The kitchen was warm, the soft glow of the lanterns casting long shadows across the worn wooden countertops. The scent of simmering broth and fresh vegetables filled the air, a comforting reminder of normalcy after weeks of chaos. Renjiro sat at the small table, his gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance, his mind elsewhere entirely. His hands were still, his posture relaxed, but his eyes held the particular emptiness of someone who was physically present but mentally absent.
Miwa stood at the stove, stirring a pot with practised efficiency. She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes narrowing as she noted his stillness. She called his name once, then twice, her voice carrying the particular edge of someone who had been ignored too many times.
"Renjiro."
No response.
"Renjiro!"
He blinked, his gaze snapping back into focus. He looked around, momentarily disoriented, as if he had just woken from a dream. Then he realised he was standing over the counter, his hand hovering above a pot that was beginning to bubble over.
"If you lose focus again," Miwa said, her voice carrying a note of warning, "you're going to ruin dinner. I swear, I turn my back for one minute, and you're off in another world."
Renjiro looked down at the pot, then at his hands, then back at Miwa. "I forgot I was cooking," he admitted, his voice flat with surprise.
Miwa stared at him. "You forgot you were cooking? You're standing right over the stove."
"I know," Renjiro said, shaking his head. "I just… got distracted."
"Distracted," Miwa repeated, her voice carrying the weight of her scepticism. "You've been standing there for ten minutes. That's not distracted. That's catatonic."
Renjiro grumbled as he returned his attention to the pot, his movements mechanical, his mind still churning. "You already know I'm a terrible cook," he said, his voice carrying a note of exasperation. "Why do you keep forcing me to help you?"
Miwa gave him a deeply confused look, her eyebrows rising. "Have you suddenly developed amnesia?" she asked. "This is payback for your decision not to tell me about your operation to obtain the EMS."
Renjiro froze, his hand hovering over the pot. "That was months ago," he said slowly.
"And?" Miwa's voice was flat, unyielding. "Everything ultimately turned out fine, but you still deserve to suffer for the worry you caused me."
Renjiro pointed out the obvious contradiction, his voice carrying the particular edge of someone who had found a logical flaw. "You didn't know about the operation," he said. "Therefore, how could you possibly have been worried about it?"
Miwa completely ignored the logic, her expression unchanging. "I was worried about you in general," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "That's all that matters."
She paused, her eyes narrowing as she added, "And for the record, Kushina knew about the operation while I didn't. That still bothers me."
The comment landed harder than she realised. Renjiro immediately bit his tongue rather than responding, his mind flashing back to the conversation with Minato. He realised the uncomfortable irony: he had been angry that Minato and the others had kept the Uzumaki survivor operation from him. Yet here he was, having done essentially the same thing to Miwa when it came to his EMS operation.
I was angry about being excluded, he thought, his internal voice cold with self-awareness. But I did the same thing to Miwa. I kept a secret from someone who trusted me. And now I'm sitting here, annoyed at Minato, while doing exactly what he did.
He reflected on whether his anger toward Minato was entirely justified. There was an important distinction: his EMS operation was personal, a choice that affected only himself. The Uzumaki survivor operation directly concerned his clan and people he had been trying to protect. Even so, the parallel bothered him. He reluctantly considered that maybe he deserved some of this, but that realisation didn't completely erase his resentment.
He forced himself to stop thinking about politics. He continued helping Miwa cook, the scene deliberately slowing down to something more mundane. He prepared the noodles while Miwa handled the other parts of the meal, their interaction familiar and domestic, a stark contrast to the battles and political conspiracies that surrounded him.
Once the food was ready, Renjiro set the table, pulling out a chair for Miwa with exaggerated ceremony. She sat down across from him, and they prepared to eat. Both took their chopsticks and broke them apart at roughly the same time, the sound a soft crack that echoed in the quiet kitchen.
There was a brief moment of comfortable silence. Then Miwa noticed that Renjiro still wasn't completely mentally present. She asked him what had been bothering him, her voice carrying the particular warmth of someone who had known him long enough to recognise the signs.
"Nothing," Renjiro said immediately, his voice flat. "I'm fine."
