Chapter Text
🌹
Silence hung in the cool air of late afternoon, devoid of any peace, heavy in the way only the announcement of a death sentence could be.
And who would die this time? Everyone was a target in that battle. Anyone could be a sacrifice, and many already were. But of course, it had to be him.
Of course Boruto had to be the martyr.
Kashin Koji’s words felt as vivid as the orange hues streaking across the sky, against a blue that was slowly darkening.
— Is what he said true, Boruto-kun? — Sumire asked, her hands trembling in front of her chest, wearing the devastated expression of someone who already knew the answer deep down.
Uzumaki Boruto remained where he was, leaning against a wooden pillar that supported the tarps of the makeshift camp set up in the middle of an open field, where hundreds of shinobi moved about toward the dinner being prepared nearby.
His face was rigid, his posture irritatingly indifferent, but a brief clench of his jaw betrayed a flicker of irritation. His blue eyes remained fixed on Koji, filled with pent-up tension, on the verge of snapping. The friction between the two had stretched on for months, restrained only for the sake of cooperation and the greater good, but now it seemed as fragile as the hope sustaining the shinobi world gathered in that camp.
Before everything could collapse in front of her, Sarada turned her back and walked away. She moved past ninjas carrying supplies and setting up tents, pulling up the hood of her long black cloak to cover her face, one that had become easily recognizable across the shinobi world and beyond.
Her steps carried her beyond the camp, where the fields opened into a wide view of the valley ahead. The sun dipped into the horizon, and a river wound endlessly through the land like a mirror etched into the earth.
They were close to where the last great ninja war had taken place. As her gaze drifted into the distance, Sarada couldn’t help but think of the history books she had read, of heroes and villains alike, and how everything repeated itself endlessly, converging toward a single origin: the Otsutsuki, where it all began, their lineage, chakra, and then the first shinobi.
So many centuries later, so many generations, and the problem remained the same. Like patterns spiraling through space-time, she could see history unfolding before her. Tomorrow, they would be the heroes, if there was a victory left to tell. The next day, they would face Juura in a final battle that would decide everything.
Not far from there was Konoha, her home, the reason why she continued to fight day after day, although at that moment, the dream of becoming Hokage seemed so far away. Sarada had always been the girl who looked forward, the one who dreamed, but now the future seemed frightening and so deterministic, a calculated sum of actions taken in a very distant past, ancestral to her.
And now she had to face it without Boruto. She had never allowed herself to imagine a future without him.
A crushing weight settled in her chest, so intense it felt like it might shatter her heart right then and there. Everything was falling apart. By now, she had endured so much that one might expect her to have grown used to it, or at least learned to bear the weight more easily.
But she wasn’t that strong. In truth, she was weak. She was too human, prone to mistakes, like all other humans.
— I want to be alone — she said when she sensed his chakra approaching.
Boruto stopped a few steps away. The wind tousled Sarada’s hair, sweeping her bangs across her eyes and carrying with it the whisper of distant rain.
For a moment, she fantasized being like that passing wind, drifting across fields without burden, carrying distant promises of peace and renewal.
— Sarada…
She punched him.
She turned so quickly he couldn’t dodge. She hadn’t infused chakra into the blow, but it was still strong, solid, and it hurt her knuckles too, though she didn’t let herself pull back.
Boruto staggered a step, his single blue eye widening as his hand went to his cheek, already reddening where she had struck him. He looked genuinely surprised, as if he had expected anything from her but that, and Sarada almost laughed.
But she didn’t, she was very angry. She was furious.
— You’re an idiot — she snarled. — You always have been.
Her hands clenched at her sides, burning with anger, at him, at herself, at the world.
Boruto’s expression tightened, and she saw in his eyes that her words had hurt him. But she wasn’t ready to stop. A part of her wanted to hurt him, just to prove he was real, that he was here, alive, because maybe tomorrow he wouldn’t be. And anything was better than nothing. Better than the emptiness of his absence, a void she knew far too well.
— So immature and infuriating — she went on, fists tightening. — Always impulsive, always making selfish decisions while convincing yourself you’re doing it for others.
Boruto’s jaw clenched. He tried to reach for her, but Sarada pressed her palms against his chest and shoved him back.
She had to use a bit of chakra to do it, a bitter reminder that they were no longer children. Three years had passed, and now Boruto stood a head taller than her. She had to tilt her chin up just to meet his gaze.
— When you cheated in the Chunin Exams, when you judged your father unfairly, when you threw yourself in front of me and took a blow that should have been mine! — her eyes were brimming now, but she kept going. — No one asked you to sacrifice yourself! Did you even think about how your parents would feel? Your sister?!
And me?!
The words stuck in her throat.
