Twelve-year-old Naruto Uzumaki had never felt more suffocated in his life than he did at 3:15 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day, standing in front of his bedroom mirror while his mother attempted to murder him with a bow tie.
"Hold still or you'll mess it up again," Kushina barked, her hands a flurry of pink-polished fingers and exasperation. Naruto squirmed, his reflection blurring into a sun-bleached mess of orange hair and red cheeks.
"I look like a dork," he moaned, fidgeting as his mother yanked the tie another quarter-inch tighter.
"You are a dork," she replied, with the resigned patience of a woman who'd spent the better part of an hour coaxing her only child into formalwear. "But you'll be a respectful, well-dressed dork at the Uchiha Thanksgiving or so help me—"
Naruto made a strangled sound as the tie cut off the rest of her threat. He could see himself going blue in the reflection.
Kushina caught this, slackened the knot, and smoothed the collar down with a touch more gentleness. "There," she said, examining her work. "Now you just look like you're running for office. Or auditioning for an after-school special."
Naruto groaned and tried to loosen the bow. "Why can't I just wear a hoodie? We see the Uchihas like every weekend anyway. It's not like they haven't seen me in my normal clothes before."
Kushina's eyebrow arched to the stratosphere. "This is Thanksgiving dinner, not a backyard barbecue. The Uchihas dress their children like tiny businessmen for breakfast. We are not going to lose face because you want to dress like you're headed to soccer practice." She pivoted, scanning his ensemble: crisp white button-down, ill-fitting blue blazer, khakis still stiff with newness. "Did you remember to brush your hair?"
Naruto shrugged, hoping she wouldn't notice the static-induced cowlicks blooming out of the back of his head like radio antennae.
Kushina noticed. Of course she did.
She made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a shriek, grabbed a comb from the dresser, and raked it over his scalp. Naruto winced, feeling every tooth of the cheap plastic as it caught on his hair.
Naruto clomped in his stiff brown shoes, each step making a sound like wooden blocks against the floor. "I don't even know why we have to go. The Uchihas are so..." He wrinkled his nose, searching for a word his mother wouldn't scold him for. "Stuck-up."
"Because," Kushina said, turning him by the shoulders and steering him toward the door, "your father and I have been friends with Mikoto and Fugaku since college." She squeezed his bony shoulder. "And you used to follow Sasuke around like a puppy."
"That was before Sasuke became a total prick who thinks he's better than everyone." Naruto's ears burned hot enough to melt plastic. His hands balled into fists at his sides, remembering how Sasuke had walked past their usual lunch table yesterday without even a glance, chin tilted up like some kind of royalty.
Kushina sighed, absently ruffling his carefully combed hair. "Listen, I don't care if you and Sasuke are in some twelve-year-old cold war right now. Tonight, you're going to be on your absolute best behavior. No glaring across the table. No kicking under it. Smile, say please and thank you, and save the death match for school on Monday."
Naruto didn't answer, mostly because he was busy cramming prank supplies into the pockets of his blazer while his mother wasn't looking. He'd spent the entire morning plotting, scavenging, and rehearsing. The whoopee cushion was first—his pride and joy, cherry red and twice patched. A packet of salt, lifted from the school cafeteria, nestled beside it. And the pièce de résistance: a rubber snake so lifelike it had once caused his father to drop an entire casserole.
Kushina paused at the threshold, squinting. "What are you stuffing in your jacket?"
"Nothing."
She gave him the look. "Naruto."
He shrugged, widening his eyes to maximum innocence. "Just my phone and some gum."
His mother's gaze bored through him for a moment, then relented with a weary smile. "Fine. But if I hear so much as a single explosion from that house tonight, you are grounded until Valentine's Day."
Naruto's face fell. "But that's—like—months from now."
She kissed his forehead, smudging it with peach lipstick. "Think of it as motivation to behave." Then she turned, called down the stairs for Minato, and swept away in a cloud of perfume and last-minute reminders.
Naruto took one last look in the mirror, scowled at his own reflection, and ran a hand through his hair to spike it back up. He bared his teeth, practiced his best evil villain laugh (quietly), and flexed his fingers in anticipation.
Tonight, Sasuke wouldn't know what hit him.
* * *
The drive across town to the Uchiha estate took barely five minutes—a route Naruto could trace in his sleep, having traveled it so often he knew every pothole and traffic light. Still, his mother managed to recount every diplomatic disaster between their families in that short span. There was the "Ham Incident" of 2003, when Fugaku Uchiha's low-sodium health kick had turned the holiday centerpiece into a flavorless brick. The "Karaoke War" of 2005, which Naruto had vague memories of—mostly his mother in a sequined headband, belting out "Total Eclipse of the Heart" while Mikoto Uchiha retreated to the kitchen and refused to speak for a week. And the "Tupperware Stand-Off," which apparently still had not been resolved.
