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One peaceful morning for Sasuke, the Hokage's wife and the Hokage's shadow... It's been 16 years since the Fourth Great Ninja War. Life across the Five Nations has reconciled and is entering a new era.
Today is his birthday. Ah, the kids and Naruto haven't come back yet. Sasuke thought to himself, smiling. Looking back, it wasn't that easy, but oh well, he might as well call the team... "Did he come here for good?" Sasuke wondered, but soon he was drawn to the loud noise in the living room. He went to investigate and found Minato, his son who was his complete spitting image except for one thing. Her smile and complexion; the adorable youngest child who is now lying sprawled out. Sasuke slowly walked over to help his son, Minato, up. "Dad told you not to be so mischievous," he said. Minato replied innocently, "I tried, but..."
Sasuke chuckled, the sound low and gravelly, a rare warmth touching his eyes as he knelt beside his son. He reached out, his steady hand resting on Minato’s shoulder to help him sit up. The boy’s hair was wild—a dark, messy halo that mirrored Sasuke’s own, though the expression on his face was purely kind-hearted, a trait he’d inherited entirely from Naruto.
"But what?" Sasuke prompted, his tone losing its edge, replaced by the patient, albeit firm, cadence of a father.
Minato sheepishly rubbed the back of his head, gesturing toward the mess he’d caused. A stack of scrolls—likely mission reports Naruto had been procrastinating on—was scattered across the floor, along with a half-unpacked box of celebratory supplies. "I was trying to reach the top shelf to get the banner ready before you woke up," Minato admitted, his cheeks flushing a shade of pink that reminded Sasuke vividly of his husband. "I thought if I could just jump and catch the edge, I’d be fast enough to avoid a mess. I guess I’m not quite as fast as Dad yet."
Sasuke looked at the chaos, then back at his son. Sixteen years had passed, and yet, moments like this still felt like a dream. He looked toward the window, noticing the sun had fully crested the horizon, casting a peaceful golden light across the Konoha skyline.
"Speed isn't everything, Minato," Sasuke said softly, brushing a stray bit of paper off the boy’s sleeve. "Precision matters. And," he added, a small, genuine smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, "you shouldn't be jumping on the furniture in the Hokage’s office, even if we are currently at home."
Minato giggled, his eyes sparkling with that familiar, infectious joy. "Is it really your birthday, then? Mom—Dad—said you'd be grumpy if we made a big deal out of it."
"He told you that?" Sasuke sighed, though his chest tightened with affection. He stood up, offering a hand to pull his son to his feet.
Just then, the front door creaked open, followed by the unmistakable, boisterous laughter of Naruto, accompanied by the chaotic chatter of the rest of the household returning home.
"Sasuke! Don't listen to him, he’s been planning this for weeks!" Naruto’s voice boomed from the hallway, muffled by the bags of groceries he was clearly struggling with.
Sasuke looked down at Minato, who was beaming. The quiet morning was over, replaced by the loud, vibrant life he had spent a lifetime fighting to protect. He realized then that he didn't need to call the team; the only team that mattered had finally come home.
The house seemed to shrink under the weight of the sudden commotion. Naruto burst into the living room, his arms overflowing with wrapped packages and a suspiciously lopsided cake box, his signature orange jacket discarded somewhere in the hallway. Beside him, the rest of the household spilled in, bringing the scent of the morning market and the relentless, bright energy that defined the Uzumaki-Uchiha home.
"Birthday boy!" Naruto cheered, kicking the door shut behind him with his heel before rushing over to bridge the distance between them. He didn't care about the mess of scrolls or the fact that his hair was windswept and wild—he simply beamed, a radiant expression that had been Sasuke’s anchor for over a decade.
Sasuke found himself bracketed by his family. Minato was still buzzing with excitement from his earlier tumble, while Naruto leaned in, dropping the cake box onto the table with a theatrical thump and wrapping an arm around Sasuke’s waist.
"You really thought we’d leave you alone on your birthday?" Naruto teased, his voice dropping to a softer, warmer register as he looked at Sasuke. "I know you like your quiet, but sixteen years of peace means we’ve earned a little bit of noise, right?"
