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The annual Konoha Kindergarten Winter Fair was a bigger production than most off-Broadway shows. The gymnasium was a riot of colour and sound, filled with stalls manned by sleep-deprived, coffee-fueled guardians, all hawking handmade wares for a good cause. There were jars of preserves that gleamed like jewels, intricately painted wooden ornaments, and candles that smelled like a forest in winter.
And then, there was Naruto Uzumaki’s stall.
Naruto stood behind his small, slightly wobbly table, a stark contrast to the bustling confidence around him. On the pristine white tablecloth, looking profoundly lonely and a little sad, lay a single item which happened to be a scarf. Or, rather, the idea of a scarf.
It was a valiant attempt, knitted in a vibrant, sunny yellow yarn Naruto had chosen because it reminded him of his son’s energy. But the execution was… unique.
The scarf was uneven, sometimes so tight it curled in on itself, other times so loose it revealed gaping holes like little windows. One end was significantly wider than the other, and it was impossible to tell if the strange, bumpy texture was a design choice or a series of catastrophic knitting errors.
The critique had been delivered that morning, blunt and unforgiving, by the world’s harshest art critic. It was none other than his five-year-old son, Menma.
“Papa,” Menma had said, his small face serious as he examined the finished product Naruto had presented with pride. He’d poked the scarf with a tiny finger. “It doesn’t look good.”
The words had been a tiny, devastating arrow to Naruto’s heart. He’d spent the entire night creating it.
Sasuke had come home from a long day at his architecture firm to find the living room looking like a yarn bomb had detonated. Naruto was buried in a nest of yellow wool, his brow furrowed in concentration, fingers fumbling with the needles.
“What’s all this?” Sasuke had asked, shrugging off his coat.
“Winter Fair! Gotta make something!” Naruto had declared, his voice a mixture of enthusiasm and panic. “It’s for Menma’s class project!”
Sasuke had merely raised an eyebrow, a silent, eloquent comment on Naruto’s complete lack of crafting experience, and retreated to his home office.
Later, when Sasuke woke around 2 a.m. to use the washroom, a sliver of light still cut across the hallway from the living room. He’d peeked in. Naruto was still there, bathed in the lonely glow of the floor lamp. The scarf had grown, but so had the frustration surrounding it. Naruto was muttering curses under his breath, unraveling a section for what must have been the dozenth time, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
Sasuke watched for a moment, a pang of something soft and aching in his chest, before silently retreating. He knew better than to interrupt Naruto’s determined, if misguided, mission.
Now, in the bright, noisy gymnasium, that determination had curdled into pure dejection.
Hinata Hyūga, whose stall next to his featured exquisitely delicate lavender sachets and perfectly iced sugar cookies, glanced over with sympathetic eyes. “I-I think it looks good, N-Naruto-kun,” she offered gently, her voice like a balm.
Naruto gave a weak smile. “Thanks, Hinata. But we both know it looks like a yellow worm that got into a fight with a lawnmower and lost.” He sighed, a long, heavy sound. “Look at everyone else’s stuff. It’s all so… good. People are actually buying it. This?” He gestured miserably to his scarf. “No one’s gonna buy this ugly thing. It doesn’t matter. I just… I wanted to make something myself, you know?”
Menma, who had been given the important job of ‘assistant’ and was currently arranging and rearranging the single scarf on the table, just blinked up at his father, his earlier critique seemingly forgotten.
The sight of all the happy, successful parents and grandparents was too much. The cheerful ringing of the little bell every time a sale was made felt like a personal taunt.
“I’ll be right back,” Naruto mumbled to Hinata. “Just… need a minute.” He trudged off towards the boys’ washroom, leaving his pathetic stall under Hinata’s watchful care. He splashed cold water on his face, staring at his reflection in the mirror.
“It doesn’t look good.” Menma’s voice echoed in his head. He was a grown man, a successful journalist who’d faced down intimidating politicians, but his five-year-old’s honest appraisal had leveled him completely. When he returned a few minutes later, steeling himself for another hour of public humiliation, he stopped short. The table was different. Something was missing.
The scarf was gone.
The empty spot on the white tablecloth seemed to glow. Naruto blinked, sure he was seeing things. He looked at Hinata, who was smiling, a faint, pretty blush high on her cheeks.
“It sold, N-Naruto-kun!” she said, her voice a happy whisper.
Naruto’s brain short-circuited. “Sold? My scarf? The yellow… thing?”