Kushina laughed, braking a touch too hard at the next intersection. "Mikoto's going to pretend she didn't spend three hours on that centerpiece, and Fugaku will act like he hasn't been practicing carving that turkey since last Thursday." She winked at Naruto in the rearview mirror. "Twenty years of friendship and they still think I don't know their tells."
Naruto grunted in reply, face pressed against the cold glass of the window. The Uchiha estate came into view exactly when he knew it would—looking completely out of place on their suburban American street. Dark Japanese-style eaves jutted over carefully-raked gravel, the whole property walled off like some transplanted samurai fortress that had landed in Chicago. The entry was flanked by two stone lanterns, each the size of a kindergartener and twice as intimidating.
Inside, the Uchiha home continued its stubborn refusal to acknowledge its American zip code—paper shoji doors sliding between rooms where normal houses had hinges, tatami mats where others had carpet. The entryway practically forced you to bow and remove your shoes. The air smelled faintly of pine and some fancy brand of air freshener that probably cost more to import than Naruto's entire wardrobe. He followed his mother through the vestibule, eyes darting for places to hide his contraband.
They were met at the threshold by Mikoto Uchiha herself, elegant in a midnight-blue dress that made Kushina's department store find look like pajamas. Mikoto's smile was a subtle thing, more posture than expression, but Naruto could tell she meant it.
"Kushina, you look radiant as ever," Mikoto said, voice like a silk scarf sliding off a hanger. She embraced Kushina with the precision of a Swiss watch, then turned to Naruto. "And you must be—my, you've grown."
Naruto attempted a bow, as per his mother's earlier warning, but overshot and nearly whacked his forehead on the shoe rack.
Mikoto hid a laugh behind a perfectly manicured hand. "Come in, both of you. Dinner will be ready shortly."
Inside, the house was a labyrinth of sliding doors, alcoves, and neutral-colored art. Fugaku appeared in the corridor, his face as impassive as a statue's. He shook Minato's hand with the stiffness of a man suppressing a sneeze, then gestured for everyone to remove their shoes.
Minato nudged Naruto. "Be polite. No pranks tonight."
Naruto tensed, wondering if his father could read minds, then nodded and lined his shoes up next to the others.
They were led to the sitting room, where Sasuke's older brother, Itachi, waited with the air of someone who had already completed two PhDs and was working on a third just for fun. He greeted Naruto with a cordial nod, dark eyes flicking over the Uzumaki family and instantly memorizing every detail.
Naruto scanned the room for Sasuke and found him standing near the window, just far enough from the adults to appear uninterested, just close enough to listen in. He was dressed in the same navy blazer and tie as the rest of the family, his black hair perfect and eyes fixed on the moonlit garden outside. If the Uchiha home was a shrine, Sasuke was the statue at its center—impossibly composed, and, in Naruto's opinion, in desperate need of being knocked over.
As the families exchanged pleasantries, Naruto slouched onto one of the tatami mats, keeping an eye on Sasuke. He watched as his rival flicked him a brief, uninterested glance, then returned to whatever elaborate internal chess match he was running behind those dark eyes.
Naruto's jaw set. He fingered the whoopee cushion in his pocket, feeling the reassuring crinkle of rubber and the promise of future chaos.
Tonight, he decided, Sasuke Uchiha was going down.
The first opportunity came before the appetizers had even cleared the living room. The adults were caught in a friendly argument over the proper wine pairing for turkey—Kushina and Mikoto on one side, Fugaku and Minato on the other, each camp brandishing tasting notes and dubious online articles. Meanwhile, the kids were banished to the adjoining den, where a flatscreen TV blared the muted violence of a Thanksgiving football game.
Naruto sized up the battlefield with a tactician's eye. The room was mostly empty except for a low table, a couple of beanbags, and the ancient, overstuffed couch that dominated the back wall. Sasuke sat at the far end of the couch, legs crossed at the ankle, a Sudoku book balanced on his knee. Occasionally, his eyes flicked up to the TV, but mostly he ignored the game and everyone in it.
Naruto waited until Sasuke got up to refill his water—so predictable, so precise—then pounced. He yanked the whoopee cushion from his blazer, fluffed it with a quick breath, and planted it dead center on the vacant cushion. He collapsed onto a beanbag and waited, heart hammering in his chest.
