The weeks following Sasuke's return to the Academy moved with the strange duality of time that accompanies trauma—simultaneously crawling forward with excruciating slowness and blurring past in dissociative confusion. Each day felt both endless and forgettable, a repetitive cycle of classes and training and nights filled with nightmares that left Sasuke exhausted before morning even arrived.
The other students' reactions to his return had been predictably mixed, creating a social landscape Sasuke had to navigate while simultaneously trying to maintain the emotional walls he'd constructed as protection against further pain.
Some of the children simply ignored him—not out of cruelty necessarily, but from the uncomfortable uncertainty of how to behave around tragedy incarnate. They would talk and laugh around him as if he were a ghost passing through their midst, someone they could see but chose not to acknowledge because acknowledging meant confronting uncomfortable realities about mortality and loss that seven-year-olds shouldn't have to consider.
During group exercises, certain students would subtly arrange themselves so they wouldn't be partnered with Sasuke. Not obvious enough that instructors would intervene, but noticeable enough that Sasuke felt the isolation like physical distance. During lunch, empty seats would remain empty on either side of him even when the courtyard was crowded.
Others showed concern that manifested as cautious kindness—the kind of careful gentleness people used around broken things they feared might shatter further with rough handling. Hinata would leave small wrapped sweets on his desk with no note, her face burning red if he ever tried to thank her. Choji would occasionally slide an extra rice ball across the table with a quiet "You should eat more." Even Shikamaru, usually too lazy to involve himself in social dynamics, had once muttered "troublesome" when another student made a thoughtless comment about Sasuke being "the last Uchiha," his tone carrying uncharacteristic protectiveness.
But it was Naruto who refused to treat Sasuke like glass waiting to break or a ghost to be ignored. If anything, the massacre had intensified Naruto's determination to engage with Sasuke—not despite his trauma, but in full acknowledgment of it, approaching it with the same stubborn refusal to give up that characterized everything Naruto did.
The first week after Sasuke's return, Naruto had challenged him to a sparring match during free practice time.
"Come on, Sasuke! You can't have gotten weaker in just two weeks! Let's see if you can still keep up with me!"
Several students had gasped at the apparent insensitivity. Even Iruka had looked torn between intervening and allowing the interaction to play out.
Sasuke had stared at Naruto with those empty eyes that made everyone uncomfortable. "Leave me alone, Naruto."
"Nope!" Naruto had grinned with determined cheerfulness. "You said you were going to be the strongest shinobi, remember? You can't do that sitting around feeling sorry for yourself! Now come on—five minute match, just basic taijutsu, loser has to... uh... has to treat the winner to ramen!"
It was such an absurdly normal challenge, so completely at odds with the weight of grief pressing down on everything, that something in Sasuke's careful control had cracked. Not broken entirely, but cracked enough that anger—hot and sharp and gloriously distracting from the numbness—had flared to life.
"Fine," Sasuke had said, standing abruptly. "But when I win, you have to shut up for an entire day. Complete silence."
"Deal! Though we both know that's not happening because I'm totally going to win!"
The match had been fierce, both boys pushing harder than the simple sparring exercise required. Sasuke had fought with controlled fury, each strike precise but carrying weight beyond the physical. Naruto had fought with his usual unpredictable energy, taking hits to land his own, never backing down even when Sasuke's superior technique should have overwhelmed him.
They'd fought until Iruka finally intervened, both boys bruised and bleeding from split lips but breathing hard with exertion that felt cleansing somehow. The match had ended in a technical draw, neither having achieved a decisive victory before the instructor stopped them.
"Rematch tomorrow!" Naruto had declared immediately, grinning through bloody teeth.
And Sasuke—to everyone's surprise, perhaps including his own—had nodded. "Tomorrow."
That had set the pattern. Naruto would issue challenges constantly—who could throw shuriken more accurately, who could run laps faster, who could hold a handstand longer, who could memorize a jutsu sequence first. Some challenges were legitimate tests of skill. Others were absurd enough that even Sasuke sometimes almost smiled at their ridiculousness.
"I bet I can eat more dango than you!"
"That's not even a shinobi skill, idiot."
"It's a survival skill! What if we're on a mission and the only way to get information is to win an eating contest? You'd fail and doom the whole team!"
"That's the stupidest scenario I've ever heard."
"Scared you'll lose?"
"Fine. But I'm ordering the spicy kind so you'll regret this."
The challenges served their purpose—they gave Sasuke something to focus on beyond his grief, gave him reasons to engage with the world rather than retreating entirely into isolated training. And somehow, through these constant competitions, Sasuke found himself inadvertently rejoining the social fabric of their class.
