#u-u

Tanmeric, but they're 50 and have been going to couple therapy since their first year of marriage

rambling + hc ↓

The meeting room feels suffocating, every breath drawn thick with the staleness of politics and false pleasantries. The drone of voices arguing back and forth pounds against Tsunade’s skull, making her fists tighten beneath the table until her knuckles pale. She’s pushed, she’s pleaded, she’s fought to get them to listen—Gods, how she’s tried. Her plan—her vision to place a medic on every team—could save so many lives. It could’ve saved Nawaki.

But they don’t care. They’re too wrapped up in their own power plays, stuck in their damned traditions, blind to the blood that soaks the very ground they protect.

Her heart clenches as Nawaki’s face flickers in her mind—the blood, the brokenness of his body when they brought him back. His voice, so full of life, of ambition, when he spoke of becoming Hokage, now just a memory she can't outrun. Tsunade swallows hard, fighting the tears that burn behind her eyes, refusing to let them fall here. She can still see him, hear him, and it makes her want to scream. He’s gone, and all she’s left with is the bitter emptiness that gnaws at her insides like a wound that will never heal.

Her voice had been nothing more than background noise to them. The council. The elders. They dismissed her as always. Idealistic. Impractical. They hide behind words like that, cowards shielding themselves from change. They talk of resources, of how the village has always functioned. The word makes her sick—always. How many have died because they cling to what they’ve always known? How many more will follow?

As the meeting draws to a close, her stomach twists with a heavy, familiar disappointment. The elders congratulate themselves with smug nods, patting each other on the back for their so-called wisdom. Tsunade sits frozen, her throat tight, anger and heartbreak twisting into something bitter and volatile inside her. They don’t understand. They never will.

Seventeen. Too young, they say. Too young to hold any real power, too young to see the broader picture.

Bullshit.

She’s about to stand, her defeat swallowing her whole, when a voice cuts through the room—a voice she hadn't expected.

"I agree with Tsunade's proposal." The calm, steady tone belongs to Kato Dan.

The words hang in the air like a lifeline, cutting through the suffocating indifference that has been strangling her all day. Tsunade’s heart stutters in her chest. She stares, wide-eyed, across the room. Dan stands near the back, his tall, composed figure framed by the dim light filtering through the windows. He’s relaxed but commanding, his silver hair catching the faint glow. He speaks with the quiet assurance of someone who knows loss—someone who, in that moment, understands her.

It’s fleeting, his words barely shift the course of the meeting, and the elders, in their typical fashion, brush him off as easily as they did her. But it’s something. His voice was there, offering support when no one else had. Someone listened.

The room empties out, and Tsunade sits for a moment, her mind racing, her pulse thudding loudly in her ears. Kato Dan. She’s heard the name plenty of times, in the hospital, in the halls. The nurses swoon over him, their gossip always filled with whispers of admiration. She never paid attention. Never cared for those kinds of rumors.

But now? Now, he’s the one who stood up for her, who spoke when no one else would. He listened.

Before she can stop herself, she’s on her feet, the adrenaline propelling her forward before her brain catches up. She catches a glimpse of Dan as he exits the hall, his broad shoulders disappearing around the corner. Her heart hammers in her chest, but she pushes through the doubt, her voice breaking through the otherwise empty corridor.

“Wait!” she calls, her voice sharper than she intended.

Dan stops mid-step, turning slowly to face her. For a split second, Tsunade hesitates, suddenly feeling foolish for chasing after him. But then his eyes meet hers, and there’s a softness there, a quiet understanding that draws her closer.

She slows to a stop just a few feet away, breathless, her emotions tangled in a mess she’s trying so desperately to keep contained. Up close, Dan is even more striking—tall, calm, and composed in a way that feels foreign to her right now. The sunlight catches him in just the right way, casting a soft glow that only emphasizes the steadiness in his gaze. Tsunade swallows hard, struggling to find the words.

“I—” Her voice cracks, and she curses herself for it. She forces herself to take a breath, trying again. “I just… I wanted to thank you. For what you said back there.”

He tilts his head slightly, a small, almost amused smile playing at his lips. “I meant every word,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “Your plan makes sense. It’s practical, even if they don’t want to admit it.”

Her chest tightens at his words, the relief hitting her all at once. He doesn’t just agree—he understands. He gets what she’s trying to do, what she’s fighting for. And for the first time in what feels like forever, Tsunade doesn’t feel so damn alone.

Dan’s gaze lingers on her, soft yet unwavering, as if he can see right through the carefully built walls she’s constructed to protect herself. She’s suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of his eyes, and she realizes she hasn’t had someone look at her like this in... she doesn’t even know how long. Like she’s more than just a voice they can easily ignore.

For a moment, the corridor seems to contract around them, quieting the world outside.

Tsunade clears her throat, looking away briefly to gather her thoughts. She hates feeling this exposed, hates that her guard slipped just from a few kind words. But something in his presence makes it hard to armor herself as she usually would. She tries to play it off, her voice sharper than intended. "Most people think it’s a waste of resources."

