Chapter Text
memento vivere
The loud and reverberating music of the bar ebbs to a low rumble as he closes a door into one of the many small alleyways that make up the clustered core of Konoha. The cool, winter air greats him as he immediately steps into a puddle of muddy slush that has pooled along the ridge of the door frame. He stares as the icy water seeps through the open portions of his sandals. He’s not upset by this; the cold is welcome. Alcohol and dancing and arguing have all but made the blood that thunders in his veins liquid lava.
The world blurs and veers to the side as he nudges a milk wooden crate with his foot, heavily sitting down on it with a loud thump and prolonged sigh. He kicks the heel of his foot against the corner to knock off some icy slumps from his soles. As he does so, his vision wobbles and he almost finds himself toppling forward. He manages to catch himself at the last moment, fingers clutching at the side of the wood. He presses the other hand against his mouth, as though it’ll help stifle the impulsive laughter that pours out of him.
Shit.
It’s been a long time since he was last drunk—a whole lifetime ago, one might even say.
It’s not a funny joke, but he gives a huffy laugh at it anyway as he rights himself with a wry shake of his head. Day by day he gets closer and closer to dad-joke territory and it’s only a matter of time before he has to accept the inevitable.
But that’s a problem for future-him to worry about.
He pries open his bright red jacket to pull out a half-pack of cigarettes that he nicked from a fellow while they were watching an engrossing game of speed-go. Konoha doesn’t have proper pool halls or go salons, so it’s the closest thing he’s found to the smoke-filled dives that he used to frequent. Civilians are unfortunately easy prey when it comes to sleight of hand, so he’d gone for one of the middle-aged Genin Corps guys. They have consistent pay, at least.
He doesn’t have a lighter or any matches to light it, though, so he simply sticks the cigarette between his lips and lets it hang there.
He hadn't smoked, before. Smelled awful, tasted awful. Despite his choice of lifestyle and profession, or perhaps because of it, he’d never seen the point of it and had never given in to the peer pressure.
That changed quite quickly during his tenure in Konoha—his first cigarette had been at age twelve, stolen from the decapitated body of a Kiri soldier. He’s not really sure what inspired him to do it; where the intrusive thought had come from. He’d just been looking for hidden documents when he found a half-used smoke tucked within the cuff of an enemy ninja’s shirt. His team leader had given him an earful when she realized what happened, of course, but he didn’t die—so, in the end, he considered it a win.
The anger had struck him as funny at the time. Well, it still does. Clearly, sending kids to fight in life-or-death battles against enemy ninja is just the way to protect the nation….
But a cigarette? Oh no, that is just a step too far.
He’d been to lots of parties, before, though. Lots of bars. Too many to count. His memory of before is blurred by these late nights, bright lights, and Adderall.
Mostly the Adderall.
It comes as a shock that Konoha has a party scene. He’d seen old men drinking small cups of sake in those roadside restaurants and figured that was the extent that the war-driven town would allow. Lo and behold his surprise when he accidentally stumbled across the hidden dens of the Konoha entertainment district—his shock had been more pronounced by how similar they were to the clubs and bars he used to attend. Live music from dusk to dawn, late night food stops consisting of meat on sticks, okonomiyaki, and ramen.
The technology of this world continues to baffle him. They have strobe lights but they don’t have music players. They have fireworks but they don’t have firearms. They have fully equipped kitchen appliances (from microwaves to stoves to refrigerators) but their medical equipment is stuck in the 1950s. They have fully renewable energy used to generate electricity, but they are still reliant on espionage and murder to run their village.
Isn’t it hilarious?
There are clear lines that dictate what Konoha considers important technology; where time and funds are invested. In a world where your life force can meld wounds and turn breath into fire, certain fields of science have certainly fallen short.
Curiosity sometimes rears its ugly head in him, occasionally. What percent of the world is still using wooden stoves and gas lanterns? Are there places that have music players and headphones? Just how much of the world is locked away behind the firm country lines that divide this land—what technological advancements are being withheld by the world’s constant state of war? The ninja village is leagues above the rest of the civilian villages, which are stuck in the feudal era. Is this the same across the world? The lack of resources, and education, to properly advance even their capital cities can only be an intentional tactic on behalf of their ninja comrades.
Knowledge, power, control.
"Fuck me,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face.
