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Girls.

Boruto, in his seventeen years of existence, knows lots about girls. (Okay, he knows maybe three months worth of stuff, combined from two girlfriends—one classmate, one penpal-turned flame, but still—! He knows enough. Enough to be an authority on this type of thing.)

Ahem. So.

Girls are not allowed to pull stunts like this.

Not. Allowed. Not on his old man.

What is this, anyhow? A crush? A long-time flame? A whole-hearted, pure, and still utterly wrong admiration?

Sure, Boruto's heard the stories. Once upon a time, his old man's popularity could inflate a helium balloon the size of his Hokage Monument head. But he also knows that his Dad's like a brick, and that any movement toward a real relationship happened at the pace of a glacial crawl, according to Himawari (who gleaned such from Auntie Ino and Sakura's short-lived knitting circle).

So when he saw Sarada (in his body) hand over the speech draft to Kakashi-ossan, he assured himself that this speech could have been written by any woman picked off the street. Hell, any breathing organism within the continent breathed and worshipped his Dad (well, maybe not the baddies. Anyone good. In an asinine kinda way). But still, that speech had been brimming with esteem and devotion. Slathered with sincerity. He'd even caught Sarada using his own face making googoo eyes at the Nanadaime, from the family tent beside the speech platform (holy crap, having the Sharingan is so not cool, after all).

Not okay. Not allowed. Not…

Not Sarada, at least.

Because if there's one person he's known has admired Dad for ages, it's her. And if there's one person he wished would admire Dad a little less, it's also her.

Not Konohamaru-sensei, with his rambling speeches which slipped in his "Naruto-niisan, kore".

Not Mom, who'd defend Dad's late nights until Boruto was old enough to appreciate hard work, himself.

Not Himawari, who'd spend birthday after birthday setting the place mats for her father to return home in time for dinner.

It's Sarada—

Sarada, who sees the Hokage's son screw up on a daily basis. Who's watched him snort ramen up his nose, and smiled when she thought he wasn't looking. Sarada—the daughter of his Dad's rival, whose approval he wants (maybe, just maybe) despite their history.

Oh crap.

This.

Not okay.

Not allowed.

It's something else now, a revelation, niggling at him. Something on his part. Boruto is not Uzumaki Naruto, whose glacial-crawl toward enlightenment now includes buying red roses and not white ones for his wife on their anniversary. But for all of Boruto's three-month combined dating experience, his own love life is actually as frozen as that glacier on top of Kumo's northern outpost. Because, sometimes, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

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Himawari finishes brushing the lapels on the sleek blue haori. She beams at her final product.

"Looking good!"

Sarada grimaces at her appearance in the mirror. It's strange, going to one of these fancy publicity events in someone else's body. Even worse, going as the son of the man in whose honor these festivities are hosted. If she'd had her way, she'd be sprucing up her foreign languages, or knowledge of current events, or doing something else totally praiseworthy for a future Hokage. But as she's here, in Boruto's body, she's not about to let the Hokage's son embarrass himself by showing up in ANBU gear. Not on Naruto-sama's big night. The poor Nanadaime has been shaking hands all day—he'd dozed for most of the time he was in the tent, except for his own speech. Sarada just wishes she could be more use to the hokage, than just her security shifts.

A hand on the back snaps her back to the present. "Sarada," smiles Himawari (and if Sarada didn't know better, she'd think this is purely a gesture of support). "I appreciate you worrying. But please just enjoy yourself tonight."

"You don't think I need to comb the hair better?" Seriously, what does one do, with genetic pineapple hair?

"Trust me. You look neater than Boruto ever did at all the previous anniversaries."

Sarada thinks, hard. There was that one year Boruto wore a modern tux. He looked pretty… good.

"I guess he put in some effort, too," she mumbles, as Himawari brings out the shiny men's dress shoes.

"Poor you," Himawari pouts, half-serious. "You get to wear these ugly flat shoes. At least Chouchou and Aunt Ino can't make fun of you, while you're in my stupid brother's body."

"Chouchou's reasonable, and Aunt Ino's just a behind-the-scenes gossip," Sarada sighs. "It's always Mama that I'm worried about. She's gotten so particular about impressing polite company, recently."

"Menopause?" says the truant Himawari.

"No." Sarada gives a halting chuckle. "I think Mama was just born with an alter ego."

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Impressing polite company be damned, the whole Konoha Conference Center auditorium is booked for the gala, with auxiliary reception rooms stuffed to the brim with seafood, crudités, and too much champagne to be safe, from old retired kage. There's also been a ramen station co-sponsored by Ichiraku's, ever since Naruto requested one, at his fifth-year as hokage. Teuchi's protégés are happy to get some extra publicity, and have even opened branch stores in some foreign nations. So, amidst the liberal spritzing of glitter and booze, high society and nouveau riche slum it up with the old Konoha families, talking business, leisure, and—always—how many more years it'd be before Naruto 'accidentally' shreds his paperwork with a rasenshuriken.

