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Chapter 30 - Ramen and Remembering

The ramen shop Jiraiya led them to was small and unpretentious, the kind of establishment that would be easy to walk past without noticing if you weren't specifically looking for it. A faded curtain bearing the shop's name—Yuki's Noodle House—hung over the entrance, and the interior consisted of a single L-shaped counter with perhaps a dozen seats total. The air was thick with steam and the rich aroma of pork broth that had been simmering for hours, and an elderly woman worked behind the counter with the efficient movements of someone who'd been making ramen for decades.

"Two bowls of your finest miso ramen!" Jiraiya announced as they settled onto stools, his earlier embarrassment from the bathhouse incident apparently completely forgotten. "Extra pork, extra noodles, and make it hot enough that we'll regret our choices but eat it anyway!"

"You want it that spicy, you'll pay extra for the medical treatment afterward," the old woman replied without looking up from the pot she was stirring. "I'm not responsible for what happens to foolish customers who can't handle proper seasoning."

"I like her already," Jiraiya said to Naruto with a grin. "She's got spirit. The best ramen shops are always run by people who'll insult you while serving food that makes you want to cry with joy."

The woman—presumably Yuki—finally looked up, and her expression softened slightly when she saw Naruto. "A child shouldn't be eating fire ramen. I'll make his normal spice level and give you the regrettable choices version, sage-san."

"How did you know I was a sage?" Jiraiya asked, genuinely curious.

"You have the look of someone who makes terrible decisions and calls it wisdom," she replied dryly. "Also, you're covered in soap suds and have a bruise forming on your forehead from what I'm guessing was a well-deserved bucket to the head. Sage, pervert, or both—the signs are clear."

Naruto couldn't help but snort with laughter, which earned him an approving nod from Yuki before she turned back to her cooking. Jiraiya just shrugged philosophically.

"She's not wrong," he admitted. "I do make terrible decisions regularly. It's part of my charm."

As they waited for their food, Jiraiya pulled out the small notebook he'd been using earlier—the one he'd been scribbling in while conducting his "research"—and began jotting down notes with surprising focus. Naruto watched with fascination, noting how the perverted fool from twenty minutes ago had transformed into someone who looked genuinely absorbed in creative work.

"What are you actually writing?" Naruto asked. "And don't say research. I know what kind of research you were doing."

"I'm writing the next chapter of my novel series," Jiraiya said without looking up. "The Icha Icha books—romance novels that are beloved by discriminating readers across the shinobi world. Well, mostly beloved by men of culture and taste, but still. Very popular. Very influential. Probably my greatest contribution to human civilization, if I'm being honest."

"Greater than being one of the Legendary Sannin?"

"The Sannin title got me respect from other shinobi. My novels got me royalty checks that let me travel the world without worrying about money. Guess which one I value more on a practical level?" Jiraiya's grin was unrepentant. "Besides, my books bring joy to people. That's not nothing."

"By writing about..." Naruto gestured vaguely, his face heating up slightly as he tried to articulate what he'd glimpsed at the bathhouse.

"Romance," Jiraiya supplied helpfully. "Adult romance, yes, but romance nonetheless. The complicated interactions between people, the ways attraction and affection shape decisions, the humor and heartbreak of human connection. All worthy subjects for literature, even if my approach is... let's say enthusiastic."

Before Naruto could respond, Yuki returned with two steaming bowls of ramen that made his mouth water immediately. The noodles were perfectly cooked, the broth rich and complex, the sliced pork arranged with more care than the shop's humble appearance would have suggested. Jiraiya's bowl was garnished with bright red chili oil that made Naruto's eyes water just looking at it.

"Itadakimasu!" they said in unison, and for a few minutes there was only the sound of slurping noodles and appreciative humming.

The ramen was exceptional—easily the best Naruto had eaten outside of Konohagakure, possibly the best he'd ever had period. The broth had depth that suggested hours of careful preparation, and the noodles had that perfect texture that came from precise timing and skill. Each bite was comfort food in the truest sense, warming him from the inside in ways that had nothing to do with temperature.

