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The call, when it comes, is too early in every sense.
The tinny ring of the phone on their bedside table jolts both him and Sakura awake while the sky is still dark. Even as Sasuke brings the phone to his ear, tendrils of cold foreboding are already seeping through his spine. Nothing good can come at a time like this.
His brother’s voice is heavy on the end of the line.
“Father passed away.”
He keeps speaking, not expecting Sasuke to respond to this shift in their world. “I need you to come here now.”
Now there is a pause. Somehow, Sasuke manages to dredge up an affirmative reply.
“Please get here soon,” says Itachi, and hangs up.
Looking to Sakura, there is no need to form the words himself, the words that he will soon have to form a hundred times over again and again:
My father has died.
His father who was not sick or injured. His father whose hair only recently turned gray, who still stood tall and his eyes clear.
Wordlessly, she draws him in, wraps her arms around his neck in an effort to warm him. But the cold has spread, into every vein and nerve.
“I’ll get Minoru-kun to my parents’ house,” she says into his shirt, running her fingers through his hair. Her voice thick with suppressed grief. They were fond of each other, his wife and his father. “You go. I’ll come as soon as I can.”
He nods in acknowledgement, pressing her close to absorb what warmth he can before withdrawing from her embrace.
Their house lies just on the outside of the Uchiha District: a compromise between the need to be close to his family and Sakura’s desire not to be entirely subsumed by the clan. His family was never enthusiastic about the arrangement, but they also never let the distance get in the way of visiting every day.
The sky is the cold blue of the early morning, when the stars are gone and the sun not yet out. Sasuke runs through the blocks that separate him from his family, the once easy walk suddenly miles long.
The lights are on in his childhood home. He slides the door open and enters, pausing only long enough to toe off his sandals. He heads for the kitchen.
A kettle boils on the stove. They sit at the kitchen table, Itachi not at his normal place but by Mikoto’s side, holding her hands. They are both still in their nightclothes. They look up as Sasuke enters.
Seeing Mikoto’s face almost roots Sasuke where he stands, but with effort he crosses the threshold. Most of the time she is cheerful and composed, though he has also seen her sad, frustrated or even angry. But now she seems different.
Small.
There are no tears upon her face when she lifts her gaze to his, but her expression is something infinitely worse, and he feels his stomach harden into a chunk of lead.
There is no room for words yet. He closes the door behind him, crosses the room in two steps and falls on his knees to wrap his arms around her. He can feel the brittleness of her bones, and how her heart flutters and how her whole body shakes with sorrow.
He looks to Itachi. His eyes are dark with sleeplessness, his own grief held at bay, for a later time.
Sasuke follows his lead, pushing back the turmoil in his own mind, narrowing his focus to Mikoto and everything about her.
–
When she does speak, her voice is a mere whisper. The kettle whistles. Itachi stands to take care of it.
“I didn’t know what woke me up. I thought perhaps I had heard one of the cats coming in. But it was too quiet, and he didn’t wake up with me, the way he normally would. His hands were still warm, but I couldn’t hear his breath. I couldn’t feel his heartbeat.”
Her shoulders start to shake as her voice breaks, and she puts her face in her hands. Her sobs are nearly soundless, and somehow that is worse. Sasuke simply tightens his hold on her, determined to keep her in the here and now. To not think of the doctor who is coming with a certificate and a pen. To not think of Fugaku, still in their room.
–
Sasuke remembers a time when, either morbidly or clinically, he considered the question of his parents dying. As a child, he assumed his father to be the more stalwart, less likely to fall apart at his mother’s passing.
As he grew older, and his parents became not just parents but people as well, he reassessed his earlier classifications.
It became clear that his mother was the one with the greater endurance, the greater adaptability. She was bamboo, where his father was a rock. The death of his mother would be a blow that would at best critically weaken his foundation; at worst, break him. While his mother would be bent for a time, but would eventually stand tall again.
But looking at her now, Sasuke just wishes he never had such thoughts in the first place.
–
Dawn turns into proper morning light. It is winter, and the air is cold and clear. The tea is brewed and Mikoto drinks without needing to be persuaded. Itachi goes to fetch his wife, while Sasuke, noting his mother’s shivering, finds a blanket to warm her. The robe she might have worn otherwise is still in her bedroom and even Sasuke cannot yet bear to enter.
As promised, Sakura arrives as soon as she can, fully dressed and alone. Minoru has been given to her parents, she says. They convey their condolences to the Uchiha family.
She steps through the entranceway and sinks down before Mikoto to embrace her. His mother makes no sound, but Sasuke sees how grateful she is for Sakura’s presence, how her arms come up to wind around her daughter-in-law’s body, how tightly her hands fist in the fabric of Sakura’s shirt.
