Sasuke didn't let go of Naruto's hand, not even as the silence settled over the kitchen. Instead, he led the way back through the immaculate living room, the two of them moving in lockstep—Naruto's socked feet sliding across the smooth wood, Sasuke's steps measured and silent. The city stretched out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but inside, the world was pared down to glass and brushed steel, the only color coming from the slow, nervous flush that bloomed across Naruto's cheekbones.
Sasuke's apartment had the exact aesthetic one would expect from a man who, as a teenager, once reorganized his entire closet by thread count: the living area was all hard-edged lines and neutral tones, every surface wiped clean, every cushion placed at a precise angle. The only sign of actual human habitation was a navy jacket draped over the arm of the sofa, a subtle concession to comfort amid the fortress of order.
Sasuke looked at him then, really looked, and Naruto felt the force of it all the way to his toes. "Want the tour?" Sasuke asked, voice neutral.
Naruto shrugged, but his pulse was suddenly doing jumping jacks in his throat. "Yeah. Sure. Why not?"
Sasuke didn't wait for further consent. He turned on his heel and motioned for Naruto to follow. They wound through a brief, sterile hallway—white walls, black trim, a single framed print of a torii gate in the snow—and arrived at a door that Sasuke opened with the carefulness of a man unveiling something precious.
Naruto stepped inside, and the world changed. Gone was the minimalism, the controlled austerity. The study was saturated with warmth—walls paneled in deep, honeyed wood, shelves heavy with books in every possible arrangement: upright, stacked, some leaning against odd bits of pottery or framed photographs. A battered brown leather chair sat beside a small, ancient-looking desk, and a brass lamp cast a pool of golden light over the whole tableau.
Naruto stepped further in, running a hand over the spines of the books, fingers lingering on the battered edges and faded titles. "Jesus, you read all these?"
Sasuke didn't answer. Instead, he gestured toward the far wall, where a break in the shelving revealed a cluster of framed photos: a family portrait, the kind you get at a department store, all stiff posture and forced smiles. There was Sasuke, maybe eleven or twelve, standing rigid beside an older boy with the same eyes but a softer expression. Their parents, unsmiling and severe, flanked them on either side.
Naruto drifted closer, drawn by curiosity and the memory of stories he'd only ever half-believed. "Is that Itachi?" he asked, pointing to the older boy.
Sasuke nodded, and for the first time since entering the apartment, he looked vulnerable.
Naruto reached for the photo, then thought better of it. Instead, he focused on the shelf below, where a row of books—uniformly pristine, dust jackets perfectly intact—stood out against the more chaotic sprawl around them. The titles were familiar. Too familiar.
He froze.
There, side by side, were every single one of his books. The first printing of his debut novel, with the embarrassing typo on the back cover. The short story collection from his self-publishing phase, spine creased and corners bent. The essay anthology he'd only contributed to as a favor to Jiraiya. There were even a couple of zines and chapbooks he'd produced in college, covers Xeroxed and stapled by hand.
Naruto stared, jaw slack. "What the—? Where did you even find these?"
Sasuke gave a small, almost-smile. "Amazon. Some of the smaller presses. Money helps."
Naruto reached for one of the books, hands shaking slightly. He opened the cover, and his own scrawled signature stared back at him from the inside flap. Beneath it, in faint pencil, someone—Sasuke, he guessed—had written the date and location of the signing event.
He put the book back on the shelf, then pulled out another: the limited-run chapbook from his senior year of college. He was sure no one but his mother had ever bought a copy. He flipped to a random page, and found it littered with neat, tiny notes in the margins: corrections, questions, an occasional "ha." The effect was dizzying.
He looked back at Sasuke, who stood in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, watching him with a mix of pride and something more dangerous.
"I didn't think anyone read this one," Naruto said, voice low. He thumbed through the pages, eyes tracing the underlines and annotations. "I wrote it for a class I almost failed."
"I liked it," Sasuke said, and his voice was as soft as Naruto had ever heard it. "The ending was… honest."
Naruto snorted. "You always did have a thing for sad stories."
Sasuke shrugged.
Naruto closed the chapbook and slid it back into place. He took a step back, surveyed the entire shelf. It hit him then—the physical proof that even at his most alone, some part of him had always lived here, in this room, waiting to be found.
