The scent of freshly grilled dango lingered in the air, mingling with the crisp autumn breeze that rustled through the village. The warmth of the late afternoon sun bathed the small dango shop's outdoor seating area in golden hues, casting long shadows as Byakuya sat stiffly beside Itachi and Shisui. A lacquered tray of skewered sweets rested before them, but he made no move to take one.
"You're really missing out, Byakuya," Shisui teased, his mouth half-full as he waved a dango stick at him. "Sweet things make life better, you know?"
Byakuya merely folded his arms, gaze steady. "They taste like sugar-coated regret."
Itachi, ever composed, chuckled lightly. "You used to eat them when we were younger."
"That was before I knew better."
Shisui grinned, rocking back slightly. "So serious, just like Itachi. You two are impossible." He turned to Itachi, nudging his shoulder. "And here I thought war would make you lighten up. Maybe you left all the humor on the battlefield?"
Itachi's expression darkened for just a moment, the weight of something unspoken flickering behind his eyes. Before the conversation could take a heavier turn, a familiar voice called out.
"There you are! I thought I sensed a bunch of brooding Uchiha sitting around looking dramatic."
Byakuya barely had time to register the approach before a shock of red hair filled his vision. Kushina Uzumaki was grinning wide as she strode toward them, her energy as bright as the sun overhead. Even in pregnancy, there was something undeniably powerful about her presence.
Mikoto followed close behind, her hands folded gently over her stomach as she laughed at her friend's antics. "Kushina, at least let them see you coming first."
"Nah, surprise is the spice of life!" Kushina declared, already reaching for Byakuya before he could react. "And speaking of surprises—come here, kid!"
A calloused but warm hand ruffled his carefully kept hair, fingers tousling the neat strands with reckless abandon. Byakuya stiffened instantly. His breath hitched as he tried, truly tried, to endure it. But the playful aggression of Kushina's grip—combined with the sheer audacity of treating him like a child—pushed him over the edge.
With a rare lapse in composure, Byakuya swatted at her hand, scowling. "Stop that! My hair isn't—" He caught himself mid-protest, but it was too late. The damage was done.
Kushina was already laughing, a bright, unrestrained sound that filled the space between them. "Ha! There it is! I knew you had some fire in you, kiddo. All that stiff upper lip stuff is no good for your blood pressure."
Mikoto, watching from the side, let out a quiet laugh of her own. Byakuya turned toward her, a bit startled. It had been some time since he had seen her so openly amused—since before Sasuke was born. The warmth in her eyes wasn't just directed at Kushina's antics but at him as well. And for reasons he couldn't quite name, that realization made his earlier irritation fade.
Still grumbling under his breath, he smoothed his hair back into place. Kushina flopped down onto the seat across from him, cradling her rounded stomach with one hand. The motion wasn't unusual, but for some reason, something about it sent a strange ripple through Byakuya's senses.
His sharp eyes flickered to her abdomen, and for the briefest moment, he felt it—something vast yet contained, a presence that stirred beneath the surface of reality. It wasn't just the life growing inside her. It was something deeper, something ancient. Something powerful. The air around her thrummed, almost imperceptibly, like the quiet hum of restrained energy waiting to be unleashed.
Kushina arched a brow at him, catching his lingering stare. "What, never seen a pregnant lady before?" she teased, but there was a note of curiosity in her voice.
Byakuya hesitated. He couldn't put it into words, so he simply shook his head. "It's nothing."
If Kushina noticed anything odd in his reaction, she didn't press. Instead, she stretched her arms and looked over at the untouched dango tray. "Alright, alright, enough about me. What's this? Uchiha boys brooding over sweets?"
Shisui grinned. "Byakuya here thinks they're 'sugar-coated regret.'"
Kushina snorted. "Picky eater, huh? Bet you'd like 'em if they were doused in soy sauce and salt instead."
Byakuya, for once, said nothing, because she wasn't exactly wrong.
The light-hearted banter around him felt distant now, almost as though the world had narrowed to just the space between his thoughts. His mind, still tangled in the strange feeling he couldn't place, drifted away from the conversation. It was then that he heard it—a murmur in the air, the quiet rustling of words between Itachi and Shisui, the way their voices lowered, no longer filled with the usual camaraderie.
"...war doesn't leave, does it?" Itachi's voice was soft, almost contemplative.
Byakuya's attention sharpened, and despite his better judgment, he found himself listening in, his gaze drawn to the subtle shift in his brother's tone. He could tell Shisui had noticed it too, the shift from casual jest to something more serious.
"No," Shisui replied, his usual mischievous edge gone. "It's like it's always there, isn't it? We've been through so much... but sometimes I think the worst part is how it never really leaves you."
Byakuya's fingers tightened slightly around the edges of his cup, the faint echo of their words reverberating deep within him. The weight of the conversation was familiar, too familiar.
And then, in a blink, the world seemed to melt away.
Flashback
Byakuya stood, once again, on a battlefield that stretched endlessly before him. The chaos of war surged all around—cries of the wounded, the clash of steel, the heat of battle that burned through the air. It was all too familiar. The sight of death, the sound of it—these things had become a language he understood far too well.
Blossoms gleamed crimson in the fading light, his blade a blur of motion as it cleaved through the ranks of his enemies. But there was no satisfaction in the fight. No triumph. Just the hollow sound of his sword cutting through the air, the only noise that drowned out the screams of those who fell.
The world around him seemed to slow, as though time itself was unwilling to keep up with the crushing weight of the years he had spent in this endless cycle of violence. There was no honor in it anymore. No glory. Just an ever-expanding void that grew with every battle fought, every life taken.
In the midst of the chaos, his eyes locked onto a familiar figure. The figure's blade flashed in the twilight, cutting down another opponent with the same precision Byakuya had learned to master. But it wasn't just the figure's sword that caught Byakuya's attention. It was his eyes—those eyes, once filled with warmth, now hollowed out by a sorrow only the battlefield could carve into the soul.
"Byakuya..."
The voice was haunting, echoing through his mind as if the very memory of it had come alive on the battlefield. He refused to turn. He couldn't. Because the one who called out to him wasn't supposed to be here. Not anymore. The war had stolen everything—family, home, innocence—and it was not about to return anything.
Yet the voice continued to haunt him, calling him by his name, pulling him toward a past that had been buried under the weight of war. He couldn't escape it. The truth had become a ghost, and it followed him wherever he went.
The battlefield became colder. His sword grew heavier in his hands. And the faces of the fallen blurred into one indistinguishable mass of sorrow.
There was no escape from the past.
Back to Present
Byakuya's breath hitched, and his grip on his tea cup tightened. His eyes snapped open, but he couldn't shake the lingering feeling—the coldness of the battlefield still clung to him, and the memory of that voice echoed faintly in his mind. He blinked slowly, trying to ground himself in the present, but it was no use. The air still felt thick, charged with an energy he couldn't understand.
The conversation between Itachi and Shisui had shifted again, and Byakuya's ears picked up on the subtle undercurrent in their words. But it wasn't the words that troubled him now. It was the weight of the silence between them—the shared understanding of the scars they all carried, scars that never fully healed.
As he returned to the present, he glanced at his brother and Shisui. Itachi's expression was unreadable, but the flicker in his eyes spoke volumes. Byakuya knew that look. It was the same one that had haunted him for so long. The one that hinted at a deeper sorrow, something neither of them could escape.
They had all been changed by the war. It was inescapable.
And yet, in some strange way, it had also bound them together.