Sasuke returned, set his Sudoku book down, and reached for the glass of water he'd left on the side table. He hovered, just for a second—Naruto held his own breath, sure he'd been spotted—but then Sasuke sat.
Nothing.
Naruto frowned. The whoopee cushion must have shifted. He tried to catch Sasuke's eye, but the other boy was already lost in his puzzle, pencil flicking over the page with infuriating calm.
Minutes ticked by. Naruto grew antsy, bouncing on the beanbag, willing Sasuke to shift just once. He considered sabotaging the TV remote as a distraction, but abandoned the idea when Minato poked his head in to announce that dinner would be served soon.
With less than ten minutes to pull off his masterpiece, Naruto waited until Sasuke stood again—this time to answer a call from his mother—and darted over to the couch. The whoopee cushion was there, wedged awkwardly against the backrest. Naruto scowled, adjusted it for maximum surface area, and retreated as footsteps returned.
Sasuke entered, eyed the couch, and then—almost imperceptibly—moved to the beanbag opposite Naruto.
Naruto's jaw dropped. Sasuke didn't even look smug about it. He just sank into the beanbag with robotic elegance, eyes fixed on his Sudoku, and ignored Naruto completely.
Desperate to salvage the situation, Naruto plopped onto the couch, determined to prove the device was still armed. The whoopee cushion let out a shriek of compressed air, a sound so spectacularly rude it echoed down the hallway and into the kitchen.
The room went silent. Sasuke looked up, eyebrows arched in perfect, glacial indifference.
The adults poked their heads in as one.
"Naruto," Kushina said, her voice low and dangerous, "if you have to fart, at least do it outside."
Naruto's cheeks caught fire. He opened his mouth to protest, but Mikoto had already shooed the adults away with a diplomatically forced smile.
Sasuke's lips twitched, just the barest hint of amusement, before he returned to his puzzle.
Naruto burned. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
* * *
His second attempt came during dinner prep, when the kitchen devolved into a territorial brawl over counter space and oven timers. Mikoto ran the kitchen like a battleship, assigning jobs with curt efficiency; Kushina countered with improvisation and enough spice to short out a smoke detector. Minato and Fugaku lurked at the perimeter, taste-testing and offering unhelpful suggestions.
Naruto was supposed to be shelling pecans, but he kept drifting to the island where Sasuke helped Itachi slice vegetables. They moved in perfect tandem: Itachi steady and silent, Sasuke copying each motion exactly, as if waiting for a single slip to prove himself superior.
Naruto watched, searching for weakness, and found it: Sasuke's glass of water, left momentarily unattended.
He palmed the packet of salt from his blazer, checked that the adults were distracted, and dumped a generous helping into the glass. The salt hit the water and clouded instantly, but Naruto gave it a quick swirl with a chopstick to dissolve the crystals.
He retreated to the pecan station and waited.
Sasuke finished his carrots, wiped his hands, and reached for the glass. He paused, brow furrowing. Then, with a calm Naruto found borderline sociopathic, he turned to Itachi and whispered something in his brother's ear.
Itachi nodded, eyes flicking to Naruto, then to the glass, then back to Naruto.
Naruto's stomach lurched.
Sasuke lifted the glass, swirled it, and set it down. He walked to the fridge, poured himself a new glass, and returned to slicing as if nothing had happened.
Naruto slunk over to the island, grabbed the original glass, and tried to dispose of the evidence before anyone noticed. But the moment he tilted it to pour it out, the salt hit his tongue and he sputtered, spraying a fine mist of saline across the marble countertop.
Every head in the kitchen swiveled.
"Naruto!" Kushina snapped. "What are you doing?"
He tried to explain, but all that came out was a cough and a whimper.
Sasuke regarded him with the dispassion of a scientist observing a failed experiment. "Maybe stick to water next time," he said, voice so neutral it was weaponized.
Naruto wanted to die. Or, barring that, take Sasuke down with him.
* * *
The final gambit was the snake. He'd saved it for last, hoping that his earlier failures would lull Sasuke into a false sense of security. After the mashed potatoes were finished and the adults had retreated to the dining room, Naruto excused himself to the guest bathroom—the one closest to the main corridor, the one everyone was sure to use before the meal.
He pulled the snake from his pocket, ran a thumb over its rubbery scales, and arranged it in the cabinet beneath the sink. It was perfect: just far enough back to avoid easy detection, but poised to spring the moment someone fumbled for extra hand towels or a spare roll of toilet paper.
He closed the cabinet and washed his hands, feeling a flush of pride. He checked his reflection, smoothed his hair, and grinned.
This time, Sasuke wouldn't be able to wriggle free.