Miwa didn't believe him. "You're a terrible liar," she said. "You've always been a terrible liar. What happened in Kumo?"
"Kumo is actually the least of my worries," Renjiro admitted, his voice carrying a note of reluctant honesty.
Miwa's expression shifted, her concern deepening. "Then what's bothering you?"
Miwa suddenly made a throwaway complaint, her voice light but pointed. "I can't believe you went all the way to Kumo and didn't bring me anything."
Renjiro stopped eating, his chopsticks hovering mid-air. He slowly put them down and feigned annoyance, his voice carrying the particular edge of someone who had been caught off guard.
"When did this suddenly become an issue?" he asked. "You've been going on missions long before I even entered the Academy. Yet you've apparently never brought me a souvenir from any of those missions."
Miwa immediately fired back, her voice carrying the weight of her logic. "Someone between the two of us can easily teleport to Kumo," she said. "And it certainly isn't me. If you wanted a souvenir, you could simply teleport there yourself."
Renjiro stared at her, his mouth opening and closing silently. He realised he couldn't possibly argue against the shamelessness of her logic. He started chuckling, the laughter genuine and surprised, the first release of tension he had experienced since returning. Miwa noticed immediately, a satisfied smile crossing her face.
"So," she said, her voice softer now, "what's really bothering you?"
Renjiro hesitated, his expression becoming more serious. He knew he couldn't deflect forever, and Miwa deserved at least some honesty. Eventually, he gave her a single answer, his voice flat:
"Hiruzen."
Miwa's expression changed immediately, her casual demeanour replaced by focused attention. "What happened with the former Hokage?"
Renjiro explained the problem, his voice carrying the weight of his confusion. "I recently spoke with him," he said. "Something about the interaction felt wrong. He was colder and more guarded toward me than usual. I can't quite explain why it bothered me so much."
Miwa initially gave a simple explanation, her voice carrying a note of dismissal. "Maybe he was just cranky," she said. "Old people can apparently be difficult."
The comment hung in the air, a perfect opening for Renjiro to tease Miwa about her own age. Normally, he would have taken the bait immediately, his voice dry with sarcasm. Instead, he didn't respond. He remained serious, his gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance.
Miwa's expression shifted, her recognition of the moment immediate. "Renjiro," she said, her voice softer now, "what's really bothering you?"
Renjiro finally spoke, his voice carrying the weight of his unease. "I wasn't exactly Hiruzen's best friend," he admitted, "but we had always been cordial. He trusted me on numerous occasions. Our relationship had always carried a certain mutual respect. The sudden change in his behaviour feels significant."
He paused, his voice dropping.
"Something is telling me there is more to it," he said. "My instincts are bothering me. I don't know whether it's Orochimaru, the Uzumaki issue, something Hiruzen learned, or something entirely unrelated. The uncertainty is what bothers me most. I'm accustomed to enemies being hostile toward me. What unsettles me is someone I thought I could trust suddenly becoming distant without explanation."
Miwa recognised the seriousness of his words. She realised that Renjiro wasn't simply venting; he was genuinely unsettled. She didn't have an answer for him, so rather than interrogating him further, she deliberately redirected the mood.
"Whatever is bothering you can wait," she said, gesturing toward the food. "Because it would be rude to ignore the food sitting in front of us."
Miwa confidently picked up her noodles. She took a bite, and there was a brief pause. Her expression froze, and she slowly chewed—or attempted to. Then she immediately spat the noodles back out, the sound sharp and unexpected in the quiet kitchen.
Renjiro watched her in complete silence, his eyes slowly widening as realisation dawned on him. He looked down at the food, then slowly back at Miwa.
"Are they that bad?" he asked, his voice cautious.
Miwa silently wiped her mouth with a cloth, taking a moment to recover. Then, with complete seriousness, she asked:
"Have you considered using Genjutsu on yourself to make yourself a better cook?"
Renjiro stared at her, his expression frozen in disbelief. The absurdity of the suggestion hung in the air, a moment of pure comedic release after the weight of the conversation. He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, then opened it again.
"That's not how Genjutsu works," he finally said.
Miwa shrugged, unrepentant. "It was worth a try."
=====
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