"Good, right?" Jiraiya said between mouthfuls, his eyes slightly watering from the spice level but his expression blissful. "I've eaten ramen in forty-seven different towns and villages, and this place is in my top ten. Yuki-san is a master of her craft."

"It's amazing," Naruto agreed, already halfway through his bowl despite having intended to pace himself. "My grandpa used to take me to this ramen stand in Konoha every week. It became our thing—just the two of us, talking about training and Academy and whatever else while eating ramen together. This... this reminds me of that."

The words had slipped out before Naruto could stop them, and suddenly the grief that had been temporarily buried under absurdist comedy and good food came rushing back. His throat tightened, making it difficult to swallow the bite of noodles he'd just taken.

Jiraiya was quiet for a moment, his own eating slowing. Then, gently: "Tell me about him. About Sarutobi-Sensei. Not the Hokage—I knew that version pretty well. Tell me about your grandfather. The person he was with you."

Naruto stared into his ramen bowl, watching the steam rise and dissipate. "I don't... I don't know if I can talk about it without..."

"Without crying? Without feeling like you're being crushed by the weight of losing him?" Jiraiya's voice was understanding. "Yeah, that's kind of how grief works, kid. But sometimes talking about the good memories helps. Not to erase the pain—that doesn't work and anyone who promises it does is lying. But to remember that the pain exists because the love was real. That the grief is proof of how much he mattered."

The logic was similar to what Naruto himself had thought during the funeral, but hearing it from someone else made it feel more permissible somehow. Like maybe sharing memories wasn't betrayal or weakness, just... remembering.

"He was patient," Naruto said slowly, taking another bite of ramen to give himself something to do with his hands. "Like, impossibly patient. I was a terrible student when I was younger—couldn't sit still, couldn't focus, always getting distracted or asking questions at the wrong time. But he never got angry. He'd just redirect me, find ways to make lessons interesting, turn everything into stories or games that made learning feel like play."

"Sounds like him," Jiraiya said with a slight smile. "He was like that when he taught me too. Always found the approach that worked for each student rather than forcing everyone into the same mold. It's why he was such a good teacher—he actually cared about understanding how people learned instead of just lecturing and expecting everyone to keep up."

"He taught me to write," Naruto continued, the memories flowing more easily now. "I was maybe five, and I was struggling with it. My hand coordination was terrible, and I'd get frustrated and want to quit. But he made it a game—said we'd write letters to each other, seal them in envelopes, and deliver them like real correspondence. Suddenly writing wasn't boring practice, it was a way to communicate secret messages. I learned calligraphy because I wanted my 'secret messages' to look as cool as his did."

Jiraiya chuckled. "That's brilliant. He understood that you needed purpose behind the practice, not just practice for its own sake. That's good pedagogy right there."

"And he never..." Naruto's voice caught slightly. "He never made me feel like the Nine-Tails was all I was. Even when my chakra control was terrible, even when I'd have these surges of power I couldn't explain, even when other people would give me those looks like they were seeing a monster—he always just saw me. Naruto. His grandson. Someone worth teaching and spending time with and... and loving."

"Because that's what you are," Jiraiya said quietly. "The Nine-Tails is cargo you carry, kid. Burden you didn't choose and didn't ask for. But it's not the sum total of your existence. Sarutobi-Sensei understood that. Anyone who actually knew you understands that."

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the earlier lightness tempered by the weight of memory and loss but not completely extinguished. Naruto found himself talking more, stories spilling out about weekly ramen dinners and training sessions in the Sarutobi compound garden, about the way Hiruzen would teach through demonstration rather than lecture, about evenings spent reading together in comfortable quiet.

"He used to tell me stories about when he was younger," Naruto said, ordering a second bowl without even thinking about it—the appetite that had been absent for over a week suddenly returning with force. "About missions he went on, mistakes he made, lessons he learned. They weren't always flattering to him—he'd tell me about times he messed up, times his plans failed, times he had to be rescued by his team because he'd gotten overconfident. I asked him once why he told me about his failures instead of just his successes."