He’s fucking sloshed. It’s too late to be thinking about all this, literally and metaphorically. It’s been nearly a decade since he woke up… here. There’s no point in overthinking things. He has long since accepted that this isn’t a fucked up dream and is, in fact, the reality for this next segment of his life. There was a fuck-up somewhere, obviously, but comparing what was with what now is will only drive him mad.
Mind your own business. Live long, not fast. Don’t be a dick. Socks before pants.
His mantras.
The opening of the bar door distracts him from his insidious thoughts. Music once again thrums loudly through the air, though it doesn’t feel as visceral as when he was inside the smoky main room. Maybe he should have listened to the others when he had ordered that last round of shots for everyone.
“Takeru?”
A blonde head of long, careful curls sticks out from the door, unwilling to fully commit to going outside in the nighttime chill. A co-worker, who he was unfortunate to run into. Because, of course, of all the bars she could have gone to this evening with her friends, it’d be the one he’d snuck into.
Sayu’s large green eyes trail to the cigarette in his mouth and narrow with evident disapproval. It doesn’t matter that it’s not lit; it’s about the principle.
“Shisui is looking for you,” is all she says.
Takeru leans back on the milk crate until his back is against the wall. The movement is slow and intentional, a last-ditch effort to give himself a few moments before he has to respond. He then closes his eyes and tilts his head back until it, too, is touching brick.
Fuck.
He’d rather brain himself on the alleyway cobblestone than deal with that conversation right now, at this moment.
“Thinking of going home, actually.” His words are astonishingly crisp and clear for someone who can barely see ten feet in front of himself. He’d claim ten years of experience in a past life as the reason, but it doesn’t really make biological sense. He could probably wing it though; years of being in debate clubs had to be of use somewhere after all.
Sayu’s words are dripping with disbelief, “You sure you can make it home alright?”
He laughs, but it is dry and sardonic. “If I can make it home through Iwa in the dead of night with no light or map then I sure as hell can make the ten-minute walk home now.” The expectations of ninjas are truly extraordinary. He grins, then, opening his eyes and slightly tilting his head to look at her, “Why? Worried about me?”
“Incredibly.”
The grin falters to a wince—it’s not as fun when they are honest about it. “Ah, you worry too much. Don’t you know that shit ages you?”
“You worry too little,” again her words are said with thick disapproval. She’s spent too much time with him, he thinks, and she completely side-steps his baiting remark. He’d prefer anger to concern. But it’s understandable, she’s got a fresh baby at home and he can tell that she’s getting her practice in for when the kid can start walking and causing trouble. It’s endearing, even as her pretty face twists into a scowl. “You should stop that awful habit; those things will kill you.”
He doesn’t need her to specify what she means. He makes his voice light and contemplative as he mockingly strokes his chin, “Before or after a Kiri-nin takes me out?”
“You’re fourteen,” is her response, as though that changes anything, “and in Admin. I’d certainly hope you aren’t getting face-to-face with Kiri. For my sake, if anything.”
Takeru shakes his head, rolling the cigarette back and forth in the left corner of his lips in an effort not to laugh.
By the standards of this world, his thoughts are clear treason. He’s learnt through trial and error that the people of this village really value the so-called Will of Fire thought process and do not take kindly to those who laugh at it. Even folks like Sayu who, for the most part, have been paper-pushers for the entirety of their adult careers. The lengths people will go to justify violence when it’s all they’ve ever known has (and will) always confound him.
The priorities of this ninja society is fucking mental.
However—Takeru is well versed at recognizing when he is facing a losing, pointless battle. Sayu is a middle-aged new mom who was lucky enough to skip the messiness of a battlefield. She will not give up. Some fights are simply best avoided.
Standing up from the crate he heaves a loud sigh, “Tell Shisui that I’m safe at home, ya?”
“You should tell him yourself.”
"Nah,” he waves a hand at her, “I’m ready for bed. See ya tomorrow.”
"Sure you’re gonna make it to your shift tomorrow?” and, finally, like a streak of sunlight on a stormy day, her voice fills with humour, ”You look like shit.”
Takeru tips his head back with a laugh, “I’ve survived worse!”
The music eats away her quiet grumbling in the background as he exits the alleyway. Takeru is not embarrassed to say that he concentrates extremely hard to walk as normally as possible to lessen her worries—but as soon as he has rounded the corner, the wave of intoxication takes over once more as his vision blurs and sweeps from left to right. Stumbling over a wayward stone that really was a little more to the right than he thought, Takeru slouches against the wall of a grocer in an attempt to figure out where the fuck he is.
