Ashes of a Distant Sun

01 | beneath the weight of forever

People. People. Endless noise. And I am so tired. And I would like to sleep under trees; red ones, blue ones, swirling passionate ones.

- The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoevsky.

The thing about unpredictable people is that they're almost comically predictable in their, well, unpredictability. They exist like electrons in orbit, scattered in all directions at once, but never truly surprising. Sure, you might not pinpoint their exact location or current shenanigans, but by process of elimination, you can usually figure it out. Instead of shock, you're left with a weary sigh, a hand rubbing the bridge of your nose, wondering why you're even bothering to track the turbulence.

But the reason behind their unpredictability—that's where it gets trickier. It's the undertow beneath their mercurial surface, the force that keeps the tides shifting. That's the real challenge. Most people can't handle the root cause of that constant upheaval. And sooner or later, you find yourself eyeing the horizon nervously, sensing the ocean's retreat, knowing a tsunami's coming, and deciding it's high time you headed for higher ground.

Jiraiya learned that the hard way.

The thing is, while he wasn't entirely expecting to find Naruto in a bar, he couldn't say he was surprised to find him there either. There he was, surrounded by more empty cups than any sane person would consider healthy, blond hair tousled, downing shot after shot like he was on a personal mission to achieve alcohol poisoning.

Students, after all, tend to take after their mentors. And he knows Naruto—knows that look in his eyes from all the times he's had to haul Jiraiya out of his own drunken miseries. He knows that when there's nowhere else to go, no comfort left in Konoha's familiar streets, this is where Naruto will inevitably end up.

(He ignores the dull ache this realization brings. To know that yet another soul — that his own student, his very own golden godson — is seeking support from a bottle; trying to drown a sorrow that only alcohol can numb. To know that he might have dangled the option in front of them. To know that he had steered them towards a path they might never have chosen otherwise.)

He shakes off the guilt that sits on his shoulders and turns on a lazy grin, one that takes far more effort to muster than the name suggests and drops himself onto the barstool beside his godson. "You know, Naruto, if you wanted to learn all my secrets, there are easier ways than trying to drink yourself into my liver."

"What secrets?" Naruto snorts, then glares at him through eyes heavy with exhaustion. "Why the hell are you here? Can't you find someone else to harass?"

"Is that any way to talk to your caring and incredibly handsome godfather who's just here to make sure you don't drink yourself to death?" Jiraiya slings an arm around Naruto's shoulders, this way he can almost pretend the gesture is casual, almost affectionate. A normal family.

Naruto shrugs it off, harshly and abruptly, and Jiraiya tries not to wince at the sting of rejection. "Like you care."

"I do," Jiraiya says softly, the humor slipping away for a moment. "Surely you know that."

There's a tense silence as Naruto downs yet another cup, sputtering slightly on the amber liquid. Jiraiya is all too familiar with that feeling—the burn, the way it claws at your throat, almost begging you to stop. Sometimes, he wishes it would choke him, fill his lungs and end the struggle. He's never cared much for smoking, but the burn of tar-blackened air feels like a fitting end.

"Anyway," Jiraiya says, steering the conversation away from dangerous waters. Dwelling on drunken confessions has never helped anyone, least of all himself. "Isn't it against your ninja way to drown your sorrows in a bottle? I seem to recall a certain someone going on about never giving up."