"What did he say?" Jiraiya was listening with complete focus now, his own second bowl sitting temporarily forgotten.

"He said that success stories teach you what's possible, but failure stories teach you how to survive and learn and improve. That the best teacher isn't the person who never makes mistakes—it's the person who makes mistakes, acknowledges them, and figures out how to not repeat them." Naruto smiled slightly despite the tears gathering in his eyes. "He said that my generation would surpass his specifically because we'd learn from his mistakes and the mistakes of everyone who came before. That each generation should be better than the last, and if we weren't, then the older generation had failed in their teaching."

"He told me something similar when I was your age," Jiraiya said, his own voice rougher than usual. "Said that his greatest accomplishment wouldn't be anything he did himself—it would be training students who went on to exceed him. That legacy wasn't about personal achievement, it was about what you pass on to those who come after."

They were quiet again, but it was a different quality of silence than before. Not heavy with unspoken grief, but reflective—the kind of quiet that came from people thinking about shared memories and finding comfort in the fact that those memories were preserved in multiple people's minds rather than just one.

"You know what he told me about you?" Jiraiya said suddenly, a slight smile playing at his lips. "Years ago, when you were maybe six or seven and he asked me to be emergency backup guardian if anything ever happened to him."

"What?" Naruto leaned forward with interest.

"He said—" Jiraiya's smile widened, "—that you were simultaneously the most exhausting and most rewarding student he'd ever taught. That you could make him want to tear his hair out with frustration in one moment and then make him prouder than anything in his entire career in the next. He said you had your father's determination and your mother's spirit and that combined with your own particular brand of stubbornness, you were going to be either absolutely magnificent or absolutely catastrophic, and probably both depending on the day."

Despite everything, Naruto felt himself grinning. "He said that?"

"Word for word. And then he said that he wouldn't trade you for a hundred perfectly behaved, talented students because perfect students don't change the world. Difficult, passionate, determined students who refuse to quit even when everything tells them they should—those are the ones who become legends." Jiraiya met Naruto's eyes with complete sincerity. "He believed in you, kid. Not despite your difficulties, but including them. All of you—the demon, the stubbornness, the enthusiasm, the determination, everything—he believed it would all come together into something extraordinary."

The tears that had been gathering finally spilled over, but they weren't entirely grief anymore. They were mixture—grief and gratitude and the desperate wish that his grandfather could see him become whatever extraordinary thing he was supposed to be, mixed with the painful knowledge that he'd have to become it alone.

"I miss him so much," Naruto whispered. "I keep wanting to tell him things—about the training we did today, about catching you being a pervert, about this ramen—and then I remember I can't. He's gone and I can't show him anything ever again and it feels like there's this hole in my chest that nothing will fill."

"There is a hole," Jiraiya said gently. "And it won't fill—not completely, not ever. The people we love carve out spaces in our hearts, and when they're gone, those spaces stay empty. But kid—" his hand rested briefly on Naruto's shoulder, "—those empty spaces prove that the love was real. The hole exists because he mattered. And while he can't see you become extraordinary, the fact that you're working toward it anyway? The fact that you're continuing despite the grief? That honors him more than anything."

"How do you know?" The question came out small, vulnerable. "How do you know he'd be proud instead of disappointed? I stole a forbidden scroll. I got him killed. I'm the reason he had to use that technique and sacrifice his soul. How is any of that something to be proud of?"

"Because I knew Sarutobi-Sensei for forty years," Jiraiya said with absolute certainty. "And in all that time, I never once saw him disappointed in someone for making mistakes while trying their best. Angry, yes. Stern, definitely. But disappointed? That he reserved for people who stopped trying, who gave up, who let fear or laziness prevent them from living up to their potential. You're not giving up. You're here, eating ramen with me, talking about training and growth and becoming stronger. That's what he wanted for you. Not perfection—just persistence. Just the refusal to let tragedy define your entire existence."