Somewhere, he's certain an ANBU is laughing their face off. He just fucking hopes it’s not Gorou or Fuyua. Snitches.
Swaying, Takeru runs his hands through his hair before continuing his trek home.
He doesn’t remember when he loses his cigarette, but at some point during his walk, he goes to tuck it in his pocket only to find it missing. Pausing to look around at the dirt-paved road, he mumbles with remorse for the karma sent his way for unfettered theft.
As he fumbles through his jacket to grab another—the logic of still not having a match to light it not processing through his mind—a quiet whimper sounds to his left.
Let it be known that Takeru genuinely tries his best to be as mediocre as can be. It’s one of his mantras. You can’t be asked to do crazy shit—like Shisui or Itachi—if no one thinks you are special enough to carry the weight. If no one thinks you are capable of it. If people think you are a slacker. The village breeds worker ants who are indoctrinated into believing that their life means nothing compared to the village; and that the prosperity of the village is worth a lifetime of violence.
But not Takeru, no sir.
He is fine being a small, insignificant cog in the system.
Being born as a clanless kid should have been a blessing—if Takeru hadn’t been born when he did.
They’d been desperate. They needed bodies.
Since then, he has tried to keep his nose out of business that isn't his. Takeru’s made it through the past year snoozing his way through Admin work to miss the worst of it. Sure, working in administration means that he can‘t keep his head completely off the radar of the powers that be—and has frankly failed on this front—but it is the best place to keep a pulse on what’s going on in the village while staying at arm's length from it.
There are many ways to protect oneself: strength, intelligence, manipulation. Takeru has chosen the path of least resistance—weaponized incompetence. He’s lived a life full of ambition. That’s over now. Was all that effort ever worth it in the end? No. So, if it means surviving in this crazy world until he’s fifty, he’ll turn a blind eye to the things he doesn't like and shut off the rational, emotional parts of his mind that scream at him that everything is so, so, so wrong—
But when he sees the small, whimpering kid curled up in the narrow off-shoot of an alleyway, clouds of cold puffing from where his face is slumped against the dirt road…
Well.
He makes a stupid fucking decision.
春野 健瑠
For all his mantras, Takeru has never been very good at following rules.
Self-imposed or otherwise.
春野 健瑠
The shrill sound of his alarm is an unwelcome, ugly thing.
From the depths of a mound of blankets, Takeru blindly reaches out to put the clock on snooze—only for the next alarm to strike through the darkness of his consciousness so quickly he swears he had only just closed his eyes. Swearing several times under his breath, Takeru drags his head out of his comforter and aggressively turns the alarm off. From the gaps in the curtains, he can see that dawn has yet to arrive; the dark, murky side of the next-door apartment building is all he is greeted with.
Rubbing his eyes, Takeru blearily stares at the digital clock innocently perched on his bedside table. The red light of 06:46 sears into his eyes.
Running a hand through his obnoxious pink hair, and thoroughly mussing it up, Takeru accepts the possibility that he is still drunk as a wave of vertigo hits him. Running a thumb over an eyelid, where he can feel a building headache starting to bloom, he takes a quick mental report on what the fuck happened the night before.
He remembers hanging out with Usai and Shisui, trying to convince old people to play games with them for quick cash. It had been fairly unsuccessful until they had started gambling against the genin corps dudes; a rapid succession of go, shogi, and poker. They were easy to rile up. He remembers the bar afterwards. He remembers convincing the bar staff to sell them alcohol… and then it mostly goes downhill from there. At some point, he ran into Aoi and Sayu, who were enraged to see the teens. Dancing, lots of dancing—he remembers that Usai, despite being the oldest of their trio, had to be bribed into joining them.
But there are pockets of time he doesn’t remember, where things just blur or skip.
All things considered, he doesn’t feel as awful as he assumed he would. The dry mouth and teetering headache are to be expected, but it’s nothing to be concerned about. He’s certainly seen worse days.
Takeru’s just confused—had Usai dragged his ass home?
Slowly, slowly rolling out of the bed, Takeru continues to run his hands through his hair and over his face. The motion almost feels rejuvenating—fuck everyone that said that he would be a mess in the morning.
It takes all of two steps from his bed for Takeru to realize that he is actually very not okay—and that, if he doesn’t move now, he is going to puke right there on the spot. Rushing through his apartment to the bathroom, he saves himself a potential mess by aiming right and true into the porcelain throne. He heaves three times, spewing the contents of his stomach.