Hinata nodded, gesturing to the small cash box. Inside, nestled among a few smaller bills, was a single, crisp fifty-dollar bill. The scarf had been priced at ten.
“There’s… there’s forty dollars extra in here,” Naruto said, completely bewildered.
“I know,” Hinata said, her blush deepening. “He insisted. H-He said… he said i-it was clearly a one-of-a-kind piece and was worth every p-penny.”
Naruto’s head snapped up. “He? Who? Who was it?”
Hinata’s eyes drifted towards the gym’s main entrance, a soft, almost secretive smile playing on her lips. “I-I don’t know him. A man. He was tall, with dark hair. He wore a black peacoat. He didn’t say m-much, just pointed to the scarf, asked the price, and then put the money in the box before I could even give him change. He picked it up, looked at it for a moment, and then just… l-left.” She chuckled softly, a melodic sound. “He was very decisive.”
Naruto stared at the money, then at the empty space on the table. A slow, disbelieving smile spread across his face, erasing the frustration and disappointment of the last 24 hours. Someone had bought it. Someone had not only bought his terrible, ugly, heartfelt scarf, but had overpaid for it. They’d called it a ‘one-of-a-kind piece.’
“Huh,” Naruto breathed, the sound full of wonder. “Actually? Someone really bought it?”
Across the gym, standing almost hidden in the shadow of the bleachers, Sasuke Uchiha watched the scene unfold. He saw the confusion on Naruto’s face, the way Hinata pointed, and finally, the radiant, relieved smile that broke out like sunshine through storm clouds. A small, satisfied smirk touched Sasuke’s own lips. Looped carelessly around his neck, tucked inside his expensive black coat, was the hideous, lumpy, sunshine-yellow scarf.
It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing he had ever owned.
---
The Uchiha-Uzumaki apartment that evening was filled with a warmth that had little to do with the central heating. The lingering scent of their dinner (takeout ramen, a celebratory choice) mingled with the comfortable, familiar smell of home.
Naruto, his earlier dejection completely forgotten, was a whirlwind of renewed energy, pacing the living room as Sasuke sat on the sofa, a glass of water in hand, ostensibly reading a report on his tablet.
“—and he just left the money, can you believe it? Fifty bucks! For my scarf!” Naruto was saying, his voice bright and animated. “I mean, I know it was probably out of pity. Had to be, right? Who in their right mind would actually want that thing?” He let out a hearty laugh, scratching the back of his head. “But hey, the school got a nice donation, and I don’t have to look at the evidence of my failure anymore. It’s a win-win!”
Sasuke didn’t look up from his tablet, the blue light glinting off his dark hair. He merely offered a noncommittal hum, the sound low and vibration.
“Hinata said the guy was tall, dark hair, wore a fancy black coat,” Naruto mused, collapsing onto the sofa next to Sasuke, making the cushions dip. “Sounds like a weirdo, if you ask me. Or maybe he was just really, really cold and desperate.” He nudged Sasuke with his elbow. “You didn’t see anyone like that, did you? Lurking around?”
Sasuke finally lifted his gaze, his expression as unreadable as ever. “No. I dropped Menma off and left. I had a conference call.”
“Right, right, your boring architect stuff,” Naruto waved a hand dismissively, though his eyes were fond. “Well, whoever he was, he saved my pride. I was ready to pack it in and fake a stomach ache.” He leaned his head against Sasuke’s shoulder, the burst of excitement finally ebbing into a contented exhaustion. “Menma’s gonna be happy the stall wasn’t a total bust, at least.”
Sasuke’s free hand came up to rest in Naruto’s spiky blond hair, his fingers giving a gentle scratch. “He’s five. He’s already forgotten about it.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Naruto murmured, his eyes drifting shut. “But I hadn’t.”
The next morning unfolded with the usual, comfortable chaos of a weekday. Naruto, a notoriously late sleeper, was still dead to the world, buried under a mountain of blankets. Sasuke, by contrast, was a creature of precise, silent routine. Dressed in a impeccably tailored charcoal grey suit, he moved through the kitchen, preparing his tea and gathering his things for the office.
The soft pattering of small feet announced Menma’s presence. The boy, his dark hair sticking up in a way that was a perfect, adorable mirror of his father’s, shuffled into the kitchen in his dinosaur pajamas.
“Papa’s still sleeping,” Menma stated, his voice still thick with sleep.
“Obviously,” Sasuke replied, his tone dry but not unkind. He finished sealing his titanium briefcase, the click of the latches sharp in the quiet room.