His chest felt tight. He blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears gain any ground. "Why would you keep all of these?" he managed, half a laugh, half a plea.
Sasuke didn't answer right away. He crossed the room, standing shoulder to shoulder with Naruto, then reached out to adjust a book that had gone slightly askew. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper. "Because you wrote them."
It was the simplest answer in the world, and it nearly undid Naruto. He laughed, too loud, a trembling exhale that rattled the glass panes in the lamp. "You're so fucking sentimental," he said, wiping at his eyes.
Sasuke didn't deny it. "You make it difficult not to be."
Naruto stared at the shelf, at the evidence of every year they'd spent apart, and felt the old anger and hurt swirl inside him—only now it was joined by something softer, something like forgiveness.
Naruto barely registered the movement. One moment, he stood suspended in the warmth of Sasuke's study, the next he had seized Sasuke by the collar and dragged him into a kiss that was all teeth, hunger, and the wild, half-panic exhilaration of doing something he'd spent half his life fantasizing about and the other half desperately denying.
Sasuke stiffened, just for a split second, surprised by the violence of it—but then he melted, arms coming up to trap Naruto at the small of his back, tugging their bodies together until chest met chest and hips slotted like a lock and key. The sensation was dizzying: the press of Sasuke's mouth, soft and urgent; the rake of his fingers, tracing the contour of Naruto's spine; the heady rush of being wanted, reciprocated, not just allowed but devoured.
The impact drove them back against the bookshelves. Something tumbled—Naruto's chapbook, probably—and bounced off the carpet, but neither of them cared. Naruto clung tighter, needing to memorize the taste and texture of Sasuke's lips before he could convince himself any of this was real. Sasuke answered in kind, hands gripping hard, then soft, then hard again, as if he, too, feared this was a dream that might crack if handled too gently.
They broke apart, barely, just enough for air. Naruto blinked up into Sasuke's eyes, caught between disbelief and euphoria. Sasuke's cheeks were pink, pupils blown wide, the mask of composure shattered in a way Naruto had only ever glimpsed in late-night arguments and drunken confessions years ago.
"Are you sure?" Sasuke whispered, voice raw enough to cut glass.
Naruto could only nod, incapable of words. Instead, he captured Sasuke's mouth again, softer this time but no less desperate. He mapped Sasuke's jaw with his hands, memorized the way the dark hair curled at the nape of his neck, inhaled the faint, impossible scent of cedar and expensive shampoo.
Sasuke laughed against his lips—an honest, unguarded sound that Naruto hadn't realized he'd missed so much. "You're such a dobe," Sasuke murmured, but the words trembled, undercut with awe.
"Shut up," Naruto mumbled back, kissing the corner of Sasuke's mouth, then his cheek, then the pulse that hammered at the side of his throat.
Sasuke leaned in, slower this time. Their lips met, softer now, the kiss drawn out until Naruto felt himself begin to shake. Sasuke's tongue flicked over his lower lip, coaxing it open, and when Naruto responded, Sasuke deepened the kiss until every inch of him seemed to buzz with electricity.
Naruto's hands slid beneath the hem of Sasuke's sweater, palms flat against bare skin. Sasuke shivered, hissed through his teeth, and retaliated by running his own hands up Naruto's ribcage, fingers splaying over his heart. Each touch was equal parts exploration and reclamation—old territory, newly mapped, every scar and callus greeted like a lost friend.
The air in the study grew thick, charged with the promise of more. Books shifted behind them, a stack threatened to topple, but neither man cared. Naruto arched up, pressing his chest to Sasuke's, and Sasuke responded in kind, grinding down with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that made Naruto's vision go white at the edges.
"God, you're—" Naruto managed, but the sentence never finished. Sasuke silenced him with a hand to the jaw, firm and grounding.
"I know," Sasuke said, and there was that smirk again—the one that used to infuriate Naruto but now made his pulse trip over itself.
They lingered, tangled and breathless, until Sasuke finally pulled back just enough to look Naruto full in the face. His eyes glittered, so open and raw that Naruto almost looked away.
"This isn't like last time," Sasuke said. "I want you to remember everything."
Naruto grinned, wide and reckless. "I'm not drunk, if that's what you're worried about."
Sasuke rolled his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eased. He offered a hand, and when Naruto took it, Sasuke led him out of the study with a certainty that brooked no refusal.