Sakura for her part holds Mikoto just as close, whispering. It does not matter what she says—he sees his mother’s shoulders ease, soothed by the cadence and rhythm of Sakura’s words.
Itachi returns with his wife from their own house, helping her up the steps. She leans into him, her body heavy, though she is not yet full term. She greets both Sakura and Sasuke in a low voice, and makes to kneel on Mikoto’s other side. Sakura unwraps one arm to lend support as Hana folds her legs beneath her body. Once stable, she too wraps her arms around Mikoto.
Another small tragedy, an unwanted voice whispers in Sasuke’s head. Fugaku will not know the child of his eldest son.
The doctor arrives.
–
Though Fugaku’s death is an unpleasant shock, they are not left adrift. The Uchiha are an old clan: the process of preparing and honoring the dead has been unchanged for generations.
When Itachi leaves to make the rounds of the district, Sasuke calls the Hokage. This probably should also be Itachi’s duty, as the head of the clan, but Sasuke’s long friendship with the dobe takes precedence.
“Teme!” Naruto picks up after the first ring, his voice chipper. In the background, Sasuke can hear his children, voices raised, arguing. “What are you calling so early in the morning for?”
He tells Naruto, stumbling, less precise that he wishes. There is no pressure behind his eyes, nothing thickening his throat, but the emptiness is still there, and somehow heavy.
“Oh, Sasuke,” says Naruto, his cheer gone. “Do you know what happened?”
“His heart stopped in his sleep.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.” He means it.
Naruto forces a laugh. “And to think, I was going to surprise you with some good news.”
“Is it still good news?”
“It is.”
“Please.”
He tells Sasuke that he received a message from Sarada’s team. Her mission was a success; her performance impeccable. They will be home early, possibly even tomorrow.
“No, that’s good news,” says Sasuke, even when all he can think is she doesn’t know yet. “Sakura will be happy to hear it.”
“Right.” Naruto doesn’t sound convinced. “But, anyways, the radio silence has been lifted. If you want to send her a message before she comes home and…”
His voice falters briefly. He coughs.
“Well. You can.”
“I’ll think about it,” says Sasuke. “Thank you.”
“Please, don’t,” Naruto’s voice is strained. “Listen, Sasuke, if you have the time, or just…need some time away from everything, you and Sakura are welcome over here.”
“Thank you, but I think we’ll stay with my mother for now.”
“Of course. I’m so sorry. Your father was a good man.”
“I know.”
–
He sends a note tied to the leg of his most trusted summons, a simple two-line message that, even with Sakura’s help, takes almost too long to compose.
It does not seem quite right to go home, so they spend the night in his childhood bedroom. She sleeps in the guest bedroom next door. One of his cousins, also with small children, is keeping Minoru for the night. They told him what happened, but Sasuke does not think he quite understands, but he seemed content that his parents left him with playmates.
The futon is too small for two adults, but that discomfort is not the source of their sleeplessness. He is reminded of when they first shared a bed; the difficulties in adjusting to the feel of another body in his space. Sakura was a restless sleeper, forever shoving him out of bed, while Sakura was unnerved by Sasuke’s stillness, occasionally poking him awake in the middle of the night to make sure he was still alive.
But now it is Sasuke who won’t stop shifting, pressing her closer, feeling the warmth and thrum of blood under her skin. Now it is Sakura who lies perfectly still in his arms, one hand under his shirt and pressed to his heart. They are both exhausted, but there is no way to sleep.
He cannot imagine a day when she will not wake up with him, but he cannot stop thinking of it, either.
–
His relationship with his father, though not without clashes, was solid. But Sasuke cannot deny that it improved after Sarada’s birth.
Being a parent is terrifying, even after nearly a decade and a half of practice. When he and Sakura first had Sarada, it was mind-numbing, both the joy and the fear. Even with help from every quarter, he often felt lost.
It was about those fears that, astoundingly, Sasuke found his father open to listening. He was never verbose or babbling with his father—that simply wasn’t who they were. But Fugaku listened to Sasuke’s words, whatever they were, and understood. And to his surprise, Sasuke found he did not feel as though he was being held against invisible standards.
By bringing Sarada over, and sitting and speaking with Fugaku, Sasuke discovered a new side of his father. Someone who was not only an imposing clan leader, but who also had to once learn how to rock babies to sleep, how to change diapers and tolerate getting spit up on.
Fugaku had been amused by his surprise.
“You didn’t think your mother took care of you by herself, did you?” he asked, looking at Sasuke, eyebrows raised. “There was a time where I was taking you into the study every night. It was the only place in the house where you would fall asleep.”