Menma padded closer, intending to give his morning goodbye. A quick, usually wordless hug before Sasuke departed. As he moved, his sharp, observant eyes, so like Sasuke’s own, caught a flash of colour. It was peeking out from the side pocket of his father’s briefcase, a pocket that wasn't fully zipped.
It was a vibrant, unmistakable, sunny yellow. And it had a weird, bumpy, lumpy texture.
Menma froze for a fraction of a second, his brain, a fascinating blend of Naruto’s blunt honesty and Sasuke’s sharp perception, processing the information. He saw the uneven stitches, the strange width variations.
It was the scarf. The scarf Papa had made. The scarf that "didn't look good." The scarf that the mysterious man in the black coat had bought.
And now it was in his other father’s briefcase.
His gaze flicked from the scarf to Sasuke’s face, which was turned away as he checked his phone for messages.
Menma, in that instant, made a decision. It was a decision that spoke of an innate, profound understanding that surpassed his five years. He didn’t point. He didn’t ask, "Papa, why do you have the ugly scarf?" He simply… accepted it. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Sasuke’s legs, burying his face in the fine wool of his trousers. “Bye, Papa.”
Sasuke looked down, his stern features softening almost imperceptibly. He ruffled Menma’s wild hair, his touch firm yet gentle. “Hn. Be good for your father.”
And that was that. Sasuke picked up his briefcase, the flash of yellow now hidden as the fabric settled, and walked out of the apartment, the door closing with a soft, final click.
Menma stood in the sudden quiet of the kitchen, a tiny, knowing smile touching his lips. He didn’t fully understand the ‘why,’ but he understood the ‘what.’ It was a secret. A secret between him and Papa Sasuke.
Down on the street, the crisp morning air bit at his cheeks. Sasuke walked towards the subway station, his briefcase swinging at his side. After a block, he stopped at a crosswalk. As he waited for the light to change, he unzipped the side pocket of his briefcase.
He pulled out the scarf.
The cold wind tugged at the loose threads. He looped it around his neck, the vibrant, chaotic yellow a stark, jarring contrast against his sophisticated grey suit and black overcoat. It was objectively ridiculous. It was clashing, poorly made, and drew several curious glances from passing commuters.
But as he tucked the ends into his coat, he felt the soft, slightly scratchy wool against his skin. He could smell the faint, lingering scent of Naruto’s cologne and the ramen from last night that had clung to the yarn during its long, frustrating creation.
It was a scent of love, of determination, of home. A small, genuine smile, one that would have stunned his colleagues, graced his lips.
He adjusted the scarf, making sure it was secure, and then stepped off the curb, striding confidently towards the day ahead, wrapped not in an ugly scarf, but in a tangible, wearable piece of his family’s unwavering, if sometimes clumsy, love.
-
The Uchiha Architects office was a temple of minimalist design, all clean lines, polished concrete, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking, sterile view of the city. It was a place where every object had a purpose and an aesthetic, a silent agreement amongst the staff that form and function must exist in perfect, uncluttered harmony.
Which was why Suigetsu Hōzuki, slouching in with a cardboard tray of overpriced coffees, did a full-body double-take so violent he nearly sloshed latte all over his shirt. His eyes, wide and disbelieving, locked onto the anomaly sitting at the large, reclaimed-wood desk in the corner office.
There, bathed in the cool morning light, was Sasuke Uchiha. His posture was, as always, impeccably erect. His suit was a masterpiece of tailoring. His expression was one of focused intensity as he scrutinized a set of blueprints on his large monitor.
And around his neck, clashing violently with the entire scene, was the single ugliest piece of apparel Suigetsu had ever seen.
It was a garish, sunshine yellow, a colour that seemed to scream in the quiet, monochrome room. It was lumpy, uneven, and one end was noticeably wider than the other, giving it a lopsided, almost drunken appearance. A few loose threads waved gently in the breeze from the ventilation system.
Suigetsu pushed the glass door to Sasuke’s office open, his usual smirk already spreading across his face. “Hey, boss-man. New look?” He plopped one of the coffees on a coaster on the desk, his eyes never leaving the scarf. “Seriously, what’s with the… uh… the scarf? Did you lose a bet with a colorblind knitting circle?” He leaned in, peering at the intricate mess of stitches. “Man, that is… something else. It looks like a stressed-out bumblebee tried to build a nest and gave up halfway through.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Sasuke’s fingers, which had been poised over his keyboard, stilled. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his gaze from the screen. His dark eyes, usually just sharp and assessing, were now narrowed, glinting with a dangerous, icy fire that Suigetsu knew all too well. It was the look that made junior architects flee to the breakroom.