But, once it is done, Takeru feels close to normal.
Shedding his clothes, he takes a quick, hot shower with plenty of bathwash and soap. He knows it won’t stop the ooze of alcohol from his scent, but he desperately tries anyway. Once finished, he grabs a towel to ruffle through his hair and then wraps it around his waist. Next is his hair oils and body lotion—important things he learnt too late in his past life—before brushing his teeth.
It’s only once the condensation on the mirror has started to fade that Takeru first gets a glimpse at his appearance. Or, more specifically, the purpling marks that dot his neck and shoulder.
Mouth frothing with toothpaste, Takeru stares with disbelief as mutters “What the fuck?” around his toothbrush.
Maybe if he were actually fourteen this would be the start of some angsty My Chemical Romance montage—god, the things he’d do to get access to his phone or old iPod—or maybe even a funky, techno rom-com beat. But, he’s mentally forty-something, has been in a frat, and is now actively a child soldier who has probably killed more people than he had saved in his last life. With these factors in mind, he sneers at his neck and makes a mental note to wear a shirt with a really fucking high neckline.
Frankly, he doesn’t even need to know what happened last night. It’s probably for the best that what is secret stays secret. Keep it in the past. One might even say that’s what keeps life interesting.
Shaking his head at his own drunken audacity, Takeru stumbles out of the bathroom and into the hallway of his apartment.
The cold air hits like a wall compared to the steamy bathroom, making goosebumps crawl over his skin. He’s only had this apartment for a few months now, and it’s the kind of shitty apartment run by slum lords, but it is hands down one of the best choices he’s made in this life. He loves his new parents a lot, leagues above the ones from his previous life, but he always felt as though he was walking on eggshells with them—waiting for them to realize that he wasn’t their kid or (god forbid) thinking he was a genius.
A shiver snakes down his spine at the thought. Konoha chews up smart kids and spits them out once they're too broken to be of use anymore. If they don’t die first, that is.
As he enters his bedroom, the sound of a particularly loud snore shakes him from his thoughts. Fingers pressing against the hardwood of the door frame, he pauses in the doorway. He finally acknowledges the light of chakra that is emitting from his living room, pondering if he should turn around and face whoever he had taken home the night before—and promptly decides that this can be an issue for Takeru in five minutes.
Yawning loudly, he idly stretches and scratches at his stomach as he meanders to his dresser. Picking out his standard work outfit—black pants, black turtleneck, and his flak jacket—he contemplates what to tell the person in his living room.
He knows that it’s none of his friends crashing on his couch; the light to their chakra is far too bright and unfamiliar against the back of his eyelids. Takeru spends too much time around civilians and ninjas during his day job to not recognize them, so deductive reasoning states that it’s a stranger. He’s confident with this prognosis: while his mantra is to stay under the radar, he’s diligent when it comes to his sensory abilities. Play smart, not hard—his transfer to administration within the Hokage’s office had been entirely intentional: all the connections without the bloody consequences.
He just has never shared this particular skill with people. Or any of his skills, honestly. If he had, he’d be thrown into a tracking team or the god-awful medic division. Neither would be ideal for his end goal of easy days, so Takeru has kept his mouth shut since the wee age of five years old. Though, of course, there are a few pain-in-the-ass geniuses who undoubtedly have clocked it in the decade following.
But if they won’t say anything, neither will Takeru.
The red digits of his clock blink as it nears seven-thirty. It feels vaguely threatening. He has overspent his time trying to avoid the inevitable, fumbling with various knick-knacks as he mentally prepares himself for an awkward conversation. He’s got some bad news and an apology to make for whoever it is. He’s four years too early to be messing around with people: alcohol is one thing, but he has (newly formed) firm and complicated boundaries when it comes to sex.
Wincing, Takeru finally drags himself to what he accepts as his fate.
And while his vivid imagination conjured all sorts of uncomfortable scenarios, he did not expect the literal child sprawled out on his couch. He can only stare at the snoring kid with one leg tossed over the back of the couch and one arm draped over the side, looking like the epitome of comfort despite how a blanket has completely fallen to the floor, leaving the kid bare to the chill of his apartment.
In theory, he should be elated. Turns out he didn’t sleep with someone last night—or, at least, he didn’t bring them home.
But, no. This is worse.
Takeru may not recognize the kid’s chakra, but one look at his blonde hair and whisker-marked face is enough for him to give an empathetic:
“Fuck.”