The wind coming off the main road had teeth that night.
It slipped through his flak jacket and gnawed at his shoulders, carrying the usual village smells with it—grilled squid from a street stall, cold stone, damp leaves underfoot. Lanterns were already lit along the market street, turning the air a warm orange that didn't quite reach his bones.
Iruka tugged his scarf up and checked the sky. Thin clouds. Stars starting to show. The moon was only a sliver.
Good.
He didn't like it when the moon was full on this day.
A pair of chunin passed him, talking in low voices about border patrol rotations. One of them nodded to him. He nodded back automatically. His thoughts were already elsewhere, ticking through the same little ritual.
Same route every year. Same stall. Same number of bowls.
Two, now, he corrected himself. Or three, depending on how you counted.
He angled away from the main drag, toward the orphanage district.
If he was honest, he'd expected to be doing this alone again. Sit at Ichiraku. Order a bowl. Whisper a quick, awkward "I'm still here, tou-san, kaa-san" to the empty seat beside him. Go home.
Then Uzumaki Naruto had crashed into his classroom like a thrown kunai and refused, absolutely refused, to let Iruka's life stay in that shape.
And Sylvie. It'd been three years already since she first arrived. Quiet Sylvie with the big glasses, the sharp tongue, and the eyes that watched everything like she was memorizing where the paths to get out were. Somehow, she'd gotten welded to Naruto's side, two magnets that clicked together and spun the whole room off balance.
Iruka turned the last corner, expecting to see the orphanage gates.
Instead he saw Naruto.
The boy was halfway up a lamp post, scarf flapping, goggles askew, peering over the wall into the back of a dumpling shop. At the base of the post, Sylvie stood with her arms folded, expression flat and unimpressed.
"You are going to break your neck," she informed Naruto.
"Not if I land awesome," Naruto grunted, stretching for the edge of the roof. His fingers scrabbled on tile. The wind shoved him sideways. He wobbled.
Iruka's heart did an unnecessary leap into his throat.
"Oi! You two!"
Naruto yelped and nearly dropped off the pole. Somehow he caught himself by his heels, dangling upside down. Sylvie just turned her head and looked at Iruka like she'd been expecting him.
"Ah—Iruka-sensei!" Naruto flailed until he got his arms under him and slid down in a graceless scrape of sandals. He landed beside Sylvie, shoulders already hunched like he was waiting for a blow. "We weren't doing anything!"
"Suspicious phrasing," Sylvie muttered.
Iruka stopped in front of them, hands on his hips. Up close, they were both a little thinner than he liked, clothes a little too big, cheeks a little too hollow. The wind carried the smell of frying batter from the dumpling shop; both sets of eyes flicked toward it involuntarily, then back to him.
"Not doing anything," he repeated. "So you weren't about to sneak onto that roof and 'lightly borrow' food?"
Naruto winced. "You heard that, huh."
"I have ears," Iruka said dryly. "And you're not exactly subtle, Naruto."
"I can be subtle," Naruto protested. "You just— you never see me when I'm subtle."
"That's not how that works," Sylvie said.
Iruka exhaled. He felt, very suddenly, exactly like his old homeroom teacher must have felt dealing with him.
He dropped down to a crouch so he was level with their faces. Naruto's eyes skittered everywhere but his. Sylvie's stayed steady, wary but curious, like she was waiting to see which way the kunai would turn.
"Any pranks planned for tonight?" he asked.
"No," they chorused, a fraction too fast.
He raised an eyebrow.
"…not yet," Naruto admitted.
Sylvie kicked his ankle without looking.
Iruka pinched the bridge of his nose, then made his choice.
"Alright," he said. "Come with me."
Naruto blinked. "To…?"
"Ichiraku," Iruka said. "Unless you'd rather go explain your roof plans to the dumpling shop owner."
Naruto stared at him. Sylvie stared at him. The orphanage wall loomed behind them, shadowed and cold.
"No tricks," Iruka added. "Just ramen."
Naruto's suspicion warred with hope on his face, hope winning as always. "Your treat?"
"My treat," Iruka confirmed.
Naruto brightened so fast it was like watching the sun rise. "LET'S GO, SYLVIE!"
He took off at a run. Sylvie gave Iruka one last measuring look, then trotted after, pink ribbon bobbing at her throat.
Iruka straightened, rolled his shoulders, and followed.
Ichiraku glowed like a coal in the evening chill.