Sumire had once said Sarada would confess without planning it, that it would slip out at the worst possible moment, like a stolen secret. And this was that moment.
But before she could scream what her heart felt, Boruto held her wrists, firm, looking down on her. There was harshness in his gaze, and the resplendent blue she had fallen in love with was darkened, filled with a tension hard enough to crush her against the ground.
Sarada felt something new arise inside her: a certain intimidation, a pressure in her chest that kept her frozen in place. It was a version of Boruto that she had never seen, nothing like the childhood friend she knew so well.
While she still felt like a girl herself, she wondered if Boruto had become a man. She felt smaller, younger, immature.
— Do you think I want to die? — his voice trembled, failing in the last notes. The question sounded like an accusation, as if it were a crime that she, of all people, thought that of him. — Do you really think I want to give my body to Momoshiki and then die by my own brother’s hands? Is that the ending I dreamed of?
Sarada pressed her lips together, fighting back tears.
She couldn’t cry. She wouldn’t.
— I think you gave up — she insisted, as stubborn as ever. — I think you’re afraid to fight and lose. I think you hid behind the idea of being a sacrifice because it’s easier than facing failure.
— Of course I’m afraid, damn it — he stepped forward, his expression so tight it could shake anyone.
Sarada trembled, but didn’t back down. She lifted her chin, tried to pull her wrists free, but he pulled her closer instead, and the motion sent her crashing against his chest.
— Your father, my parents… how many more people have to die for me? It’s time I become the sacrifice — he said, wetting his lips hastily. — If I’m gone, no one else has to die.
Sarada’s eyes widened. To hear him say that in his own words was different, it broke her heart into millions of painful, sharp pieces.
— You’re a coward! — she lashed out, struggling against his grip. — Let me go, idiot! If you want to die so badly, then go! Leave me alone!
His expression twisted again. Boruto released her, but didn’t leave. Instead, he looked down at his feet, arms falling limp at his sides.
Sarada paused, her black eyes wide, and saw the defeat displayed there, in his now completely dismounted expression. She wondered for a moment if time wasn't reversing right in front of her, because suddenly Boruto looked like a little boy again: alone, scared, in need of help.
— I don’t want to die — he admitted, voice breaking, hands trembling. Those words seemed to awaken something in him. His fists clenched as he repeated: — I don’t want to die, Sarada.
He took a deep breath, as if life came back inside him in a single punch to the stomach, hitting him hard. And it hurt.
— I want to live. I want to see my parents again. I want to watch Himawari grow up. I want to train with Team 7 again. I want to see Master Sasuke freed from that tree… — his voice faltered.
Sarada reached out and touched his arm, suddenly feeling guilty for everything she had said.
But Boruto took a step back, restraining himself from collapsing, running away from her. And it was her turn to get hurt.
— Boruto… — she stepped forward, a hand outstretched in an attempt to reach him again.
— Go back to camp before it gets dark. It’s dangerous out here — he said.
And then vanished into thin air, leaving behind only the sharp crack of Hiraishin.
🌪️
When something is held in for too long, it’s only natural that it explodes once released. That was what happened to Boruto’s sorrow, anger, anguish, and despair, as if a void had opened inside him, a gateway through which all the tension and anxiety from every battle, every near-death experience, every loss and emotional wound spilled out uncontrollably.
It was an injury that bled, not in his body, but in his soul, where it hurt the most, because there was no medicine, no bandage, no chakra that could ease it. If there was a cure for inner suffering, it wasn’t available to him now, and he wouldn’t live long enough to find it.
He shot upward in a burst of anger, flying so high he could feel the air thinning around him, his tears freezing against his skin. On one side of the horizon, the sun was setting into a deepening blue; on the other, darkness had already claimed the distant lands, where night had swallowed the day.
Standing at the top of the world, Boruto felt small. Insignificant. He would die the next day, and after that, he would be nothing. For a few years, they would remember him, his family, his friends, Sarada… but eventually, even the fact that he had ever existed would fade with time.
He was so young. There was still so much he had yet to live.
And somehow, he had convinced himself that this was the only way. That death was the only possible end. Sarada was right, he had given up on life. Not on the fight. Not on his friends. Not on saving everyone he cared about, but on himself. As if his life and his decisions were a path of no return that, once traced, would only lead to an end.
And yet, for some reason, people like him always drew in dreamers like Sarada, hopeful, stubborn souls who believed in tomorrow and never hesitated to shout in his face just how much of an idiot he could be. It wasn’t the first time he had found himself in this position. The thought almost made him smile, because it meant that somewhere inside him, the old Boruto still existed. That the circumstances hadn’t completely erased that boy.