Naruto wiped his eyes with his sleeve, leaving wet streaks on the fabric but not caring. "You sound like him. When you talk like that—about teaching and potential and all of it—you sound exactly like Grandpa."

"Well, he taught me too," Jiraiya said with a slight smile. "His philosophy is in my teaching whether I plan it or not. Can't spend years learning from someone without absorbing how they think. So in a way, when I teach you, I'm passing on what he taught me. His legacy continues through both of us."

The idea was comforting in ways Naruto couldn't quite articulate. That his grandfather's teachings wouldn't die with him, that the wisdom and patience and understanding would continue being passed down through students teaching students who taught their own students in an unbroken chain stretching back generations and forward into futures none of them would live to see.

They finished their ramen in comfortable quiet, the earlier grief still present but no longer crushing. Naruto felt wrung out emotionally, exhausted from crying and remembering and processing, but also lighter somehow. Like talking about his grandfather—really talking about him, not just the aching absence but the actual person and the memories they'd shared—had released pressure that had been building since the funeral.

"Thank you," Naruto said as they prepared to leave, bowing formally to Yuki who'd provided not just excellent ramen but quiet space for grief to be expressed.

"Come back if you're in town again," she said gruffly, but her eyes were kind. "And boy—" this directed at Naruto, "—grief is like good broth. Takes time to develop properly. Don't rush it. But don't let it consume everything else either. Balance. That's the secret to both cooking and living."

Outside, walking back toward the inn under a sky full of stars, Jiraiya suddenly said: "You know what would make your grandfather laugh? The fact that you caught me peeping. He'd find that absolutely hilarious. Would probably lecture me about setting a proper example while trying not to crack up."

Despite the emotional exhaustion, despite the grief still sitting heavy in his chest, Naruto found himself smiling. "He would. He'd do that thing where he'd try to look stern but you could tell he was fighting laughter. His mouth would twitch at the corners."

"Exactly!" Jiraiya grinned. "That's exactly what he'd do! And then he'd probably make some comment about how teaching you is karmic punishment for all my own youthful indiscretions, and I'd have to pretend to be offended while knowing he was absolutely right."

They walked in companionable silence for a bit, and Naruto realized something important: this felt familiar. Not the same as his grandfather—Jiraiya was louder, more inappropriate, more chaotic in ways Hiruzen had never been. But the underlying feeling of safety, of being with someone who saw him as more than just the Nine-Tails' container, of being allowed to be himself without constant judgment—that was familiar.

"Jiraiya?" Naruto said as they reached the inn. "Earlier you said this reminded me of eating ramen with Grandpa. You were right. Not exactly the same, but... similar enough that it doesn't hurt quite as much as I thought it would."

"Good," Jiraiya said simply. "That's healing, kid. Not forgetting—never forgetting. Just learning to remember without drowning in it. And for what it's worth—" his expression became uncharacteristically serious, "—I'm honored that you'd share those memories with me. Your grandfather was one of the best people I've ever known. Getting to hear about him through your eyes is a privilege."

That night, lying in his room at the inn, Naruto found himself able to think about his grandfather without immediately spiraling into crushing grief. The pain was still there—would probably always be there—but it was tempered now by memories of laughter and ramen and lessons learned. By the knowledge that his grandfather's legacy lived on not just in him but in the teaching lineage that connected them all.

And somewhere, in whatever came after death for those who'd sacrificed their souls to the Shinigami, Hiruzen Sarutobi might have smiled to know that his grandson was learning from his own former student, that the chain of teaching and growth and determination continued despite tragedy.

The river of time flowed on. And Naruto, carried by its current, found he could float rather than drown—at least for tonight, at least for now.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges. But tonight, he'd remembered that grief could coexist with joy, that loss didn't erase love, and that ramen shared with people who cared about you could be its own kind of healing.

It wasn't enough to fix everything. But it was a start. And sometimes, a start was all you needed.

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