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Everywhere he looks, Katsuki sees green.

The building is wider than it looks on the outside, longer too. The walls are a muted pixie green, a shade between calla lily and the green that comes with the arrival of spring, with white brick accentuating the shiplap. And there’s flowers everywhere—in glass bottles on shelves, from baskets that dangle from the ceiling and plastic buckets on the tables. Not surprising, really, considering the fact that this is a flower shop, but the wide variety is a bit overwhelming. He doesn’t know much about flowers, just enough to know that those are roses and that those are gardenias, and that the flowers in the terracotta pot are magnolias.

But that's about it.

He scans the hundreds of hues that surround him, searching the bundled flora for any decent pre-made bouquets, but there aren’t any, just accumulations of genus.

Damn. He had been hoping this would be a quick transaction.

Huffing in frustration, Kaustuki maneuvers between the rows of farm tables, brushing aside vines of wisteria and orchid wisps, cursing aloud when something silvery darts between his feet and makes him stumble. The cat, thin and ashy gray in color chirps haughtily, tossing him a glance over its flank, before leaping onto a table and disappearing into a bunch of peonies.

“Fucking cat,” He snarls as he storms the rest of the way across the store.

The cashier, a young woman with long, rosy locks, is chatting with a customer, much to his annoyance, but she spares him a glance and a placating smile, then promptly wraps up her conversation with the exchange of cash. Katsuki doesn’t wait for the blond haired, blue eyed extra to leave before he slides up to the counter and slams a hand atop its surface.

“How do you say Fuck You in flower?”

The woods surrounding Konoha are beautiful in every sense of the word.

They lie friendly in the day, with their evergreen needles and their redwood trunks. But at night, they’re darkly ominous. The endearing chirrups of gold-winged sparrows are nonexistent, instead replaced with the trills of crickets and the rattle of cicadas. A low hanging fog settles in, swirling mischievously at Sakura’s feet, while pathetic streams of moonlight dapple through the thick canopy. It's so dark now that the pitiful flames of her lantern are nearly swallowed whole and the only thing keeping her from stumbling are the outstretched hands of the surrounding trees and the unsettling churning in her gut.

To step into the embrace of the woods so close to the witching hour, is to welcome darkness, because these woods are thieves. They rob visitors of their senses—blinds them in exchange for the ears of a wolf and the nose of a rat. Envelops them in a claustrophobic entanglement of shadows and susurring branches. And sometimes, if the woods feel impish enough, the woods take more than that.

Ignoring the anxiety constricting her chest, Sakura carefully reaches for the holster draped at her waist and pulls out her panflute. The woods grow hushed as the first notes of her song carries through the void. There are no more crickets, no more birds. Not even a whistle of wind. Only her footsteps and her melody. Her song is low, ominous like the entirety of the woods, with quivering down notes and eerie high ones, and to the untrained ear, it nearly sounds like true fairy music.

Sakura diverges from the rutted path, turning right then left; her cloak sways with her movements, its frayed ends dancing around her protectively. She can feel the dirt packing between her toes as each step sinks the soles of her feet into the earth, and while jagged roots bite into her skin, it's nothing she isn’t used to. And the deeper into the woods she goes, the more she feels like she’s being watched. Her cloak brushes against bodies that may or may not be there, shadows morph and wings flutter.

She can taste the mischief in the air.

Carefully adjusting her basket and lantern so they dangle from the crooks of her elbows, and with her grip on the flute tight, Sakura allows her free hand to float at her side as she walks. She caresses the outreaching brambles and low-hanging leaves in hopes that her touch will appease the woods’ growing apprehension of her, stopping only when the rocks and dirt make way for fairy rings.

Her melody soon lifts into a more tranquil tune as the woodland fae giggle and sing in approval. Their fairy music joins her own, accompanied by the fluttering of wings and the appearance of squirrels; she doesn’t look down as the fairies breach from the chests of their hosts, fully aware of the danger she’s now in.

Because as beautiful as fae folk are, they’re ten times as dangerous.

Carefully, as not to break her song, Sakura sets her basket and lantern down, exposing the blueberries and quartz she brought as offerings, while scanning the void for any signs of life. A crow watches her, its head jerking curiously as it observes her. Decayed leaves crumble beneath heavy paws. A thousand eyes weigh her down while a million whispers ghost her skin.