But now that old fire burned again, ignited by Sarada’s anger and her preemptive grief. It hurt. It burned. A complete rebirth.
He wanted to live. Kami, how he wanted to live.
Koji had revealed the truth to Sarada for a reason, a final attempt to make him abandon his suicidal plan, to force him to reconsider, to shake something inside him free from apathy and acceptance.
And the bastard had succeeded. Because the pain in Sarada’s voice couldn’t be ignored. Nor her anger. Nor how much her words had hurt him.
Because he had always wanted to impress her. Because even when he cheated during the Chunin Exams, he hadn’t been able to look her in the eyes until he had made things right. Her disappointment was a blade straight through his heart.
Damn Kashin Koji. Damn the universe and its fucked-up ironies. Damn Momoshiki.
Around him, the wind howled, and the sky darkened into a deeper blue, stars beginning to appear in the distance. As far as he knew, this was his last night on Earth as Uzumaki Boruto, owner of his own body.
His senses sharpened, and Boruto felt everything; the planet itself, as when he used Uzuhiko, and the weight of the entire universe pulling him to his center. The fatal pull of his feelings, the parts within him that sought solace, human connection, like a missing piece whose emptiness tortured him.
He felt so alone, lonelier than in all those years as a fugitive from Konoha. He missed his old life immensely, he thought about his mother, the taste of Hinata's food, the warmth and coziness of arriving at the Uzumaki house after a long mission. He would die without ever living that again. He would die alone, trapped within himself. Not a hero, but a martyr.
When the freezing air began to weigh on his lashes, he descended slowly, letting the cold night air press against his ears and muffle his thoughts.
Sarada was sleeping out in the open when his feet touched the ground, set apart from the others. A nearby campfire crackled softly, casting tall shadows across the trees and over her resting face.
She wasn’t wearing her glasses. Dark circles lingered beneath her eyes, her skin smooth, pale, delicate.
He wondered when she had become so beautiful, or if she always had been, and he’d just been too much of a kid to notice. A terrible joke, realized far too late — on this stupid moment, on his last day on Earth.
He dropped down beside her, sitting on the grass next to her sleeping mat, and sighed. A gloved hand rose to his face as he pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ease the ache building there.
He felt like a sixty-year-old man, not a sixteen-year-old boy.
— Boruto…?
Sarada pushed herself up on one elbow, her eyes half-lidded with sleep, focusing on him sitting just inches away, knees drawn up, forearms resting over them.
He didn’t look at her right away, but she noticed the tear tracks on his cheeks, the swelling in his eyes. Like her, he had cried.
She sat up, her blanket rustling, and placed a hand on his shoulder. That single touch carried the warmth of a thousand homes.
— Hey — she whispered.
Boruto finally turned his face toward her, and the expression he wore shattered her heart. His lips were pressed tightly together, as if he were holding back a storm inside himself. And he looked so young, just a lost boy, one who had been taken too early from his home, from his safety.
— Oh, Boruto… — she softened, her hand sliding from his shoulder to his cheek. — Come here.
She pulled him closer, and Boruto let himself be drawn in. Her warmth was attractive, like a hiding place where he could take shelter and forget about the rest of the world. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling sharply as tears soaked into the fabric she wore.
Sarada ran her fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his head. He leaned his weight onto her, and it was heavy, but Sarada bore him as he allowed himself to finally fall apart.
— Shh — she murmured, her fingers threading through his hair, then trailing in slow circles along his back, patiently easing the tension knotted within him.
Little by little, the sobbing subsided. And all that remained were the two of them, close, holding each other, stripped of defenses and filled with quiet vulnerability.
Boruto felt light, as if the wind could carry him away at any moment, but Sarada’s gravity kept him there, gently, without force.
He shifted, resting his head on her thighs, eyes closed, while her fingers continued to weave through his hair.
For a fleeting moment, the world felt distant. Safe.
But he knew it wasn’t.
— If I fail… people die — he said, his voice low and rough.
— You can’t save everyone — Sarada replied. — You can try. That’s all any of us can do.
He turned onto his back, still resting on her lap, his gaze drifting toward her face as she stared off into the distance. He felt quietly grateful that she didn’t stop running her fingers through his hair.
— Thank you — he murmured, so softly he thought she hadn’t heard.
But she looked down at him, confused.
— Thank you, Sarada. For staying by my side… I never said it before.
— Idiot. You don’t have to — she replied, and even in the dim light, he could see the faint blush rising on her cheeks.
He wondered if she was embarrassed, and decided he liked the idea that she was.
— Your life is worth twice as much as mine — he said, already knowing it would irritate her.
His hand lifted, fingertips brushing her cheek. Her skin was softer than anything he had ever touched, and warm.
