Sasuke thumps his head on the table, annoyed at the cooing he can hear from upstairs. He straightens up before letting the wet rag fall on the counter, moving to the sink to wash his hands, wincing at Ino’s very loud squeal. He grumbles, before walking around the island, walking to the bottom of the stairs. “Ino, shut the fuck up!” he says calmly in a loud voice, listening to Ino closing the door upstairs and appearing on the top of the stairs with a journal? book? on her arms, with some pictures haphazardly balanced on top.
She walks— sprints down the stairs, sidestepping him and dumping the pile on a table, her nails digging to his arm. “Sasuke, you didn’t tell me you were childhood sweethearts with Hinata!” she exclaims, making him splutter in disbelief, cheeks coloring in bemusement. “What do you mean? I never—” he caught sight of the pictures, before groaning, hiding his face in his palms. He doesn’t remember, and he didn’t expect that Ino will see this. He thought Ino was the better choice to help him with organizing his house, rather than Naruto and Sakura.
“We were not sweethearts. We were just friends,” he enunciates, tone slightly defensive, “and besides, it broke off when the massacre happened.” he added glumly. Ino sighs out in exasperation, with pity? amusement? exhaustion? before flicking him on the forehead, spreading the pictures in a line. His brows raise when he caught some glimpses of Shikamaru’s hair, looking at Ino expectantly. “My mom was genin teammates with their dads. Playdates.”
She huffs forlornly, “You three are hopeless.” He just gives her a shrug, watching over her shoulder as she looks at the pictures one by one. The pile doesn’t have that much pictures, mostly drawings with crayons with scribbled names or half-assed drawings, some with neat lines and proper colors and some mostly empty and scarce. She giggles at one, seeing a wobbly stroke of brown crayon, and small writing in the corner saying : Shika fell asleep again. - Hinata and Sasuke.
He rolls his eyes, failing to hide the smile slipping on his lips as Ino plucks a picture of Mikoto, Hiashi and Shikaku with their three kids in front, ranging around 2-3 years old, wobbly standing and holding unto each other with tight grips. “You were adorable,” she teases, hand hovering over his chubby cheeks and doe onyx eyes, making him scowl, “I was not.”
“You were.” she laughs, “although you look like an cat hissing a fit whenever you’re scowling.” It was a running joke with Team 7, who at this point are used to his glares and scowls, his intimidation tactic failing, instead looking like one of the cats in the Uchiha compound. He nudges her shoulder instead, Ino taking another picture , moving platinum blonde hair away from her face, blue eyes lighting up in mischief. A shy Hinata peeks from behind him, with a dozing Shikamaru sitting on the ground on his other side, leaning on him. He has a wide smile, hand resting on the tiny brown ponytail.
Ino snickers, as he takes another one, seeing the three of them wearing kimonos walking hand-by-hand on the streets, the orange tint of the lanterns reflecting off of their dark hair. There’s another one, with the camera close to their faces, a lavender eye and upturned pink lips on the left corner, with Shikamaru’s hair popping up from the bottom, Sasuke’s eye appearing on the right. “You were such cute kids.” she comments, Sasuke finding it hard to refuse the compliment. Maybe, he isn’t, but Hinata and Shikamaru definitely were— are. He flushes at the realization, averting his eyes and stacking the papers instead.
He tugs on Ino’s shirt, making the woman stand, before relenting to his request, going up the stairs. “Fine, fine, I’ll get going with organizing it.” He smirks, “I’ll let you shift through them later, just finish them first.” She perks up, before darting up, the enthusiastic “Yes!” echoing. He doesn’t get why Ino is excited about it, after all, she was also Shikamaru and Hinata’s bestfriend, she should’ve seen their childhood photos. “I never saw yours, or ones with the three of you. They didn’t even tell me you were childhood sweethearts!” she answers his spoken out loud thought, he glowers grumpily at the sweethearts mentioned, before pocketing his hands.
He wanders back to the kitchen, taking the discarded rag and wiping the marble counter, moving down to the bottom cabinets. He lets himself hum and get lost in his thoughts, efficiently barreling through his old essentials, throwing away the long used cleaning supplies. He dusts his pants off, swiping at the dust and cobwebs clinging on his arms, before washing his hands carefully. He runs a wet hand through his hair, the black strands staying out of his face as he dries his hands off.
The rest of the house is already clean and organized, including the Itachi’s old bedroom which was surprisingly in good condition, the awards and clothes well kept and free of dust. His old bedroom was easy to discard of the old stuff toys and smaller clothing, changing the muted blue bedding for dark grey, softer ones, and refilling his closet with clothes that do fit him, with his now better color scheme. He absently places the new tea cups on the counter before placing the kettle over open flame, taking the bags of groceries to the fridge while waiting.
He places the tin of cookies beside the cups, as he fills the fridge with fresh cartons of milk, alongside the newly bought perishable goods. He washes the vegetables, plucking a cherry tomato and eating it while placing the fruits in the basket. He pours hot water as the tea bag bobs on the surface, opening the cookie tin to get a shortbread, nibbling on it as he listens to the fumbling from upstairs, heard from the kitchen. He stays quiet as Ino budges the door open loudly, stomping down the stairs, the wood creaking loud as she appears in the doorway, papers flying in her wake.
She looks at him with a determinedly grim expression, offering a smile— that looks more like a grimace, before waving two scrolls in her hand. His mismatched eyes narrow in instinct, the gold sheen on the white paper and the chakra presence of his parents intact on the delicate sheet. “What is that supposed to be—?” he asks hesitantly, not liking the information about to be told. “I don’t know, you tell me. I just found them in a box named Sasuke, with a seal on it.”
A box with my name on it? he thinks incredulously, mouth opening to ask before he shuts it closed, taking the offered scrolls instead. His brows knitted together in concentration as Ino takes the full cup of tea, taking a chocolate cookie daintily. He channels his chakra through the frisky seal, before it opens, his parent’s chakra hitting him full-force. He unfurls the top with bated breath, meticulously written words with precise and sure strokes of ink in beautiful handwriting— his mother’s appear on the sheer reflective white paper. It’s a marriage contract, he realizes, as his eyes follow the words written, the stark black ink blurring against the blinding white.
Marriage contract. With the Hyuugas. Ensuring the bond, and making peace. No more fights. His Sharingan whirl in horror, even if he is inwardly pleased, a pink blush appearing on his cheeks. He blinks, each time dragging on longer, before he reads the last part, seeing the Hyuuga Hinata written in Hiashi Hyuuga’s writing, blocky straight letters against Fugaku’s neatly scribbled one. The date is stamped with the Hyuuga and Uchiha stamp, as he releases a tense breath, shaking fingers following the chakra infused signature of his father.
He stays there staring at his mother’s writing, the cursive handwriting and the loops making him reminiscent of his own, ‘pretty’ handwriting. He exhales through clenched teeth, before pushing it aside, Ino taking it from his hands. He focuses on the other one, blowing the hair out of his face while his chakra unlocks the seal. Ino lets out a surprised ‘ah’ of understanding, munching quietly while she mouths some words, her chakra simmering under her skin. “So it is a marriage contract,” she murmurs wistfully, rolling it to a scroll, “I had my suspicions.”
“I assume you already seen one of these?” he asks, while his eyes start to skim through a different handwriting, tilting his head on the swiftly written words, the ends of some letters dragging lazily. He inhales deeply in realization, Ino letting out some sort of squeak, her eyes widening. “That’s Yoshino Nara’s writing.” He winces, before pulling the curled bottom of the scroll, patting it flat on the counter as he catches on his name on the bottom. Again. With Shikamaru’s name on the side.
