Miyuki by the shoulders, her stern composure cracking into raw fear. “Miyuki! Sit down—no, lie down. Come on, sweetheart.”
“I can still help,” Miyuki protested weakly, clinging to the peeler as if it were proof of her worth. “I don’t want to stop—”
“Hush.” Mebuki’s voice was gentle but firm, the kind of command that brooked no argument. She scooped Miyuki up with surprising strength, carrying her down the hall despite the girl’s squirming protests. “You’ve already helped plenty. Mama is very grateful, but what I need most is for my precious girl to rest.”
Miyuki’s head lolled against her mother’s shoulder, exhaustion pressing down on her like a heavy blanket. She hated this — hated being the weak link, the one who had to be protected. Still, she breathed in her mama’s warmth, letting herself be tucked into bed like the child she was.
“You’re too good to me, Mama,” she mumbled, words slurring as sleep crept in.
“And you’re too good to us,” Mebuki whispered back, brushing cool fingers across her forehead. “Now sleep.”
Miyuki drifted off, but the edges of her consciousness lingered. From her bed, she half-heard the low murmur of voices when her father came home.
“She had another spell,” Mebuki’s voice trembled, though she tried to keep it steady. “Kizashi, what if—”
“Don’t,” he cut in softly. “Don’t go there. I’ll take time off. Work can wait.”
“We can’t afford that.” Mebuki’s voice broke then, frustration and fear spilling out in equal measure. “The war has driven up prices, the shops are charging more for the same things. We have bills to pay. You already do everything — I should be working too, not…” Her words faltered, thick with unshed tears. “Not leaning on you for everything. I should be stronger. For her.”
There was a pause. Then Kizashi’s voice, steady, unwavering: “You and Miyuki are more important than anything else. Let me talk to my family — they can help if it comes to it. Don’t carry this alone.”
Mebuki gave a shaky laugh, and Miyuki imagined her mama’s stern face crumpling, just for a moment. “You always make it sound so easy. But it isn’t. Not when I can’t even—” Her words choked off.
Miyuki’s father’s tone softened further, the way it only did with her mama. “Then maybe we find another way. Hire a genin during the day. We get a civilian discount through the Hokage’s office. Miyuki doesn’t need much watching — just someone nearby, in case she has another spell. That way you don’t have to shoulder everything, and I don’t have to worry when I’m away.”
Mebuki sniffled, the sound breaking Miyuki’s heart even as she drifted deeper into sleep.
The last thing she heard before slumber claimed her was her mother whispering, “I only wish I could give her more.”
And in her dreams, Miyuki wanted to tell them both — Mama, Papa — you already have.