She plays on, ignoring the playful tugs to her rose tresses and to the scarlet threads of her cloak, and she doesn’t stop even as magic scents the air. It compresses, fluttering around her with moonlit glitter, kissing her knuckles as she plays. Splashes of watercolor and silk constellate her vision, making her nose twitch and her belly drop, but she refuses to fall to the fairies’ mischief.

It’s only when the flame from her lantern abruptly dies away that she ends her song. Her breath shakes but she doesn’t show her nerves; Sakura stands tall with her chin tilted high and her shoulders straight.

Because the woods has accepted her offering.

“I call upon the gift of air,” She begins, bringing her hands to float at her sides again. A trickle of air intertwines with her fingers. “Gusty winds and breezes fair.”

Sakura smiles to herself a little more confidently as the tails of her hair tickles at her nose, kicked up with the breath of wind that drew by. The leaves shudder overhead, scattering decayed slivers of orange and red amongst the void. She closes her eyes, and says loudly, “Carry this witch’s greeting across distant lands—take flight! A hearty welcome for a familiar, I invite.”

A crow squawks and a wolf howls; the wind picks up, making her cloak lash out with a ferality that comes with an angry fae but Sakura is not deterred.

She furrows her brows and huffs defiantly, brushing aside the amused songs of the surrounding fairies as she continues, “Fae of the forest, hear my plea. Come forth and seek me, and equals we will be. Not master to servant, but familiar to familiar. To protect and honor, always and forever.”

The woods are alive with the presence of fae folk. Gold eyes appear from across the void while fairies creep from the bodies of their birds and the bark of trees. But no one approaches. And in the blink of an eye, the woods becomes just that—woods. Just knobbed trunks and crickets.

The fae are gone. The wolves disappear. The crows are silent.

But Sakura waits. She waits and waits and waits until she can’t anymore and it infuriates her because she knows the spell was correct. The fae acknowledged it. They heard it, responded to it. So then why—

“To protect and honor, always and forever, huh?”

Sakura stiffens, startled at the sudden voice around her and tries to whirl around only to find herself frozen. Hands settle on her shoulders for a moment before one slowly drifts down her arms with a feathery lightness that evokes chills in their wake. It travels to her wrist, encircling it, keeping her just out of reach of the dagger at her hip while the other hand ghosts along the curve of her neck.

She tries to ignore the breath on the back of her neck and the overwhelming scent of caramel and Hellfire that envelops her. “To protect and honor,” She reiterates, calm despite the fear winding down her spine. “Always and forever.”

Whoever—or rather, whatever—is behind her hums. “Forever is a long time, Witch.”

Sakura swallows the lump building in her throat. "I'll have you for however long you'll have me."

His responding laugh and the way he drags his fingertips down to her wrists raises a garden of goosebumps along her arms, and it's not completely pleasant. He opens a hand, palm up just below her own while the other lifts a strand of hair. "Your name?"

Sakura smiles to herself, shoving aside the uneasy shiver that threatens to crawl down her spine. She knows their tricks. She can hear the mishief in his voice. To give her name is to welcome trouble, because who knows what the Fae will do with it?

And the way his hand hovers, waiting like the hand of an expectant child, he's not asking out of formality.

"You can't have my name," Sakura says. "But you may call me Sakura.

The Fae's chuckle is a warm one full of summer evenings and pine trees, thunderstorms and something dangerous. "Oh I like you," He laughs, brushing the pads of his fingers against her knuckles. "Then you may call me—"

He's interrupted by a loud snarl and the beating of approaching footsteps, but neither are human. Quickly, Sakura frees the dagger against her hip just as a large wolf jumps out at her, jaw unhinged and crimson eyes wild; but as quickly as she sees it, its gone, replaced by the heat of a body against her chest.

The snarl of the Fae enveloping her is otherworldly, feral—demonic—alighting Helfire all throughout her body, but it evokes a sort of comfort that Sakura can't say she's ever felt before.  She blinks, cautiously moving in the grasp of the Fae to chance a glance at him, only to find her view obscured by a wall of feathers.

Wings.