The glare was pure, undiluted Uchiha venom.
“Naruto,” Sasuke said, his voice low and flat, each syllable dropping into the silence like a shard of ice. “Made it.”
The two words hung in the air, and Suigetsu’s brain, with the speed of a system facing a catastrophic error, finally processed the connection. The Fair. Naruto’s frantic, all-night crafting session that Karin had gossiped about. The mysterious buyer Hinata had described. The fifty dollars.
His smirk vanished, replaced by a pallor of genuine panic. His eyes darted from the murderous glare on Sasuke’s face to the hideous, beloved scarf and back again. He had not just stepped over a line; he had vaulted over it with a running start and blown a raspberry on the other side.
“Oh,” Suigetsu squeaked, the sound embarrassingly high-pitched. He took a hasty step back, his hands coming up in a placating gesture. “Oh! Wow! Naruto! Of course! I, uh… I see it now!” He forced a loud, nervous laugh that echoed in the tense space. “Haha! I was just joking! It’s… it’s got character! A real… handmade vibe, you know? You can really feel the, uh… the love. Yeah! It’s made with love! Lots of it!”
He gestured wildly at the scarf, as if trying to physically manifest the ‘love’ he was suddenly championing. “The colour is so… vibrant! Energetic! Just like him! And the… the unique texture… it’s clearly a bespoke design. One-of-a-kind. Very avant-garde.”
Sasuke said nothing. He simply continued to stare, his expression unchanging, letting Suigetsu squirm in the pit he had dug for himself.
“Right,” Suigetsu mumbled, his bravado completely deflated. He edged towards the door. “Well. I’ll just… leave you to it. The blueprints for the Mitoshi project are on the server. Great scarf, boss. Really. A statement piece.” He practically fled the office, pulling the door shut with a soft, definitive click behind him.
Alone again, the silence settled back over the room. Sasuke’s glare slowly faded, his features smoothing back into their usual neutral mask. He looked down at the scarf, his fingers reaching up to touch one of the lumpy, misshapen sections Suigetsu had so eloquently mocked.
A statement piece, indeed.
He gave a soft, almost inaudible “Hn,” of agreement. It was a statement. A declaration, worn boldly around his neck for the entire world to see. It said that the impeccable, untouchable Sasuke Uchiha was, in fact, touchable. It said that his heart belonged to a man who would stay up all night knitting a terrible, wonderful, sunshine-yellow scarf for their son’ school fair.
He turned back to his blueprints, the crisp lines and perfect angles a world away from the chaotic warmth around his neck.
And for the rest of the day, whenever he caught a glimpse of the yellow wool in his peripheral vision or felt its slightly scratchy embrace, a profound, unshakeable sense of rightness settled deep within him. It was, without a doubt, the most perfect piece of his entire wardrobe.
---
The soft click of the apartment door was a familiar evening melody. Naruto, who had been wrestling a giggling Menma into a pair of dinosaur-print pajamas, looked up as Sasuke stepped inside.
The architect looked weary, the day’s pressures etched into the slight tightness around his eyes and the deliberate slowness of his movements. He placed his briefcase by the genkan with a quiet thud.
“Welcome back,” Naruto said, his voice warm. Menma wriggled free and launched himself at Sasuke’s legs for a moment before darting off to his room. Sasuke merely gave a tired nod, shrugging off his heavy overcoat.
“Long one, huh?” Naruto moved to him, his hands automatically coming up to help. He eased the tailored blazer from Sasuke’s shoulders, feeling the tension in the fabric and the muscles beneath. “I’ve got the bath ready for you. Go on, freshen up. I’ll get Menma settled with a book and I’ll join you soon.”
A soft, appreciative hum was his only answer. Sasuke’s hand brushed against Naruto’s as he took the blazer to hang it up, a fleeting touch of skin that spoke volumes in its quiet familiarity. Then, he turned and walked down the hall towards the bathroom, the sound of the door closing and the lock turning soon following.
Naruto smiled to himself, a fond, tender expression. He bent down to pick up Sasuke’s briefcase, intending to move it to his office to keep it out of Menma’s path. But his fingers, still a little clumsy from the playful tussle with their son, fumbled. The briefcase slipped from his grasp and hit the wooden floor with a dull clatter.
