there’s a small bouquet of pink and white carnations on her kitchen table. he dropped by this morning to wish it to her in person with a hug… and discreetly left them behind. a note is attached, “happy mother’s day. thank you for everything.” it isn’t signed because the scruffy handwriting is enough of a hint.
It can still be a little overwhelming at times, the reality of just how vast her support system truly is, the impact that not only herself but Asuma, too, had made in the lives of others.
Kurenai knows that her students are all thoughtful in their own ways- they are considerate and warm underneath the veil of shinobi, still so excited for the tiny little person they happily pass between themselves joining their cobbled together family. They are hers as much as she is theirs, drawn together by chance but fiercely protective of bonds forged.
She doesn’t rely on them because it is not appropriate, because it is not their place to take care of her, but each visit and shared meal (you shouldn’t have to worry about cooking sensei!) and genuine expression of fondness are the things that keep Kurenai standing. That bring warmth back into a home that could so easily be overtaken by the echoing grief that absence tries to foster.
She loves them dearly, her first children.
“Look Mirai, Kiba tried to be sneaky.” And he had succeeded, mostly- casually moving through her apartment when he’d already mentioned he couldn’t stay long hadn’t been the stealthiest mission he’d ever completed, but the flowers themselves were still a surprise, bringing a small smile once spotted.
Mirai is shifted more to one arm after Kurenai sits at the table, a way for her daughter to be propped up enough to look at the bright blooms as the note is reached for with a now free hand. Such a brief and quickly scrawled message, but something precious, touching in a way that she doesn’t bother to fight back because it is just the two of them now and Mirai is quite good at keeping her secrets.
“We’ll have to do something nice for him, won’t we?” Quietly, a little hoarse, words disappearing into short dark hair as Kurenai leans in, seeking reassurance and comfort from her impatiently squirming daughter. She wants to grab at the flowers but makes do with a fistful of Kurenai’s own loose and untamed hair when it falls over her, instead. “Any ideas?”
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