Sarada's intention is to park somewhere quiet and do the wallflower dance. It's actually not too different from Boruto's usual M.O., though the guy'd try to convince you (and himself) that he's a total party animal. Even at these types of parties. Luckily, no one in Konoha has been enlightened as to the truth of this matter.

After weaving past the neon orange balloon arch, Sarada enters the main auditorium, to a sea of people in their finest attire. She attaches herself to a wall, and focuses on navigating the room, avoiding eager old businessmen and terrifyingly pasty omiai hunters. She spots Metal Lee in the corner near one of the punch bowls, looking glum. Next to him, Kagura from Kiri is there, suspiciously pink-faced. She approaches in what he hopes is a manly stride. It's admittedly relaxing, not having to endure judge-y looks from some of the Continent's heiresses as she makes her way to the buffet table. Well, she supposes that was mostly because of Chouchou, who'd gleefully eat all the tiramisu cake and then stick her tongue out at the prissy girls. But Himawari's already been whisked away to network with some Academy sponsors, and she's sorely lacking in fun female companionship. So, she makes her way over to the boys in the spirit of commiseration.

"How's the punch?"

Unlike his father, Metal Lee's inherited some stellar alcohol tolerance. Go figure. "Pretty good," says the boy, newly eighteen. "You want?"

"Underage," she laughs.

"So's Kagura," sighs Metal. "But he's got woes. So he's drowning them."

"A-Ah." Sarada looks around for some water to sneak into the punch bowl. "Have you guys seen, um, Sarada?"

Amazingly, Kagura looks more morose and stoic than ever.

Metal, on the other hand, sniffs a bit. "Boruto-kun, you best not mention that name. She's a lovely girl, but a cruel, cruel mistress on matters of love."

Love? Now Sarada's sure Metal's had enough to drink. His aphorisms are definitely mixed up.

"That's fate, right?" she frowns.

"Fate. Love. Destiny. A woman," Metal cries. "Call it what you will, but it's cruel!"

"Sure is," pipes a voice behind them.

Sarada turns around.

She's staring into the face that, impossibly, is even more glum than Kagura's.

It's also her own.

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We need to talk.

The second line out of Boruto's (well, her) mouth is that age old, dusty line, likely fished out of some bad drama script. Sarada glances uneasily down at Boruto, feeling confused. Still, it's a serviceable proposition, all things considered. Boruto's looking at her so beseechingly, though, that Sarada contemplates this for a while before she opens her mouth.

But a conversation is not to be. It's not the two boys behind her who pipe up, but rather the two faces that show up behind Boruto.

"Sakura-san! Sensei!" Sarada pastes a smile on her face.

Boruto, too, whirls around, and gives an undignified stare at the both of them.

Sakura's face drops. "Sarada! What are you wearing?"

For the first time, Sarada also registers the outfit that's gracing her body. Disheveled, a little smelly—it's the ANBU patrol outfit, which Boruto had likely changed into to get rid of that strange perfume smell Himawari forced on him this morning. Even Sarada's standards don't stoop so low. More importantly, the look in Mama's eyes—even directed away from her—inspires fear.

Well. Serves Boruto right.

"Uh, Sensei!" Sarada waves a hand to her father. "I have to ask you something."

Papa looks a tad dispirited, but otherwise, his normal stoic self. Then, as he turns, he scrutinizes Sarada with something that can only be described as a sixth sense. Whichever eye or zany transmutable chakra this comes from, Sarada doesn't know. Right now, she doesn't much care. She's just interested in moving away from the zone of fire. As Mama's green eyes light with mysterious energy, Sarada tucks her arm into Papa's and drags him several feet away. From her safe position, she now proceeds to peer over at what's transpiring at the punch station. Oh. Ha. Puns. Though, Mama surely wouldn't cause an earthquake over a smelly daughter, right? Not in polite company? Mama cares about Naruto-sama and Konoha's dignity. Right? They'd move venues first.

But wait—moving venues… what if Mama forces Boruto to change clothes?

And Boruto's conscious for it?

Oh no.

"Stay here, Pa—uh, Sensei," Sarada hisses, and makes a beeline back for the punch bowl.

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Sasuke, meanwhile, staring at his daughter, then his student, puts two and two together.

They didn't call him a genius, back in the day, for nothing.

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tbc

Suzu: this is kinda my breather story, from the drama bomb that is Triptych, haha. But once in a blue moon, I feel bad that these chapters are so short and undignified. So here's one that's a (sorta) respectable length. Still undignified, though. xD

So close to the end, now!