Two months after the massacre, Naruto had organized what he called a "class bonding expedition" to the village market, pestering nearly everyone in their class until a surprising number agreed to participate. The plan was simple—they'd explore the market district, try foods from various stands, maybe browse the shops that sold ninja equipment they couldn't afford yet but enjoyed examining anyway.
"Sasuke has to come too," Naruto had declared when planning the outing. "It's a class thing. Everyone has to participate."
"Maybe he wants to be alone," Sakura had suggested gently, her concern for Sasuke's well-being warring with her uncertainty about pushing him.
"Being alone is what he does all the time," Naruto had countered. "He needs to remember there's other stuff besides training and... you know. Thinking about bad things."
Convincing Sasuke had required Naruto's particular brand of persistent harassment.
"I'm not going."
"Yes you are."
"No."
"Yep!"
"Naruto, I said no."
"I heard you say yes! Must be something wrong with your pronunciation. We'll work on that at the market!"
"I will fight you right now."
"Great! Fighting is an activity we can do at the market too! See, you're already planning activities, which means you're coming!"
Sasuke had eventually agreed just to make Naruto stop talking, though he'd fully intended to simply not show up. But when the day arrived and he'd begun walking toward the training grounds for solo practice, he'd found Naruto waiting at the path's entrance, arms crossed and wearing a triumphant expression.
"Knew you'd try to bail. Come on, everyone's waiting."
The market district was crowded with weekend shoppers, the air filled with competing smells—grilled meat, fresh bread, sweet dumplings, flower arrangements, the distinctive scent of new leather from the equipment shops. Their group of Academy students attracted amused looks from merchants who recognized the potential for sales, and concerned looks from some who recognized Sasuke specifically.
Choji had immediately led them to his family's favorite snack vendors, providing enthusiastic commentary on each food's merits. "This takoyaki is amazing—they use a special sauce that's been in the family for three generations! And over there, that dango stand makes theirs fresh every hour, so if you time it right you get them still warm!"
Kiba and Akamaru had caused minor chaos at a pet supply shop, with Akamaru knocking over a display of chew toys and Kiba trying to catch him while apologizing profusely to the exasperated owner.
Ino and Sakura had dragged the group to look at hair accessories, debating the merits of various ribbons with an intensity usually reserved for discussing combat techniques. "The red one would match your training outfit better," Ino had insisted, holding a ribbon up to Sakura's hair. "But the pink one is more versatile."
Shikamaru had found a shop that sold shogi sets and spent twenty minutes examining different pieces with the most animation anyone had seen from him all day, explaining the strategic advantages of weighted pieces versus lighter ones until even Choji, his best friend, started looking bored.
Rock Lee had discovered a shop selling training weights and had gotten into an enthusiastic discussion with the owner about progressive resistance training that lasted until Naruto literally dragged him away. "Lee, we're here to have fun, not discuss ankle weights for an hour!"
And Sasuke had found himself pulled along through all of it, Naruto keeping him deliberately engaged with constant commentary and questions.
"Hey Sasuke, you like dango right? Let's get some. Oh, and we should try that grilled fish too. What kind of kunai do you think is better—the ones with the ring at the end or the straight ones? I can never decide. Come look at these with me."
At one point, they'd passed a shop displaying Uchiha clan symbols—fans and crests that had once been produced regularly for clan members but now sat as dust-collecting inventory. Sasuke had stopped moving, staring at them with an expression that made everyone uncomfortable.
Naruto had immediately stepped in front of his line of sight. "Hey, I bet I can hit that target over there with a kunai from here. Wanna bet?"
"There's no target, idiot. That's just a barrel."
"I'm making it a target! Everything's a target if you're creative enough! Come on, let's see your supposedly superior Uchiha aim!"
And just like that, the moment had passed. Sasuke had allowed himself to be distracted, had engaged in the stupid impromptu competition, had forgotten for just a few minutes about the weight he carried.
By the end of the day, Sasuke hadn't smiled—not quite. But the hard edge of isolation had softened fractionally. He'd participated, had eaten food purchased by friends, had offered his opinion when asked about which shops to visit next. Small things. Normal things. Things that felt almost like healing even if they were just temporary relief.
"Absolutely not," Hiruzen had said firmly when Naruto first requested permission to bring his entire Academy class on a tour of the Hokage Tower.
"But Grandpa—"
"Naruto, the Tower contains sensitive information and active operations. I can't have a dozen seven-year-olds running through—"
"We won't run! We'll walk very properly! And it's educational! Iruka-sensei says learning about village structure is important for becoming good shinobi!"
"Then Iruka can provide that education through textbooks and lectures."