“Dammit,” Naruto muttered under his breath, cursing his own clumsiness. He knelt to gather it, checking for any damage.
That’s when he saw it.
The force of the fall had jostled the contents of the main compartment, and the zipper on the side pocket had come partially undone. Peeking out from the dark interior was a flash of colour.
A vibrant, unmistakable, sunny yellow.
Naruto’s breath hitched. His heart gave a single, hard thump against his ribs. Slowly, almost afraid it was a trick of the light, he reached out and hooked a finger around the edge of the fabric. He pulled.
There, cradled in his hands in the middle of their quiet hallway, was the scarf. His scarf. The one he had poured a whole night of frustration and love into. The one Menma had declared ‘not good.’ The one he was sure had been sold out of pity to a mysterious, tall stranger in a black coat.
The evidence was irrefutable, tactile and real. The uneven stitches, the gaping holes he’d failed to fix, the way one end flared out like a clumsy flower petal. It was all here. And it had been in Sasuke’s briefcase all day.
The pieces clicked into place with the gentle finality of a lock turning. Hinata’s blushing, secretive smile. The ‘tall, dark-haired man’ she ‘didn’t know.’ The fifty dollars left without change. It wasn’t a stranger. It was Sasuke. His Sasuke. He had seen Naruto’s disappointment, had orchestrated the entire rescue mission, and had sworn Hinata to secrecy, all to save Naruto’s pride.
Naruto’s initial shock melted away, replaced by a warmth that started deep in his chest and spread outwards, flushing his skin and making his heart flutter wildly. He brought the scarf to his face, inhaling deeply.
Beneath the faint, clean scent of Sasuke’s office and his cologne, Naruto could still smell it. The lingering aroma of ramen broth and his own citrusy deodorant, the ghost of that long, determined night woven into the very fibers.
A wide, tremulous smile broke across his face, his eyes stinging with the threat of happy tears.
All the silent gestures, the quiet hums, the unspoken understandings... this was Sasuke’s language. He didn’t proclaim his love from the rooftops. He didn’t weave flowery words. He wore a hideous, lumpy scarf to his prestigious office without a hint of shame. He fought Naruto’s battles in the shadows, ensuring his husband’s smile was never extinguished for long.
This was his love letter. Written not in ink, but in clumsy stitches of yellow wool.
From down the hall, he heard the bathwater slosh gently. The moment was private, sacred.
With the utmost care, Naruto folded the scarf, his movements now full of a reverent tenderness he hadn’t possessed while making it. He tucked it back into the side pocket of the briefcase, zipping it securely shut. He placed the case carefully by Sasuke’s office door, exactly as it had been.
He stood up, his heart feeling too big for his chest, full to bursting with a love so profound it was almost painful.
Wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, he schooled his expression into one of casual calm. He walked towards the bathroom, the steam seeping out from under the door smelling of Sasuke’s preferred sandalwood soap. He didn’t need to say anything. He would never let Sasuke know he’d discovered the secret.
Some truths were too precious for words. They were meant to be felt, to be held close to the heart, just like a soft, imperfect, sunshine-yellow scarf.
The bathroom was a sanctuary, thick with steam that carried the earthy, calming scent of sandalwood. The large, deep-soaking tub was their nightly refuge, a place where the day's sharp edges were softened by the warm, enveloping water.
Naruto slipped into the tub with a contented sigh, the water sloshing gently against the porcelain sides. He didn't ask for permission; he simply settled into his accustomed place, leaning back until his spine was flush against Sasuke's chest.
Sasuke, who had been leaning his head back against the rim with his eyes closed, didn't startle. His arms, resting on the edges of the tub, simply adjusted, his hands coming to rest naturally on Naruto's hips beneath the water, a warm, steadying weight.
It was a perfect fit. Naruto could feel the slow, steady thump of Sasuke's heartbeat against his back, a rhythm more familiar and comforting than his own. The day's fatigue began to leach out of his muscles, dissolving into the fragrant water.
Sasuke’s voice, a low murmur that vibrated through his chest into Naruto’s back, broke the comfortable silence. “What is Menma doing?”
Naruto smiled, tilting his head back to rest on Sasuke’s shoulder. He could see the sharp line of his husband’s jaw from this angle. “Finishing up that drawing for his homework. The one about ‘what makes a family.’ He’s drawing three stick figures with crazy hair under a rainbow. It’s perfect.”
A soft, acknowledging hum was Sasuke’s reply. The sound rumbled through Naruto, a physical manifestation of contentment. His thumbs began to move in slow, absent circles on Naruto’s hip bones.