Sasuke allowed himself to lean into the contact. He looked at the chaos of the room—the scattered scrolls, the banner Minato had nearly hung, the sheer vitality of his husband and son—and felt the familiar, grounding ache of contentment.
For a flicker of a second, his mind drifted back to the boy he had been: the lone avenger, the one who walked in shadows, the one who believed he was destined for solitude. He remembered the coldness of the Uchiha compound, the silence of his teenage years, and the jagged, bloody path he had carved toward this exact moment. He realized that the "peace" he felt wasn't just the absence of war; it was the active, daily construction of this life. It was every shared meal, every morning training session with Minato, and every quiet look exchanged with Naruto across the Hokage’s desk.
"I didn't think you'd forgotten," Sasuke murmured, finally letting his guard down completely. A genuine, unguarded smile touched his face—the kind that rarely appeared outside these four walls. "I just didn't expect you to make me work so hard for my own party."
Minato cheered, and Naruto let out a boisterous laugh, pulling them both into a messy, tangled hug.
"Well, you're the one who taught him that speed is everything," Naruto said with a wink. "If he’s going to be your student, he has to learn how to handle a surprise mission, even if it's just cake."
Sasuke closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the rhythm of their breathing and the distant sounds of a Konoha that was finally, truly at rest. He had spent his youth chasing ghosts and revenge, but as he stood there, anchored by the people who knew every version of his story, he knew he was exactly where he was meant to be.
The laughter in the kitchen hadn't even faded when the air in the room suddenly curdled.
It started as a high-pitched vibration, a hum that set Sasuke’s teeth on edge. The warmth of Naruto’s arm around his waist turned freezing cold—not just cold, but void of sensation. Sasuke’s Mangekyō Sharingan snapped open instinctively, his vision shifting to catch the distortion in reality.
Before him, the living room began to fracture like shattered glass. Through the jagged cracks in space, he didn't see the Konoha hallway. He saw flashes of a different life: a dark, stormy sky where the moon hung unnaturally large and red.
"Dad?"
The voice was shaky, unfamiliar, yet hauntingly recognizable. A boy with wild, dark hair and piercing eyes—Menma—stood near the bookshelf, his hand outstretched as if trying to grasp something that wasn't there. Beside him, a girl with sharp features and a fierce, determined gaze—Sarada—flickered in and out of existence, her silhouette glowing with a faint, pale luminescence.
"Something's wrong," Sarada whispered, her voice sounding as if it were traveling from miles away. "The cycle... it's trying to close."
Sasuke felt a violent jolt in his chest, a sensation of being yanked backward by a hook behind his navel. The room blurred. Naruto’s face, so vibrant and solid a moment ago, began to dissolve into streaks of golden light.
"Sasuke! Grab my hand!" Naruto’s voice was fading, becoming desperate. "Don't let go!"
But the grip was slipping. The reality he had built—the birthday, the training, the peace—was folding in on itself like a scroll being rolled tight. Sasuke reached out, his fingers brushing Naruto’s, but his hand passed through the Hokage’s coat as if it were made of smoke.
It was never real.
The realization hit him with the force of a Chidori. The sixteen years of peace, the son with the kind smile, the life he had fought for—it was all a projection, a construct of the Infinite Tsukuyomi.
His vision turned white. The smell of cake and morning air was replaced by the stale, suffocating scent of the Gedo Statue's chamber.
Sasuke gasped, his lungs burning as if he had been holding his breath for an eternity. He bolted upright, his eyes flying open. His body felt heavy, weighted down by damp roots and chakra-draining vines. He wasn't in his living room; he was strapped into the dark, cold heart of the Kaguya’s dimension.
Outside the heavy stone walls of his prison, he could hear the distant, muffled echoes of the Fourth Great Ninja War—the roar of the battlefield, the clash of steel, and the desperate, familiar cries of his comrades.
He stared into the darkness, his heart hammering against his ribs. The memory of Minato’s laugh, the warmth of Naruto’s hand, the quiet morning light—it felt more real than the cold stone beneath his palms. He brought a hand to his face, his fingers trembling, a single drop of sweat rolling down his temple.
He was awake. The dream had ended. But the image of his children—Menma and Sarada—lingered in his mind like a phantom limb, a future he hadn't yet lived, but one he was now more determined than ever to create.