I'd been watching that damn fish for fifteen minutes straight.
"You know, glaring at it won't make it bite the hook any faster," Mikoto said, her voice carrying that typical Uchiha blend of amusement and condescension.
"Hush, I'm communing with nature," I replied without breaking my stare at the water. The sun filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on the river's surface that made it harder to track our elusive dinner. "Besides, I'm pretty sure the fish can sense killing intent."
Mikoto snorted in a very un-Uchiha-like manner. "That's not how fishing works, Shinji."
'That's exactly what someone who can't commune with fish would say,' I thought, but kept that particular wisdom to myself. I adjusted my position on the riverbank, careful not to spill the small ceramic flask of sake I'd stashed in my jacket. Academy students weren't supposed to have alcohol, but then again, Academy students weren't supposed to be able to walk up trees either, and I'd mastered that weeks ago.
I took a quick glance at Mikoto. She was focused on her own fishing line, her dark hair tucked behind her ears as she leaned forward. Grumpy-chan's cousin—or sister, or something, I could never keep Uchiha family trees straight—had surprisingly agreed to this little expedition when I'd suggested it after class. Probably because I'd mentioned I knew how to make fish taste like something other than, well, fish.
The funny thing about Mikoto was that she was nothing like the other Uchihas. Sure, she had the look—all pale skin and dark eyes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it—but she laughed at my jokes and didn't act like she had a kunai permanently lodged up her ass.
A sharp tug on my line yanked me from my musings.
"Got one!" I said, jumping to my feet and nearly toppling into the water.
Mikoto set down her own rod and moved closer. "Don't pull too hard or the line will snap."
"I know how to fish," I lied, yanking the rod with way too much force. The line went taut, then slackened as the fish made a desperate break for freedom. I compensated by channeling chakra into my arms and giving a mighty heave.
The fish—much larger than I'd anticipated—sailed through the air in a glittering arc, smacked me square in the face, and flopped down into my lap.
"That," Mikoto said, failing spectacularly at hiding her laughter, "was exactly how fishing works."
I peeled the wriggling fish off my trousers and held it up triumphantly. "Unconventional tactics, Miko-chan. The element of surprise works on fish too."
"You surprised it by letting it slap you in the face?"
"Tactical face-slapping," I corrected her, reaching for my kunai. "An advanced technique."
...
Setting up the cooking area was where I got to show off a bit. I'd spent enough nights at my secret training ground to elevate my campfire game from "desperate survivor" to "outdoor chef extraordinaire." I carefully arranged river stones in a circle, positioning larger flat stones at specific heights—one as a cutting board, another as a cooking surface.
I pulled three kunai from my pouch and stabbed them into the ground in a triangular formation, just the right distance apart to hold a small metal grate I fished out of my pack. Mikoto raised an eyebrow at this clearly non-standard use of shinobi equipment.
"What?" I shrugged. "Kunai are multipurpose tools."
"I'm pretty sure weapon maintenance class didn't cover 'cookware support' as an intended use," she said, but I caught the hint of amusement in her voice.
I arranged the kindling in a neat lattice pattern, then made a show of patting my pockets. "Ah, matches. Knew I forgot something."
"I could use a fire jutsu," Mikoto offered. "Basic Katon techniques are taught early to Uchiha clan members."
"No need," I said, forming a hand seal that definitely wasn't taught at the Academy. With a precise channeling of chakra—way more controlled than any genin-in-training should manage—I produced a small, focused flame at my fingertip.
Mikoto's eyes widened. "That's a fire jutsu. Where did you learn that?"
I touched the flame to the kindling, watching with satisfaction as it caught immediately. "Oh, you know. Around."
"Around," she repeated, clearly not buying it. "Like how you just happen to know how to set up an outdoor kitchen worthy of an Akimichi chef?"
I grinned as I pulled out my supplies. First came a small, worn cutting board that folded out from what looked like a regular scroll case. Then, from another pocket: a wickedly sharp knife that gleamed with care despite its obvious age. Finally, the small cloth bundle of seasonings I'd bought from Yukiko-san earlier that week, each wrapped in separate leaves and labeled with small symbols.
"I'm a man of mysteries, Miko-chan," I said, laying everything out with the smooth routine of someone who'd done this hundreds of times before
"You're a boy of suspicious behaviors," she corrected, but leaned in closer as I began to work.
I gutted the fish quickly, my fingers and knife working together in a way that spoke of muscle memory far beyond what I should have. Another skill from my previous life that raised eyebrows, but people generally asked fewer questions about knife skills than they did about complex chakra manipulation.
"First rule of fish," I narrated, slipping naturally into teacher mode, "is to respect it. Quick, clean cuts. No wasted motion." I removed the innards and set them aside in a small leaf wrap. "Even these have uses. Bait, fertilizer, or..." I glanced at her, "...emergency soldier pills if you're desperate enough."
Mikoto made a face. "I think I'll stick to the standard-issue ones."
"Wise choice," I agreed, turning back to the fish. "Now for the magic."
I reached into my herb bundle and pulled out three different leaves, crushing them between my fingers to release their oils before rubbing them into the fish's cavity. The sharp, clean scent of something like mint but not quite mint filled the air. Next came a small pinch of salt crystals.
"The secret," I said, lowering my voice as if sharing classified intel, "is to season the inside first. Everyone focuses on the skin, but that's amateur hour."