It was strange, recognizing his father in this way. But it opened a greater intimacy between them. They never mentioned it, but openness in this matter soon led to easier discussion in others. And it was good.
–
They must drift off at some point, because Sasuke wakes to the feel of Sarada’s chakra signature. It hovers just outside the compound, hesitant to enter.
He shakes Sakura’s shoulder gently. She looks up at him, eyes only half-open.
“She’s here,” says Sasuke.
Sakura exhales, a small sad sigh, and nods.
He gets out of bed first, with her following. They head for the front entrance.
Sarada looks up when the door opens, eyes widening behind her glasses. Her clothes are still dusty from the travels, her backpack dangling carelessly from one hand, and there are leaves in her hair. Sasuke’s first act upon reaching her is to pluck them out, smoothing down the errant locks. When he is done, he steps back, gives her a little space.
Sarada does not react to his ministrations. She seems to stare straight past him and Sakura, into the house. Sarada’s whole body is stiff, her jaw clenched tight, and when Sasuke tries to meet her eyes she looks away.
He recognizes that look.
If Sasuke knows his daughter, she probably suppressed her shock; channeled her emotion into a determination to return home as soon as possible. But now here she is.
“Sarada,” he says, gently. Still she does not look at him. But her chin trembles.
“Sa-chan,” says Sakura, using a babyhood nickname. Her voice is soft. “It’s all right.”
She brings up her hand to cup Sarada’s cheek and that’s all it takes.
Her heartache, the grief for a grandfather she dearly loved that she restrained in front of her team, finally overwhelms her. She clings to Sakura as she cries. Her legs crumple under her, no longer seeming to support her body. Sakura sinks down with her, both arms around her daughter’s back, almost crying herself.
Sasuke follows, one hand on Sakura’s shoulder and the other stroking Sarada’s hair. They huddle together, right there on the street, soothing their little girl.
–
There is the wake that night, and the funeral the day after. Sasuke presides over both with Mikoto and Itachi. Sakura remains close by his side and his children always within his sight.
The ceremonies are traditional and he helped arrange every detail, but he can recall nothing of the actual proceedings.
For the funeral, at least, there is a reason. Frightened by the solemnity he saw on the faces of those around him and his grandfather lying supine in the coffin, Minoru started to cry. Sasuke took him out of the room. Traditional or not, Fugaku would not want his grandson to be distressed.
He paces back and forth along the walkway, his son’s arms clasped around his neck, holding him close. Through his tears, Minoru asks snuffling, childish questions that nevertheless pierce him through.
Why is he just lying there?
Wake him up.
Why can’t you wake him up?
He has no answer.
–
As is traditional, Fugaku will be cremated.
But because he is an Uchiha, it will not be in a crematorium but on a pyre, lit by the fires of the family jutsu.
It is a macabre ritual: giving breath to free the bones of flesh of the one who will never breathe again. It is performed by the deceased’s closest kin. His mother, his brother and he will hold the honors.
But in a surprise twist, Itachi asks Sasuke if Sakura might also be willing.
The proposal snaps Sasuke out of the daze in which he has been held since they first started discussing these arrangements. It is too surreal, discussing tombstones and offerings in the same room where they once got in trouble for embedding shruiken into the walls.
“Shouldn’t you be asking your wife?” he asks Itachi, leaning against the bathroom door while Itachi washes his face. “You’re the eldest.”
“She has reached the stage where her chakra is too unmanageable to attempt ninjutsu safely,” explains Itachi. “Besides, we conferred on this and she agrees with me. Sakura has been a part of our clan for much longer. It might be unexpected, but I don’t think Father will mind. He was always very fond of her.” He looks at Sasuke’s reflection in the mirror. “I hope you knew that.”
Sasuke did. For a long time, he had been certain that Fugaku’s respect for Sakura was the only thing that kept him from outright forbidding their very young marriage. Instead he pushed Sasuke, arguing with him to his very limits, to see if he would stand firm in his decision.
He had, and Fugaku relented. Even more astounding, or so it seemed at the time, he gave his blessing.
“I cannot speak on her behalf,” says Sasuke. “But I know she will be honored by such a request.”
–
The time for cremation arrives, and Sakura stands with them.
His mother goes first. She has tied back her hair, to prevent any accidents. She molds chakra with a devastating precision, and the flames that spill forth flow, not spark.
His brother is next. His hands blur, a stream of fire already issuing forth almost quicker than the eye can see.
Then it is Sasuke’s turn.