He returned to the dining room, where the table was already set with an armada of porcelain and crystal. The adults were seated, engaged in a debate over which branch of the Uchiha family had the best ancestral sweet potato recipe. Mikoto waved Naruto to his seat, a spot at the corner of the table directly opposite Sasuke.
Sasuke was already there, napkin folded with military precision on his lap, posture straight, eyes half-lidded in boredom.
Naruto glared, then waited. Any minute now, someone would excuse themselves to use the bathroom.
It took almost twenty minutes—an eternity by Naruto's standards. But finally, Minato stood and made his way down the hall, humming quietly to himself.
Naruto tensed, watching the clock, counting the seconds until the inevitable shriek.
Thirty seconds. Forty. A minute. Minato returned, face unreadable, and took his seat.
Naruto waited, confused.
Another five minutes, and Itachi rose. "Excuse me," he said, voice so quiet it was almost part of the air. He disappeared down the corridor, and Naruto listened intently for any sign of alarm.
Nothing.
Itachi came back, as composed as ever, and resumed his seat. But in his hand—hidden, but not quite hidden—was the rubber snake, coiled and limp.
He placed it on Naruto's side plate, said, "I believe you dropped this," and went back to his meal as if nothing had happened.
Naruto felt every molecule in his body collapse. He looked up to see Sasuke, who had watched the entire exchange, and for the first time that evening, there was no indifference on his face—just the barest curl of a genuine, victorious smirk.
Naruto wanted to shout, or rage, or maybe even cry, but the dinner had begun in earnest, and the adults were oblivious to his suffering.
Sasuke had won. And worse, he had made it look easy.
Naruto spent the rest of the meal in silence, fork-poking at his turkey, and wondering if revenge would ever taste as good as he imagined.
They ate in courses, each dish delivered by Mikoto with a small, measured apology for not being "traditional" enough. Fugaku complimented the turkey in a tone that managed to sound like a reprimand. Minato beamed at everything, whether he liked it or not. Kushina refilled her own wine glass with the subtlety of a casino pit boss, while Itachi made small talk with Mikoto about the merits of different rice cookers.
Sasuke and Naruto didn't speak. But every so often, their eyes would meet across the table, and something like static would spark between them—a memory of the whoopee cushion, or the salt prank, or maybe just the fact that they were the only two people their age in a five-mile radius.
Halfway through dinner, Kushina clapped her hands together and said, "Let's do the Thankful Thing."
Naruto groaned. He should have seen this coming.
Fugaku blinked, as if the concept was foreign to him. "What is the Thankful Thing?"
"You go around the table and say what you're grateful for this year," Kushina explained, already looking down the line to see who would crack first. "It's nice. Builds character."
Itachi, ever the diplomat, spoke first. "I'm thankful for my family," he said, eyes flicking briefly to Sasuke. "For my parents' guidance, and for the opportunities I've been given this year."
Mikoto smiled, soft and proud. Fugaku nodded, as if Itachi's answer was the only logical choice.
Mikoto went next, her tone syrupy and flawless. "I'm grateful for Itachi's university scholarship, and for Fugaku's health, and for… all the little moments that keep our family close." Her gaze lingered on Sasuke, a tiny wrinkle of worry in her brow.
Minato offered a breezy, "I'm thankful for my beautiful wife, and for Naruto finally making the honor roll," which earned him a snort from Kushina and a sharp elbow under the table.
Kushina grinned and raised her glass. "I'm thankful for all of you, even if you drive me crazy. And for this incredible meal—Mikoto, you've outdone yourself."
The ball rolled to Fugaku. He cleared his throat, straightened his tie, and intoned, "I am thankful for the continued success of the Uchiha family. For Itachi's outstanding achievements in academics and martial arts. For the preservation of our traditions, and for the future we are building together." He paused, surveying the table, then nodded, satisfied.
Naruto waited, but the statement ended there. No mention of Sasuke.
He glanced at Sasuke, expecting to find the usual mask of disinterest, but instead caught the faintest tightening at the corners of his mouth—a wince, barely disguised, that lasted only a second before vanishing.
Naruto felt something churn in his gut. He'd always hated Sasuke, but he'd never pitied him.
"My turn?" he blurted, not waiting for a cue. All eyes shifted to him, half-expectant, half-dreading.
He swallowed, suddenly aware of the lump in his throat. "I'm thankful for—" He looked at his parents, then at the Uchihas, then at Sasuke, who met his gaze with an edge of challenge. "—for Sasuke. Because he's the smartest person I know, even when he's annoying. And because school would suck without someone to keep up with."