"But that's boring! We need hands-on learning! Real-world application! Practical experience with—"
"You're just stringing together phrases you've heard adults say."
"Is it working?"
"No."
But Naruto had persisted with the determination of someone who viewed "no" as merely the opening position in negotiations. He'd asked every day for a week, had enlisted support from Asuma ("Come on, Uncle Asuma, tell him it's a good idea!"), had even convinced several classmates to write polite requests that he'd delivered in a bundle.
Hiruzen had finally relented with the exhausted surrender of a grandfather who knew when he'd been out-maneuvered. "Fine. One hour. Supervised at all times. And you're personally responsible if anything gets broken or any classified information is compromised."
"Yes! You're the best Grandpa ever!"
"I'm a fool is what I am," Hiruzen had muttered, but his eyes had been amused.
The Tower tour had been both educational and chaotic in equal measure. Iruka had accompanied them as official supervision, maintaining order through sheer force of will and the respect the students had developed for him over months of instruction.
They'd been shown the mission assignment room where jōnin received their orders, the records hall containing generations of village history, and the training facilities in the Tower's lower levels where elite shinobi sometimes practiced advanced techniques away from public view.
Rock Lee had asked approximately three hundred questions about everything they saw, his enthusiasm exhausting even the patient chūnin who'd been assigned as their guide.
"And how many missions are assigned per day on average? What's the highest-ranked mission ever completed by a single shinobi? How many training rooms are there? What's the maximum weight capacity of the storage scrolls? Do Hokages ever—"
"Lee," Iruka had finally intervened. "Perhaps let someone else ask questions too."
Sasuke had been quiet through most of the tour, but his eyes had tracked everything with sharp attention. When they'd passed the ANBU administrative section, he'd stared at the masked operatives moving through hallways with particular intensity—perhaps recognizing that his brother had once walked these same corridors, had reported to these same offices, had been trusted and respected before becoming the thing Sasuke now lived to destroy.
Naruto had noticed the change in Sasuke's demeanor and had immediately created a distraction by "accidentally" knocking over a stack of training scrolls in the equipment room. The resulting commotion had required five minutes to sort out and had successfully redirected everyone's attention.
"Naruto, those were organized by classification!" the guide had said in exasperation.
"Sorry! My elbow just... moved on its own? I think it might be a medical condition. Should probably get that checked out."
Later, Hiruzen had allowed them brief access to his office—the actual Hokage's office, where village-altering decisions were made. The students had filed in with uncharacteristic reverence, even the most boisterous among them awed by the significance of the space.
"This is where you work, Honorable Grandfather?" one student had asked formally.
"Every day," Hiruzen had confirmed, sitting at his desk with patient dignity. "From here, I coordinate our shinobi forces, meet with other village leaders, make decisions that affect every person in Konohagakure."
"Do you ever get scared?" Hinata had asked quietly, her voice barely audible. "Making such big decisions?"
Hiruzen had smiled gently at her. "Every time, Hinata-chan. Anyone who makes important decisions without fear isn't taking them seriously enough. But we do it anyway, because that's what leadership means. Carrying the weight even when it's heavy."
His eyes had drifted to Sasuke as he spoke, and for just a moment, the boy had met his gaze. Something passed between them—not understanding exactly, but recognition. They both carried weights. They both understood what it meant to continue moving forward despite those burdens.
"Uncle Asuma!" Naruto had burst into the Sarutobi training hall one evening, trailing a confused group of classmates behind him. "I brought friends! Can we all train together?"
Asuma had looked up from his own practice, cigarette dangling from his lips, and surveyed the collection of Academy students with raised eyebrows. "Naruto, I agreed to train you. I didn't sign up for running a boot camp for first-years."
"But it'll be fun! And educational! And—"
"And you want to show off in front of your friends."
"Maybe a little bit. But also! Sasuke needs to see that there are other strong people to train with! And everyone could learn from someone with actual combat experience! Please?"
Asuma had sighed in the way of adults who recognized they were about to agree to something against their better judgment. "Fine. But we're doing this properly. Real training, not playing around. Anyone who doesn't take it seriously can leave."
What followed had been simultaneously the most exhausting and most exciting training session any of them had experienced. Asuma didn't modify his teaching style for their age—he simply scaled the intensity to appropriate levels while maintaining his characteristic demanding standards.
"Flexibility drills first. Everyone down. We're holding each stretch for a full minute. Naruto, you already know this routine. Lead them through it."
Naruto had complied with obvious pride, demonstrating each position while Asuma walked among the students correcting postures with sharp taps from his training sword when he spotted sloppy form.
"Deeper, Kiba. Your hamstrings are tight as rocks."
"Ow! Okay, okay!"