The canvas flaps ruffled as they ducked in, the stall swallowing them up in warmth and the thick, rich smell of broth. Steam curled from the big pots at the back; oil hissed; the counter was smooth under Iruka's hands as he sat between his two students.
"Iruka!" Teuchi said, grinning, rag slung over his shoulder. "You've collected strays again."
"We're not strays, old man," Naruto said, already craning to look into the pot. "We're dangerous shinobi."
"Very small, very hungry, very dangerous shinobi," Sylvie added, pushing her glasses up with one finger.
Teuchi chuckled. "That I can see. What'll it be?"
"Three miso pork," Iruka said. "Extra chashu."
Naruto made a strangled, reverent sound. Sylvie's shoulders loosened a fraction.
Ayame popped her head out from behind the curtain, smiling. "Three miso pork, coming right up. Special occasion, Iruka-sensei?"
"Something like that," he said.
She nodded and vanished into the steam.
He let himself look at the two kids properly then.
Naruto was vibrating in place, fingers drumming on the counter, chatter bubbling up and out with no real direction. He kept glancing at Iruka, then looking away, then glancing back like he couldn't quite believe this was allowed.
Sylvie sat straighter, hands neatly folded in her lap, but her eyes went everywhere—door flap, back wall, pots, ceiling, the stack of bowls, Iruka, Naruto, Iruka again. The wariness in them made his chest ache. She looked like a cat pretending to nap with its claws already out.
"Alright," he said, to break the silence before his own thoughts got too loud. "What were you two really up to?"
"Nothing!" Naruto insisted. "Just… walking."
"Plotting," Sylvie corrected.
He gave her a look. She shrugged.
"We were thinking about food," Naruto added. "Maybe… borrowing some."
"Borrowing usually implies giving it back," Iruka said.
"I was gonna give them gratitude back," Naruto said. "That's worth something."
"Only if you're not Naruto," Sylvie said. "He wants interest."
Naruto scowled. Iruka hid a smile.
The bowls arrived before the bickering could turn into a full skirmish.
Teuchi set them down carefully, one in front of each of them. The broth was a deep golden-brown, shimmering with little circles of fat. Steam rushed up and fogged Iruka's face; he wiped at his cheek, breathing in the salt and soy, the earthy scent of noodles, the sharp edge of pickled ginger.
His stomach growled. So did Naruto's. Sylvie's eyes went wide behind her glasses.
This was the part, every year, where his chest pinched.
Father. Mother. Look.
He would not say it out loud with the children here. But the thought sat there in the space beside him anyway, stubborn as a stone.
"ITADAKIMA—"
"Wait," Iruka said, sharper than he meant to.
Both kids froze like he'd thrown a kunai.
He gentled his tone. "Humor me for a moment."
Naruto eyed him warily. Sylvie's gaze dipped to his hands, then back to his face.
"When I was your age," Iruka said slowly, "this day was just another day. I went to class. I went home. I thought the village was… too big to break. That no matter what, some jōnin would show up and fix things before they got really bad."
He saw it again: the red sky. The wall of fur. The way the air itself had howled. His father shoving him under a broken beam, his mother's hand leaving his not because she wanted to but because it had to.
Naruto was watching him now. Sylvie was very still.
"I was wrong," Iruka said. "About how safe we are. About how sturdy things are. So now, every time this day comes around and the village is still standing, I try to… notice it. Do something that's about being alive, not just surviving lessons."
He cleared his throat, embarrassed by how clumsy his words sounded in his own ears. "So. Before we eat, I want you to think about something you're grateful for. Just… for a moment."
Naruto made a face like he'd been asked to recite the entire history textbook. "Is this homework?"
"It's ramen," Iruka said. "With a thought beforehand. I promise I won't grade you."
Naruto snorted. "You say that now…"
He reached for the pork with his fingers.
"Chopsticks," Sylvie snapped.
He ignored her, trying to tear the whole slice off the top with his teeth.
Grease shone on the meat, catching the lantern light. Naruto's jaw opened too wide for his small face, teeth closing over something that could just as easily be—
The memory hit like a thrown kunai.
Orange fur rearing up over rooftops. A mouth full of teeth the size of roof tiles. A claw the width of a house coming down. Wood cracking like thin ice. Flame roiling. His parents' backs in front of him, framed by that impossible shape.
Iruka's pulse roared in his ears. His hand twitched on his chopsticks, the old, pointless urge to grab someone—anyone—drag them down, cover them.
The stall vanished; for a heartbeat he was ten again, lungs full of smoke, watching the village he'd thought was unbreakable fold like paper.