It felt surreal to reach out and touch her. Somewhere in his mind, she was still a memory of the past, an ethereal, abstract vision of what home, support, and loyalty meant.
— Don’t say stupid things — Sarada murmured, her skin warming further beneath his touch, the blush deepening.
— You’re kinder. Calmer. More patient. Stubborn, but usually right. You have a good, pure heart — he smiled faintly. — And you’re going to become the greatest Hokage. So yes… your life is worth more than mine.
She frowned, grabbing his wrist and pulling it away from her face. The blush spread down her neck, staining her skin pink, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, it made his chest tighten.
— Don’t say that — she repeated, more firmly. — I’m not as good as you think. Honestly… I wish you were less selfless. More selfish. I wish you’d think about yourself sometimes.
Boruto could still feel the softness of her skin on his fingertips. He could still smell her from when he had buried his face in her neck. And something new twisted in his stomach.
He had spent the last months, and even years, of his adolescence in an almost anesthetized mode, avoiding showing emotions and even thinking about the things that melted his façade of strength.
And now, ironically, everything seemed to awaken within him, the longing for the old life, the sadness for everything he had lost and would continue to lose. And that new awareness of himself that was born out of nowhere, the tingling in his chest, the anxiety in his veins when he was in the presence of a girl his age. Not just any one, but Sarada, the only one he really knew, the only one he saw.
The nervousness followed an intrusive, insane thought: he was going to die the next day without ever having kissed a girl, and his blood seemed to burn in his veins, pumping energy to all parts of his body at once. He felt adrenaline like in a fight, but much worse. For a moment, he was barely able to hear the very thoughts behind his heartbeat rumbling in his ears.
Sarada seemed distracted again. One hand rested over his chest, dangerously close to where his heart threatened to burst. The other remained in his hair.
— Sarada… — he said before he could stop himself. — I-if tomorrow is my last day…
Her expression immediately hardened, and Boruto swallowed. Great, he had annoyed her. Perhaps it was a signal to stop right there with that sudden fit of courage that had come over him.
Obviously that was a bad idea, he could feel his throat drying out, his face starting to burn. But he had already begun, and seemed unable to stop his speech.
— I-I wanted to ask you something — he stammered pathetically.
— What is it? — she asked, clearly suspicious. — If you’re going to ask me to take care of Himawari, I swear, Boruto...
— A kiss — he whispered, so quietly he barely heard himself.
— What? — Sarada asked.
He didn't repeat it, instead he felt himself shrink inside and cursed his own foolishness. His face took on a crescent red color, from the base of his neck to his ears, and the obvious embarrassment in his gaze made her understand what had happened.
She herself felt her heart lose a beat, and for a moment she thought she might faint right there. It was the boy she loved, after all, asking her to kiss him. The passion she kept buried under the survival and imminent death of that same boy suddenly awakened within her, alive and vibrant.
Boruto realized that she had connected the pieces when a new blush began to spread across her cheeks. He wanted to bury himself in the ground and never leave, but it was too late, his big mouth had spoken for him.
The hand that felt his accelerated beating rose towards his jaw, and the cold fingers made him shiver all over, from head to toe. The next moment, Sarada was leaning over him.
His mind went blank, only a nervous noise remaining in the background. He stared at her face, unsure where to look first, wanting to take it all in, feeling as if someone had suddenly replaced his body with that of a teenager in his prime — which he was, though he had never felt like one. His entire age seemed to suddenly take possession of him. Boruto became unable to control himself; The hormones of youth flourished under his skin.
He felt Sarada's breath brush against his face, tickling his lips and the tip of his nose. She smelled of roses and of the garden, of the wind that came from afar in spring, bringing freshness and happiness, and he thought, suddenly, that kissing her would be like touching paradise, and he almost felt guilty for wanting to do so.
She parted her lips, his heart stretched to the point of almost breaking, and then Sarada's lips settled on his cheek, in a long and slightly wet kiss.
Sarada pulled away, and it didn't take long for her laughter to be heard; shy, embarrassed and clearly making fun of him.
Boruto couldn't even be upset; Instead, he opened a gangly half-smile and realized that he had forgotten how to speak. He could not form any intelligible sentence to lighten the moment, his tongue seemed anesthetized.
— Tomorrow won’t be your last day — Sarada said, cupping his cheek with one hand while the other brushed strands of hair from his forehead.
Boruto's beauty under the distant light of the campfire and the full moon caught her attention. His forms now seemed so masculine to her, and at the same time they were still those of the boy she knew. The way he provided her with the balance between the unknown and the security of someone who had always been there enchanted her.
And then he opened a smile that she knew very well. The smile of the little guy that not even the Hokage could control.
— Then afterward… will you kiss me?