Entranced by the glossy feathers, Sakura tentatively reaches for them, carefully skirting her fingertips along the jade sheen.  The feathers sway, ruffling slightly at her touch, and piercing, scarlet eyes peek through so she pulls back as if burnt.

The wings lower slightly and the arm around her waist loosens, allowing Sakura a glimpse of fangs embedded into black cloth and blood on dark fur. The wolf's eyes meet hers, narrowing, and then there's a pained grunt as the beast's jaws tighten around the arm in its mouth.

"Sasuke," She hears. "Stop."

The wolf is reluctant, its hackles high and body vibrating with its rage, and it gives one last huff before releasing the Fae. Sakura feels him relax, and the softness of his touch compels her to mimic him.

"What the hell are you doing!?"

Gone is the wolf, replaced by a man—a man with skin like snow and hair like a raven's wings. His eyes are sharp, dark like a reflection of the deepest reaches of an underground cavern and sprinkled with red.  But what makes her breath still in her chest, are the horns that stand out atop his head. They're tall, curving down once before shooting straight up and spiked on the bend, with scales colored an iridescent shade of indigo that makes her think of a slick of oil. And they're adorned with silver bands.

A demon.

Sakura feels her blood turn to ice, not just at the way the demon spat her title, but at the weight of the older one’s stare landing upon her. Fae are dangerous on their own, but Demons are something in a league all their own.

And she had spoken her name to one.

"Are you stupid?” The Demon-Fae called Sasuke hisses. “Entertaining the call of a Witch?”

She can feel the bloodlust radiating from the enraged Demon-Fae and considers running.  She mulls over the incantations in her head—banishing spells, protection spells, binding spells—but ultimately, she finds herself rooted in place, pinned to her Fae’s chest by an arm and feathers.

“Is my baby cousin concerned about me?” He has the gall to tease. “How cute!”

Sakura pushes the feathers aside to look up at her Fae.  His expression is calm, with only the faintest down-turning of his brows hinting towards his irritation.  But his eyes, dark and murky, glow with mirth. He’s handsome, even more so than the Demon-Fae behind her, with strong features and moonlit skin; his hair falls in devious curls that part around his horns.

He has two sets of them—a testament to his age.  One set curves out, then in and up, nowhere near as high as the former’s; while the other set curls down and straight back, their points just barely peeking out from the angle he stands.  The shadows dull their color, unfortunately, but she can glimpse where the moonlight catches on the jewels draped along them.

And when he peers down at her, from beneath enviously long lashes, Sakura has to force herself to breathe.

Sasuke’s growl is predatory, so powerful that Sakura can feel it palpate in her chest. “Quit playing around!  You know that fraternizing with a,” He pauses, glancing in her direction with his nose scrunched in distaste. “Witch is asking for trouble.”

The Demon-Fae straightens, his shoulders stiffening and chin raising, and then wings that gleam with a hint of jade outstretch.  They spread so wide, they eclipse the moon and morph into the darkness between the trees.

“This Witch, Sasuke,” The Demon-Fae begins, and his hands come to rest at the base of Sakura’s neck and around her wrist. “Is under my protection.  For always and forever.”

It’s dark when Shisui wanders through the village gates.

The skies lay heavy with constellations that twinkle for his attention while the crisp autumn air welcomes him with a maple-scented caress. Had it been any other night, he likely would have stopped to admire the stars, but the weight of his eyelashes are too much. So instead, he stumbles towards the gatekeepers.

He doesn’t recognize them—they aren’t the usual Chunin who stand sentinel, but a male and female. She’s an Inuzuka—he can tell by the way her shoulders slouch and the unruly mane of hair, but the other doesn’t bear anything interesting enough to be claimed by a clan. But then again, none of that matters.

They don’t stop him as he passes through. A flash of the seal inked onto his neck is enough, and if there are any doubts, the scarlet gleam of his Sharingan covers it. He supposes he should see the Hokage or maybe Ibiki first before he goes and does anything else, and he considers it, meandering towards the tower at the village’s epicenter; but he can’t. He just can’t. He doesn’t want questions or probing, doesn’t want to be praised like the good shinobi that he is.

He doesn’t want to hear how proud his village is of him, because how the fuck could they be?