"Stop trying to eat the whole thing at once," Sylvie said sharply. "You're going to choke and I'm not sewing your throat shut."
Naruto froze, cross-eyed with effort. The pork flopped back into the bowl, splashing broth.
The present snapped back into place around Iruka—canvas walls, steam, the clatter of dishes from the other end of the stall. Naruto, blinking, a smear of grease on his cheek. Sylvie, frowning, hands tight on her own chopsticks.
Iruka let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The ache behind his ribs eased a fraction.
"Listen to Sylvie," he said, voice steadier than he felt. "The food's not going anywhere. Use your chopsticks."
Naruto muttered something rude about rules but obeyed, poking the pork into pieces.
The storm in Iruka's chest simmered down to something quieter. He could still feel the edge of it, like an old scar under cold rain, but it wasn't going to drag him under.
He looked at them both again. Two children the village should have failed already. Somehow still sitting here.
"Alright," he said. "Since you're so suspicious, I'll go first."
They stared at him.
"I'm grateful," he said, "for this stall. For the fact that it's still here. For the fact that I get to sit at this counter and complain about you two instead of lighting incense alone."
Naruto's expression softened, just a little. Sylvie's mouth twisted like she'd bitten her tongue on a question.
"And," he added, "for the fact that my students are stubborn enough to keep showing up."
Naruto ducked his head, suddenly shy. Sylvie looked away, ears pink.
"So," Iruka said, forcing a lighter tone. "Your turn. What are you grateful for?"
Sylvie shifted on her stool, fidgeted with her chopsticks. Then, with a small, decisive huff, she set them down. The wood clicked against the bowl.
Naruto blinked, then copied her.
They brought their hands together in front of their chests, fingers steepled, heads bowing over the steam.
"For Iruka-sensei—" Sylvie said.
"—and ramen!" Naruto finished, grinning.
They straightened.
For a breath, Iruka couldn't move.
He'd expected jokes. Complaints. Naruto yelling "I'm grateful for being awesome!" and Sylvie making some dry remark about not freezing to death.
He hadn't expected to be included between the wooden counter and the bowl like that. To be named out loud as something good.
His eyes stung. He swallowed around the lump in his throat.
"You're supposed to say those for yourselves," he managed, aiming for a scolding tone and not quite making it.
Naruto shrugged, already reaching for his chopsticks again. "You're part of mine."
Sylvie nodded once, not looking at him. "Mine too," she said. It came out very matter-of-fact, which somehow made it worse.
Better.
The knot in his chest loosened. The old grief didn't vanish; it never would. But something warm slid in beside it, making room. The colours of his own chakra—if he'd been able to see them—felt like they'd shifted shade.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "Both of you."
Naruto grinned like he'd been praised for some difficult technique. "Can we eat now?"
"Yes," Iruka said, and finally let himself laugh. "Before Naruto starves to death and haunts my classroom."
Naruto attacked his bowl with enthusiasm that should have been a crime. Sylvie ate slower, savoring each bite, eyes half-closed behind fogged glasses. Iruka took his first mouthful and let the salt and heat spread through him, washing some of the cold out of his bones.
Outside, the village hummed along. Somewhere, shinobi on night patrol walked the walls. Somewhere, the Hokage's tower glowed with candlelight over stacks of reports about other countries, other tensions, clouds gathering over the horizon.
War would come again; it always did. He could feel it in the way the elders talked in half-finished sentences, in the missions that came back with fewer names than they left with.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the worst thing in his world was Naruto slurping too loudly and Sylvie threatening to stab his hand with her chopsticks if he splashed her again.
It wasn't peace in the grand, Hokage-speech sense. It was smaller than that. Fragile. A little stall, three stools, three bowls of ramen, and the warmth of two brats pressed up against either side of him.
Iruka glanced at the empty space on the other side of Naruto. In his mind, he set two ghost bowls there, just for a heartbeat.
Tou-san. Kaa-san. Look.
I'm still here. The village is still here. He's here. She's here.
Naruto laughed at something Sylvie said, noodles hanging out of his mouth, eyes bright. Sylvie hid a smile behind her hand and failed.
Iruka smiled into his broth.
Maybe his parents could see. Maybe they couldn't. Either way, he'd keep this day. As long as there was a Konoha standing, as long as Naruto was alive to make bad decisions in it, there would be at least one evening like this.
His own private holiday.
He lifted his chopsticks again and joined them.