"Lee, good form. Now hold it steady—don't bounce."
"Yes, Asuma-sensei!"
"Shikamaru, I can see you cheating. Get back down and do it properly or I'll add another set."
"What a drag..."
After flexibility came strength training—push-ups, squats, planks, the bodyweight exercises that built the foundation for everything else. Asuma counted each repetition aloud in a voice that didn't allow for shortcuts or half-efforts.
Then they'd moved to basics of taijutsu, with Asuma demonstrating proper stance and simple combinations. His movements were fluid demonstrations of efficiency—no wasted motion, every strike serving a purpose, the kind of refined technique that came from decades of practical application.
"This isn't about looking cool," Asuma had explained. "This is about staying alive. Every movement needs to serve function. Efficiency over flash. Precision over power. When you're actually fighting, pretty techniques get you killed. Effective ones keep you breathing."
He'd paired them up for controlled practice, circulating among the pairs to offer corrections and occasionally demonstrate techniques himself. When he'd reached Sasuke and Naruto's pairing, he'd watched their exchange for several minutes in thoughtful silence.
"Sasuke, your technique is nearly flawless, but you're telegraphing. Your shoulders tense before you strike. Fix that. Naruto, you're relying too much on unpredictability. Sometimes the straight path works better than the creative one. Balance instinct with training."
Both boys had absorbed the criticism and immediately adjusted, their competitive drive to improve overriding any ego-bruising the corrections might have caused.
By the end of the session, every student was exhausted but glowing with the satisfaction of having survived something genuinely challenging. Asuma had grudgingly admitted they'd done well, and Naruto had immediately started lobbying for this to become a regular arrangement.
"Uncle Asuma, that was amazing! Can we do this every week?"
"Absolutely not."
"Every other week?"
"Naruto—"
"Once a month? Please? I'll do extra chores! I'll stop putting salt in your tea as a prank!"
"You've been doing that? That explains—" Asuma had sighed. "Fine. Once a month. But only if everyone maintains their Academy performance. Grades slip, training privilege disappears."
The promise of monthly training with a real jōnin had lit fire under several students who'd been coasting on natural ability. Even Shikamaru had been motivated enough to actually study for tests, his normally terrible scores improving to merely mediocre—which, for him, represented significant effort.
As the months progressed, their group outings had become more frequent and more personal. Someone would suggest visiting a place meaningful to them, and the others would follow, gradually building a collective map of significant locations that defined their individual lives.
Hinata had shyly invited them to the Hyūga compound's public gardens during a festival, where her clan opened their beautiful grounds to village visitors. The gardens were immaculate, every stone and plant placed with deliberate aesthetic purpose. Hinata had explained the symbolism behind different flower arrangements with quiet expertise, her usual stutter disappearing when discussing something she knew well.
Choji had taken them to his family's restaurant, where his parents had been delighted to feed the entire group. "A Akimichi's friends are always welcome!" his father had declared, serving portions large enough to feed twice their number. Even Sasuke, who typically ate sparingly, had been coerced into consuming more than usual under the combined pressure of Choji's mother's hospitality and Naruto's competitive eating challenges.
Shikamaru had brought them to his favorite cloud-watching hill on the village outskirts, lying back in the grass and explaining the different formations with uncharacteristic animation. "See that one? It's a cumulonimbus. Means rain within twelve hours. And that one's an altocumulus—totally harmless. If you know clouds, you can predict weather better than most weather-nin manage with their techniques."
Even Sasuke had eventually, reluctantly, suggested a location—the training grounds where the Uchiha clan had once practiced, now empty and beginning to show signs of disuse. He'd demonstrated some of the basic techniques his father had begun teaching him, his movements precise but carrying weight of memory and loss.
Nobody had known quite what to say. But they'd stayed, watching and occasionally trying to replicate what he showed them, their presence itself a form of support even when words failed.
And through it all, Naruto had remained the catalyst, the loud and determined force that kept pulling Sasuke back from the edge of complete isolation. Sometimes his methods were subtle—arranging seating so Sasuke ended up in the middle of the group rather than on the periphery. Sometimes they were blatantly obvious—physically dragging Sasuke to join activities he'd initially refused.
But always, there was the underlying message that Naruto refused to let Sasuke face his darkness alone, that rivalry could coexist with friendship, that strength could be found not just in isolation but in connection.
Three months after the massacre, Sasuke still woke screaming from nightmares. He still trained with obsessive intensity. He still carried vengeance in his heart like a second heartbeat.
But he also had friends who refused to let him disappear entirely into that darkness. And sometimes—just sometimes—he allowed himself to acknowledge that their persistence mattered, that their presence made the weight fractionally more bearable.
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