How could anyone be proud of him if they knew what kinds of fucked up shit he’d done? Knew how he cried himself to sleep with his knees to his chest and blood on his hands?

He just wants to go home.

Without realizing it, his feet take him beyond the darkened building. And he doesn’t stop until he’s here, fishing a key from the soil of the plant at the top of the stairs. His fingers, stiff from the bite of the oncoming winter, gently dusts the dirt from the grooves of the key, and before he realizes it, it’s twisting the lock of the door to his left.

He doesn’t enter immediately. He’s too nervous. His heart is racing, beating a mile a minute, tattooing his chest, and his palms sweat. Finally, Shisui swallows the shiver in his breath, shakes out the anxiety from his shoulders, wipes his hands on his pants because—will she forgive him? Can she?

Exhausted caliginous eyes scan the room as he finally, finally enters, taking in the shadows carved out of the darkness; his memories supply him with the colors of the couch and the pattern on the rug, the pictures framed on the wall, and maybe it’s the fatigue or the stitches throbbing in his skull, but this isn’t right.

This isn’t his house. Can’t be.

It feels like it. Smells like it—like a forest of herbs and books, calligraphy ink on scroll paper. But it’s crowded. His hips graze furniture that wasn’t there before and there’s at least twice as many glassy picture frames on the wall. He steps on fallen papers, nearly stumbles on a pair of boots abandoned near the door, and there’s a hint of smoke in the air. Shisui’s brows furrow; it’s been seven years since the day he left. That smell shouldn’t exist anymore.

His chest constricts at the implications—that someone else moved in while he was gone, that someone else, another Uchiha, is with her—and before he can stop himself, Shisui is turning down the hall and throwing the bedroom door open.

His chakra sizzles, tingling against his skin in warning as a kunai flies towards him. He catches it, twirling it with deft but trembling fingers, prepared to pitch it back out of instinct because this is his house, only to stiffen as a figure sits up in the bed across the room.

He takes in the pink hair, wild and curly, not unlike his own.

Recognizes the sharp, cat-like eyes studying him.

Sucks in a breath at the Sharingan staring back at him.

The blackness of the room shifts, melting into shades of red and white and it brushes aside the cobwebs of doubt that had draped over his vision. His fingers loosen around the kunai, allowing it to drop to the floor with a dull thump, and then he's at the side of the bed, on his knees because he can't trust himself to stand anymore.

The little boy doesn't so much as flimch, only glares and shifts in the bed to perch himself between him and the unstirring body on the other side.

Fighting back his trembles, Shisui reaches out, extending an open palm to the boy who remains just as stiff. The pads of his fingers brush against heated cheeks, tangles in rosy curls.

"Hey there," He says, softly. "What's your name?"

"Ryota."

Shisui chokes on a laugh. His eyes squeeze shut and he swallows a sob, wipes his cheeks with his shoulder. He had picked that name, decided on it when he and Sakura were curled up in bed one day, casually chatting about kids and all their other dreams. They were four years into their relationship at the time, planning and dreaming and wanting.

He grips the boy, gently as not to hurt him, then offers a grin that makes Ryota's eyes widen. "Hello Ryota. My name is Shisui."

And then finally, recognition colors the little boy's Sharingan. "Daddy?"

The name rips a sob from Shisui's throat. His grip on Ryota tightens until he can't resist yanking the boy into his chest. Ryota burrows himself into Shisui's arms sniffling as he pushes their foreheads together. "Mama's been waiting for you," He says. "She's tired. But I've been good. I help her."

Shisui glances at the rosette, who still had yet to stir, and it makes his stomach twist with guilt. He should have been here, should have been with her. With his son. He places his hand atop Sakura's arm, brushing her wrist with his thumb, then drops his head, letting it rest on the boy's shoulder. "You're s-such a good boy," He manages to say. "I'm sorry I made you wait. I'm so sorry."

Ryota's tears stain Shisui's shirt. "Don't leave again.

"I'm here," Shisui finally says. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sakura always gets up just as the first rays of light break through the curtains.