It has been nearly thirty years since the first time he successfully executed the Katon Goukakyuu no Jutsu. But there is something oddly reminiscent of that moment when he stands before his father’s pyre. The seals that have been second nature for years suddenly reform in his mind, as distinct as they were when he first learned the sequence. And even as he brings his hand to his lips, there is a sudden certainty that he got it wrong, that he will not fulfill his familial duties, and that he will fail his father in the last service he can perform to honor him.
But, of course, that is not the case. The fire bursts forth as easily as it ever has, contributing to the ever-brighter pyre. Sakura’s own flame follows shortly, the one he taught her to conjure as easily as if it was her birthright, perfectly executed.
Then it is done. The attendants take over. It will take time for the body to turn to ash.
–
He has not yet shed tears for his father.
As life slowly, achingly, returns to normal, he wonders when that will change. He has not felt the need for tears. Between that and the arrangements, the ceremonies, and the other mourners, there has been no time.
Sakura is worried for him, he knows, but she returns to research at the hospital all the same. Sarada spends time with her friends, particularly with the Uzumaki siblings, even staying over a couple nights. He has not yet taken up Naruto’s offer for drinks, though he intends to soon.
He spends a lot of time with Itachi. They do not speak, more often than not, but Sasuke suspects that they find more peace with each other than anywhere else. He is still making last arrangements, agreeing to help his mother sort through his father’s belongings, what to keep in the house and what to store away. Minoru tags along, eyes bright, toddling up to his grandmother and demanding attention which she gladly gives.
His mother is not improving, exactly, but her grief is not so fresh. There is something different about her now. When he was younger, he rolled his eyes at ideas of the red string of fate, binding souls together. But he knows better now. He recognizes how often he catches himself looking for Sakura, even when he knows she is not present, even knowing when she will return to him. He realizes how when he looks at his mother, he also still watches for his father as well. Even at times when he knew his father to be away, still his eyes drifted, perhaps following that thread, invisible. Only now it leads to a place from where his father cannot return.
–
For all of the clothes and possessions that they hide away in boxes, Mikoto does bring something out, as well.
It is a photograph, old and faded in its dark curved frame.
“Before you say anything, I promise that I’m not about to turn this house into a living shrine.”
Her smile still does not quite reach her eyes, but it is getting closer.
She holds the picture out for Sasuke to take.
He does, and studies the image. Fugaku is in his early twenties at most, sitting on a branch high off the ground, one leg bent and the other dangling. The angle suggests that the photographer is on the next branch up. Fugaku is twisting to look upwards, the angle of his jaw sharply defined, his arms crossed. He is smirking at the photographer, the gleam in his eyes challenging.
“You took this,” says Sasuke.
Mikoto nods, her eyes soft. She reaches out and, hesitating, strokes the frame, though Sasuke is sure that she meant to touch his face instead.
“It was the first time I think we were truly comfortable with each other. He hated it. He thought he looked smug and that his neck was too thick at this angle. He never seemed to believe me when I told him it was the first time I really noticed how attractive he was.”
“Mother.”
“Oh, hush.” She nudges his shoulder with hers. “You look like him, now. Though you are better at expressing yourself than he ever could.”
“That’s not true,” says Sasuke, thinking with some amusement of what Sakura might have to say if she ever heard that. “He was the leader—he couldn’t act without thinking of how his conduct impacted the clan. Itachi is the same way.”
“That may be true, but not in his own house.” She shakes her head, her hair falling in front of her face; she tucks it back behind her ears. “He loved you. He loved you and he was proud of you, even when you failed, and he always had such a hard time showing it. I hope you know that.”
Sasuke places the picture back on her bedside table and wraps his arms around her. “Of course I knew.”
–
Those are the words that set him off, in the end. Not then, with his mother. Not later, when he returns to his family’s cheery house. Not when Sakura complains of an early shift and goes to bed at seven, leaving him to prepare dinner.
It is only when Sarada and Minoru have long gone to bed and he sits on the floor of their living room reviewing old papers of his father’s. He sorts out love letters from his mother, old bills that should have been discarded months ago, reminders for birthdays and ancient to-do lists.
The thought rises unbidden:
I knew this man.
There is no surprise there.
There is no unfinished business between himself and his father’s ghost. These past few days, so many people were determined that he know things about his father, that it is nearly a joy to understand that he did not need to be told. He knew his father, after years of fearing that he would not. He understood him.
When the tears come, they are not only of sorrow but also of relief.
He wonders if Sakura can tell the difference, when he hears her footsteps come down the stairs. She wraps her arms around him, and holds him close. No words of comfort whispered into his ear; just her steady warmth.
He thinks she might.
There are no regrets, except that he was not ready.
But he never would have been.