"Then they’re not seeing the lives that’ll be saved." His reply is immediate, resolute. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t back down.

Her chest tightens again, a feeling she recognizes but refuses to name—a strange comfort mixed with disbelief. She’s so used to being told her ideas are radical, impractical; hearing her vision affirmed so simply, so earnestly, feels almost surreal.

She lets out a shaky breath, crossing her arms in an attempt to ground herself. “Why?” she asks, her tone laced with suspicion, but it’s not directed at him. Not really. “Why would you care? None of them do.”

Dan’s expression shifts, a flicker of something darker passing through his eyes—a shadow of loss, of something he’s tried to bury but can’t quite let go of. “I lost someone too,” he says quietly, the words barely above a whisper. He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to. She recognizes the weight behind them, the invisible scars left by battles that had no victors.

The silence stretches between them, filled with an unspoken understanding that feels both raw and strangely grounding. She doesn’t know him well, hardly at all, but in this moment, Dan feels like the only one who understands what drives her.

When he speaks again, his voice is gentle, almost like he’s speaking to a younger sibling, or to someone he knows is fighting an impossible fight. “You have the right idea, Tsunade. Keep pushing. They’ll come around eventually.”

She wants to scoff, to tell him he’s being too optimistic, that the elders are stubborn beyond measure. But the look in his eyes makes her pause. She’s known her share of hard-headed men, but there’s something different about him—a strength that isn’t about force, but about conviction.

She nods, the words catching in her throat as she tries to keep her composure. “Thank you,” she says, softer this time, with a trace of sincerity that catches even her off guard.

Dan gives her a small nod, his expression softening. “You’re welcome. And for what it’s worth... you’re not alone in this.” With a last, reassuring glance, he steps away, leaving her standing in the dim corridor, his words echoing in her mind.

As his footsteps fade down the hall, Tsunade realizes that something in her has shifted. Just a fraction, just enough to make her feel a spark of hope again.

Jiraiya finds Minato at dawn where the north wall bruises the training grass blue. The air tastes like wet stone and last night’s smoke; mist sleeves the weeds in silver. Somewhere, a gate hinge finishes a yawn and decides to be quiet again.

Minato is already moving - palms open and close through the suggestion of seals without committing. Shoulders loose; breath set low and wide. He looks like a problem warming up to solve itself.

“Hey, goldenrod.” Jiraiya keeps his voice under the birds. “Pack check.”

Big hands do their ritual: tug buckles, thumb the stitching, knuckles knock the canteen (he can hear half a day’s slosh), back flap up for a sniff. Leather lifts its warm, clean smell; canvas gives a dry sigh as it settles.

“Rations?”

“Two spare.”

“Three,” Jiraiya says, already tucking in two rice balls wrapped in cloth that smells faintly of sesame and smoke. “War rule: nobody hates food they didn’t need.”

Minato doesn’t argue. He never argues about food when Jiraiya is looking. Jiraiya pretends not to know the kid eats his rice balls first.

“Instinct drill,” Jiraiya says, letting the pack thump home against Minato’s spine. “No hands.”

A blink. Then Minato closes his eyes. No hands means no chakra tricks, no listening with anything that hums - just the body’s math: air weight, grit sound, heat drift. Jiraiya pads a half-arc through dew; it darkens his sandal straps and sticks chill to the leather. He whistles once, thin and far like a lazy morning bird; does a small hop so the ground speaks in that underfoot thud; toys a pebble across his knuckles and lets it fall - thwip against the sandal.

“Where am I.”

“Ten paces. Left. Between me and the crows.”

“Which crows.”

“Back fence,” Minato says. “Two. One missing a primary - clicks on the upstroke.”

Jiraiya files away the neatness of it. “River’s up?”

“Yes,” Minato answers. “You can hear it eating the bank. Pitch is off.” The words arrive like an instrument report.

“Good.” Jiraiya moves in without sound. “Last one. Tell me when I’m near.”

His hand hovers in the quiet, and Minato flinches at nothing - gloved fingers not yet touching his jacket. Eyes open, sharp and calm.

“Instinct isn’t magic,” Jiraiya says, dropping the hand and hoping the line sticks. “It’s the little things you noticed before your brain wrote them down. Trust it, you come home.” One clap - heavy, fond - lands on Minato’s shoulder, the way a hand lands on a gatepost you’ve checked a thousand times. “That’s the plan.”

At the north gate, Jiraiya drags a blunt finger along the river route, nail catching a fray in the parchment. “Skirt the water. Stay off ridgelines. If the back teeth ache, listen. If it gets rough, you do what keeps you breathing. No hero points for dead kids. We come home.”

Fresh flak vests creak in reply. Hitai-ate catch a fainter, cleaner light than the sky has any right to at this hour. Jiraiya meets all their eyes - too long, just long enough - lingers one heartbeat too many on Minato.

“Understood, sensei” Minato says.

“Good,” Jiraiya lies. It isn’t good. It’s necessary, and sometimes necessary is a shape you live with.

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