She likes to bask in the warmth of their bedsheets, slowly fighting off the remaining vestiges of sleep. Then, once she’s gathered her bearings, she sits up immediately, lifts her hands into the air and stretches out her back, rolls her shoulders; then she ruffles her hair and sighs softly before slipping out of bed. She’ll go to the bathroom, take a shower. On even days she goes for a run, on odd ones she dives straight into her work so she can close up the bakery by dinner.

It’s a routine Minato knows well. He’s watched her do it numerous times in the past four years because he always wakes up when she slips out of his arms.

But when she gets up this time, there’s something different. Actually, he thinks as he pushes his rubs the heel of his palm into his eyelids, everything is different.

It’s still dark out, first of all. The curtains are drawn but there’s no sunlight spilling through the translucent material, and the hum of passing commuters aren’t as prominent as it normally is. He hears the shower, but the storming of the showerhead only lasts half as long as it usually would and she’s humming when she saunters back into their room. He pretends he’s still asleep because he can’t figure out what would possess his already-early-rising fiancee to get up even earlier, but knowing she’s there with nothing but a towel draped around her flushed frame and water droplets trailing down her neck, makes Minato’s belly undulate.

She’s still humming when she gets dressed, and then he hears the door close. He hears the chime of the oven turning on and the opening of cabinets, the closing of their brand new fridge, so he assumes breakfast is what’s got her up and moving. Because when she comes across a new recipe, she needs to perfect it.

So he doesn’t think anything of it when he hears her swearing to herself. He assumes she measured something wrong and is dumping out the dry mixture in her bowl. He doesn’t wonder what she’s up to when she starts humming again and her mixer purrs. Then the oven shuts and he figures she’s on the right track. He just hopes she’ll let him be her taste tester.

And so he waits a little longer, hoping to get a few more minutes in before he finally detangles himself from the comforters. By then, the scent of vanilla has filled the apartment and his stomach is growling, and he can hear Sakura’s mixer whirring to life again.

When he enters the kitchen, she’s hard at work, adjusting the consistency of the buttercream in her mixer. The counter is coated in a layer of flour and her fingerprints litter the handle of the fridge, and from this angle, he can see her nose scrunched up in concentration.

“Ah, Minato,” She hums, when he entraps her waist with his arms. She leans into his chest, tilts her head to the side so he can press his lips to her temple but remains focused on the swirl of frosting she’s drawing on a cupcake. “Did I wake you?”

“You did,” He admits.

“I’m sorry,” She says as she moves onto another cupcake. “I didn’t mean to wake you so early on your day off. I know how tired you were last night. I just found this new cupcake recipe and—” She pauses, lacing her fingers with his and bringing his hand to her lips. “Well, you know I just had to try it.”

He loosens his grip on her so she can turn to face him, and leans down for a proper kiss. “It’s okay, as long as I get to eat some of these.” He gestures to the twenty-four cupcakes on the counter, At least half of them are topped with a mountain of pink frosting, while the other half is swirled with blue.

He takes both cupcakes and examines the colors dotted on their faces intently, “Are they different flavors?”

“Pink has a strawberry and creme filling,” She answers. “Blue has a cinnamon buttercream filling. I found the recipe on pinterest."

He sets the pink cupcake back into her hands, swiping a lick of frosting from it with a smile. Sakura laughs, shaking her head, but takes a lick of her own. “Predictable,” She teases.

“You made a lot of cupcakes for a trial run,” He muses, fingers idly tugging on the wrapper surrounding his little cake.

“I’m going to take some to Ino and Karin. I've for some for your brother, too.” She says, eyes still focused on him. “They’ll want to be the first ones to know.”

Acknowledgment rumbles in his chest, but then her words register a moment later and his brows furrow. "Know what?"

Her smile stretches into something a little more excited, revealing pearly teeth. She doesn't elaborate, just gestures to the cupcake he's holding with the tipping of her chin. Curious, Minato brings the treat closer, but sees nothing particularly interesting, so he turns the cupcake around to the unpeeled part of the wrapper.

"April 12th," he reads, twisting his wrist to continue. "We're expect—" His eyes dart back up to Sakura, who's nibbling at her lower lip in an attempt at containing her grin. "Are we? Expecting?"

Her enthusiastic nod makes Minato's chest tighten, and he moves so quickly, Sakura nearly drops her own cupcake. She squeals and laughs as he takes her into his arms, kissing her so passionately, she can't breathe.