The table went silent. Even the garden seemed to hush, moonlight slanting in at a new angle.
Kushina beamed, her eyes glistening with what was either pride or the beginnings of a happy cry. Mikoto's smile softened into something real. Minato looked at his son like he'd just performed a magic trick.
Fugaku stared at Naruto, as if reassessing him entirely.
But the biggest shock was Sasuke. For a moment, his composure broke, and his eyes widened, dark and startled. He recovered quickly, but the slip was unmistakable.
Naruto looked away, face burning, and busied himself with the cranberry sauce.
Mikoto exhaled, then turned to Sasuke. "What about you, dear?"
Sasuke stared at his hands, the usual detachment gone. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, without looking up, he answered, "I'm thankful for Naruto. For making school less boring." He hesitated, then added, almost inaudibly, "And for trying so hard."
It wasn't much, but it was enough to shift the whole room.
The adults exchanged looks, some confused, some amused, all of them sensing a change but not sure what to make of it.
Naruto risked a peek at Sasuke. The other boy was watching him, lips curved in something halfway between a smirk and a real smile.
Naruto blinked. It felt like he'd just been punched in the chest—only instead of pain, there was a strange lightness, a bubbling heat that he couldn't explain.
The moment passed, and the conversation shifted to holiday plans and end-of-year exams. But for the rest of the night, Naruto could feel Sasuke's gaze flickering over him, and for the first time ever, it didn't feel like an attack.
It felt like something else.
After dinner, the adults lingered over coffee and dessert, their laughter and debate spilling out in waves from the open shoji screens. Naruto, stomach full and limbs half-numb, drifted toward the back of the house, following the faint clatter of the garden gate.
He found Sasuke sitting alone on the bench at the edge of the pond, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, hair caught silver in the moonlight. His face was pale and unreadable, but there was something softer at the edges—something Naruto didn't recognize.
Naruto padded over the stepping stones, hands in his pockets, and hovered a few feet away, unsure how to begin.
Sasuke didn't turn. "You're going to wear a hole in the grass," he said, voice flat but not unfriendly.
Naruto shuffled to a stop. "Do you hate me?"
The question hung there, awkward and too loud, but Naruto couldn't reel it back. He waited, heart thumping.
Sasuke sighed. He traced a line in the gravel with his shoe. "You're such an idiot."
"Yeah," Naruto said. "I know." He sat down at the far end of the bench, careful to leave space between them. "But you're mean. All the time."
Sasuke bristled, shoulders hunching. "You don't get it."
Naruto pulled a crumpled tissue from his pocket, fidgeted with it. "So explain it to me."
For a long moment, Sasuke said nothing. Then, quietly, "You have everything. Parents who aren't insane. Friends who like you. A life." He glanced back at the house, where the voices of Fugaku and Minato echoed in a rolling argument about college admissions. "Your dad actually looks at you when you talk."
Naruto blinked. "So? Yours does too."
"No, he doesn't." Sasuke's voice was thin and sharp, almost like he was talking to himself. "He only cares about Itachi. I'm just… I don't know. An extra."
Naruto watched Sasuke's hands, the way they knotted together in his lap. He thought of all the times he'd seen Sasuke at school—surrounded, admired, but never really part of anything. He wondered how he'd missed it before.
"I'm sorry," Naruto said, and meant it.
Sasuke shrugged. "Don't be. You're lucky, that's all." He looked up, eyes hard. "So stop acting like it's a burden."
Naruto bristled, instinct kicking in, but he made himself stay still. "If you wanted to be my friend, you could just ask. You don't have to act like a jerk."
Sasuke snorted. "Maybe I'm not good at that."
Naruto's lips twitched. "Maybe I can teach you."
They sat in silence for a while, watching the moon ripple in the pond.
Eventually, Naruto leaned in, voice low. "Want to help me prank Itachi?"
Sasuke's head snapped up, surprise flickering across his face.
"I still have some tricks I haven't tried yet," Naruto said. "He'd never see it coming if we worked together."
For a moment, Sasuke hesitated, as if weighing the cost. Then his lips curled into a real, unguarded smirk. "You're hopeless."
"Is that a yes?"
Sasuke nodded, barely, but the glint in his eyes was answer enough.
They bent their heads together, voices dropping to a secretive whisper, plotting their first act of sabotage as co-conspirators.
Behind them, the light from the house spilled out in warm, uneven patches, and for the first time that night, Naruto felt the ice in his chest begin to thaw.
He grinned, watching Sasuke sketch out the plan in the dirt with his finger, and thought that maybe, just maybe, this was better than revenge.
Maybe this was the start of everything.