I laid the fish on the flat stone I'd positioned at the perfect distance from the flames. As the skin touched the hot surface, it sizzled satisfyingly. I reached into another pocket and produced a small vial of oil infused with more herbs and drizzled it carefully over the fish.
"Timing is everything," I muttered, more to myself than to Mikoto, as I watched the skin begin to crisp and turn golden. "Too long and it's dry, too short and it's raw. There's a perfect moment..." I flipped the fish with a deft twist of my knife, revealing perfectly crisped skin marked with precise grill lines from the stone's natural ridges.
The aroma that rose from the cooking fish was complex—herbal, slightly citrusy, with a hint of smoke. It filled the small clearing and made my stomach growl audibly.
Mikoto inhaled deeply. "That smells..." she paused, searching for words.
"Amazing? Incredible? Like the food of the gods?" I suggested.
"Different," she finished, but her eyes never left the cooking fish, and I noticed her shifting slightly closer.
I pulled out a small ceramic jar from yet another pocket. "And now for the finishing touch." I dabbed a precisely measured amount of a dark, sticky sauce onto the fish, watching with satisfaction as it caramelized instantly on the hot surface.
Then, with a flourish that was maybe a bit too dramatic, I reached into my jacket and produced my sake flask. "And now, the final touch to any outdoor meal."
Mikoto's eyes widened. "Is that sake? Where did you even get that? We're too young!"
"Age is but a number," I said sagely, taking a small sip before offering it to her. "Besides, it's medicinal."
"Medicinal for what exactly?"
"For the chronic condition of being entirely too sober on a beautiful day by the river."
She rolled her eyes but took the flask, sniffed it cautiously, then took the tiniest sip possible. Her face scrunched up immediately. "That's awful!"
"It's an acquired taste," I admitted, reclaiming my flask. "Like most worthwhile things in life."
The fish continued to cook, its skin crisping nicely. I poked it with a clean stick, checking its doneness. "Almost there."
Mikoto hugged her knees to her chest, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "You're strange, Shinji."
"Thank you."
"It wasn't necessarily a compliment."
I shrugged. "I'll take what I can get."
She was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Why did you invite me here? I'm not Minato or Kushina."
I paused in my fish-poking. It was a fair question. Minato was busy with extra training, and Kushina... well, things had been a bit awkward since she'd started showing interest in me, much to Minato's poorly concealed dismay.
"Because," I said slowly, choosing my words more carefully than usual, "you're interesting. You don't try so hard to be a typical Uchiha. It's refreshing."
Her dark eyes reflected the dancing flames. "I am a typical Uchiha."
"No, you're not," I countered. "Typical Uchihas don't go fishing with miscreants like me. They don't laugh at dumb jokes or try new foods or sip sake by rivers."
A small smile played at her lips. "Maybe you don't know Uchihas as well as you think."
"Maybe," I conceded, flipping the fish one final time. "Or maybe you're just special."
The words hung in the air between us, strangely weighted. I hadn't meant them to sound so... sincere. Sincerity wasn't exactly my brand.
To break the moment, I grabbed two clean leaves I'd collected earlier and slid half the fish onto each. "Dinner is served, my lady Uchiha."
Mikoto accepted her leaf-plate with a nod that was almost a bow—Uchiha manners never fully disappeared—and took a cautious bite.
Her eyes widened instantly.
"This is..." she began.
I leaned forward, unable to hide my eagerness for her verdict. One of the few genuine pleasures I allowed myself was watching people enjoy food I'd prepared. A holdover from my previous life, I supposed.
"It's good," she finally said, then immediately took another, larger bite.
I clutched my chest dramatically. "Just 'good'? You wound me, Miko-chan! I was expecting rapturous praise, declarations of my culinary genius, perhaps a marriage proposal or two."
She almost choked on her fish, covering her mouth as she laughed. "Don't push your luck, Shinji."
We ate in comfortable silence after that, watching the sun begin its descent toward the horizon. The sake flask made another round, Mikoto taking a slightly larger sip this time without quite the same face of disgust.
'This is nice,' I thought to myself, surprising even me with the simplicity of the sentiment. No angle, no information gathering, no pretense of being worse than I was. Just fishing, cooking, and sharing a meal with someone who didn't expect anything from me.
"We should head back soon," Mikoto said eventually, looking at the darkening sky.
"Probably," I agreed, making no move to pack up.
She nudged my shoulder. "Come on. I don't want to explain to my parents why I'm coming home after dark with you of all people."
"What's wrong with me?" I asked, feigning offense. "I'm delightful."
"You're trouble," she corrected, but there was no heat in her words.
I couldn't argue with that assessment, so I just grinned and began kicking dirt over our small fire. "Fair enough, Miko-chan. Fair enough."
As we gathered our things, I caught her watching me with that same unreadable expression from earlier.
"What?" I asked.
She shook her head slightly. "Nothing. Just... thank you for today."
The sincerity in her voice caught me off guard. I wasn't used to genuine gratitude—schemes and hustles rarely inspired it.
"Anytime," I said, and was surprised to find I actually meant it.
We walked back toward the village as the first stars appeared overhead, our conversation drifting to Academy gossip and complaints about homework. Normal kid stuff, even though neither of us was particularly normal.
And if I was walking a little closer to her than strictly necessary, well, that was just to make sure she didn't trip in the growing darkness. Nothing more.
Probably.