But that's okay, because Minato tastes like buttercream and sunshine.

Shisui never thought too much about the rain. He never focused on the different ways it fell, or studied the different accents that came with it.

To him, rain is rain.

So he never noticed the difference it made until now. 

It's night time. The skies are like the purest calligraphy ink—starless and dark. The overcast had dissipated, leaving a black void between structures, while the lanterns and the neon lights cast vibrant reds and purples that reflect off the cascading raindrops. Shisui can see it better in the light—the rain. The downpour is fine; it doesn't pound against his cloak, but it still drenches him within moments. 

The unrelenting wind carries the rain so it fell sideways, getting under the tarps and outcropping metal the villagers used as protection. Not a single umbrella blooms now because that'd be unnecessary; no, everyone moves beneath the homemade canopies without batting an eye at the rather tame weather, stepping through puddles and allowing their own cloaks to whip around without a care, the warmth of each other's visible breaths warming their faces for just a second before chilling again.

Amegakure is a place of misery, Shisui thinks as he tugs his cloak closer to his chest. He wants to get out of the rain, wants to be home where it's warm and welcoming and familiar. He wants to lay on his sofa with a mug of cocoa, watching TV while he waits for the love of his life to come home from another long shift.

He pauses, uncaring for the grumbles that reach his ears and the shoves he gets to his shoulder, because when he looks up, everyone scurries away at the flash of red he bears. And seeing the fear in their eyes makes him clench his chest where his heart would be. 

Would be, he thinks, because his heart is gone—torn apart and left to flutter in the wind years ago.

But he has no one to blame for the strange phantom pains he feels but himself.

Because he left.

Because he chose his village over his world.

Because he was scared.

He doesn't realize he's punctured his lip until the blood trails down his throat. His knuckles are white now, drained of color with how tightly he's squeezing them but that's nothing compared to the constriction in his chest.

Wiping at the dribble of scarlet, Shisui resumed his gait through the village, turning down the alley on the right. The silage of trash and alcohol is prominent here, burning at his nose and he's sure he's kicked a rat just now, but he ignores the disgust crawling up his spine.

He only has a few minutes left before Kisame shows up and ruins his plans.

He traces the shadows of the complicated maze of alleys until the fluorescent lights of the market reach through again, but he doesn't step into the light. He stays there, pressed to the icy metal of the adjacent building, counting his breaths, waiting for that glimpse he’s waited all year for.

And then she appears.

Even with her cloak drawn over her head, Shisui can pick her out of a crowd. And he wants to rush towards her, just as he does every time he sees her, but he resists, content with watching as she meanders past.

He wants to reach for her, feel the softness of her skin and imprint it with his lips even just one last time but he knows he can't and it hurts. He wants to gaze down into those pretty spring eyes, brush his thumbs against those impossibly dark lashes and kiss her—devour her as if he were starving.  He wants to press his brow against hers, just as he did time and time again, to nudge his nose against hers in askance for another kiss. He’d give his whole fucking soul to do it one more time; and he wants and wants and wants but he can’t because the truth isn't something he can afford.

So he watches as she makes her way through town. He wants to make sure she gets to wherever she's going safely, just as he does every time she passes by, but something's different this time.

There’s someone with her.

His blood freezes and his fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt but he forces himself to remain rooted in his spot, because whoever she’s with can’t be anything more than a child.

A child who refuses to wear his hood.

A child with curly pink hair.

Without realizing it, the dark hues of his eyes brighten into a crimson glow; Shisui sucks in a breath.

The little boy pauses as if sensing his gaze, head swiveling, searching.  Their eyes meet.  One tomoe clashes with three. 

He can’t breathe. His chakra burns. His chest aches.

He moves. 

His feet begin to carry him forward, his lips parting with the beginnings of a shout but before he can get more than a few meters out of the alley, Shisui remembers himself.  He can’t get any closer, can’t let her know he’s there because if she sees him—if she knew the truth—everything he’s done would be for naught.

Because the cost of peace outweighs the price of honesty. 

Falling back against the building, Shisui digs the heels of his palms against his eyelids and kicks back at the wall supporting him.  And he wonders, is the price really worth it?