Naruto closed his eyes, letting the sensation wash over him. The warmth of the water, the solidity of Sasuke behind him, the gentle caress of his hands. The image of the yellow scarf, safely tucked away in the briefcase, bloomed again in his mind’s eye, but he didn't feel the need to speak of it.
The secret was a sweet, glowing ember in his heart, warming him from the inside out. Confronting Sasuke would have been like trying to capture moonlight in his hands... it would destroy the delicate, beautiful magic of the gesture.
Sasuke’s love wasn't in grand declarations. It was in this. It was in the way his body instinctively curved to cradle Naruto’s. It was in the way he asked about their son’s mundane homework. It was in the silent, stubborn act of wearing a terrible scarf to his high-powered job because it was a piece of the man he loved.
Naruto shifted slightly, turning his head to nuzzle into the side of Sasuke’s neck, pressing a soft, lingering kiss just below his jaw. He felt Sasuke’s breath hitch, a tiny, almost imperceptible reaction that Naruto had learned to recognize over the years. It was his version of a gasp.
“Tired?” Naruto whispered against his skin.
Sasuke’s arms tightened around him, pulling him just a fraction closer. “Hn.”
It wasn't a yes or a no. It was an admission of letting his guard down, of being exactly where he wanted to be. They stayed like that for a long time, as the steam curled towards the ceiling and the water slowly cooled.
There were no more words needed. The language they spoke in this space was one of shared breath, synchronized heartbeats, and the profound, unshakable peace of two souls who had built a home not just with walls, but with silent, steadfast acts of devotion.
Naruto was just glad, impossibly and completely, wrapped in a love that asked for nothing and gave him everything.
The steam had begun to thin, the water around them losing its initial scalding heat and settling into a perfect, soothing warmth.
Naruto felt boneless, every worry and tension of the day dissolved away by the water and the solid, reassuring presence at his back. Sasuke’s breathing was even, his chin resting lightly on top of Naruto’s head, his hands still drawing lazy, possessive circles on his skin.
In the quiet, with his heart so full it felt like it might glow through his ribs, the words slipped out. They were soft, murmured into the crook of Sasuke’s neck, more a breath than a statement, but utterly sincere.
“I love you, you know.”
He felt the subtle shift in Sasuke’s muscles, the almost imperceptible tensing that always preceded one of his rare, unguarded reactions.
Naruto tilted his head back, his bright blue eyes meeting Sasuke’s dark, bottomless ones. He saw the flicker there. Not of surprise, but of something deeper, something raw and acknowledged. Then, Naruto closed the small distance between them and pressed his lips to Sasuke’s.
It wasn’t a demanding kiss, nor was it particularly chaste. It was a seal. A confirmation. A translation of all the feelings words could never fully capture for them.
For a moment, Sasuke was still, and then, with a quiet, surrendering sigh that breathed directly into Naruto’s mouth, he kissed him back. His hands came up, one cupping the back of Naruto’s damp head, the other splaying across his jaw, his thumb stroking his cheek.
The kiss deepened, slow and profound, speaking of years and battles and a shared life built from the ground up. It tasted of trust, of home, of the sandalwood soap and the unique, essential flavor that was simply Sasuke.
When Naruto finally pulled back, it was only by an inch, just enough to breathe. A grin spread across his face, wide and brilliant, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
It was that stupid, bright, sun-after-a-storm grin that held not an ounce of guile, the one that had, against all odds and reason, first chipped a crack in the fortress around Sasuke Uchiha’s heart all those years ago.
Sasuke looked at that grin, at the man who embodied it, and the last of his defenses melted away. The intensity in his gaze softened into something tender and exasperated all at once. He clicked his tongue softly against the roof of his mouth. “Tch,” he breathed, the sound full of a feigned annoyance that fooled no one. “Usuratonkachi.”
Stupid.
Naruto’s grin only widened, his eyes sparkling with pure, unadulterated joy. He leaned forward, bumping his forehead gently against Sasuke’s in a gesture that was uniquely, intimately theirs. “Teme,” he retorted, his voice a happy, affectionate whisper.
And in that single, familiar insult, exchanged in a steam-filled bathroom, lay their entire history. It was a promise, a reminder, and the simplest, most profound truth they knew.
They were rivals, partners, husbands, fathers.
They were each other’s idiot.
And they were, beyond any shadow of a doubt, desperately in love.
The End.