Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto, nor am I making money our of writing this. This applies to all chapters.
Warnings: YAOI; SasuNaru, bad language, unorthodox methods, sexual activities, sexual harassments, fluff, bullying, minor character death. More perverted than the sister-story. Soccer!Sasuke, Artist!Sasuke.
Genre: This is a romantic drama, like most of my things. I've tried to be as romantic and sensual as possible.
Summary: Uchiha Sasuke, popular jock with a knack for drawing, attends Konoha's prestigious high school without a care for anyone else. He never thought that his life would come to a change because of a ballet dancer by the name Uzumaki Naruto.
IMPORTANT: This is a story written in third person: about Sasuke's life. There is a sister-story to this! It is named Untouched: The Cross of Change. It's also written in third person: about Naruto's life.
And you're probably thinking, "what about D&G and U11?" But I have plans for those as well :D Make sure to comment if you want more of this!
Untouched: The Persistence of Loss
Written by Venerate
Prologue
Where Uchiha Sasuke lived, it was cold. An icy silence hung in the air, making it hard for a seven-year-old to play. The silence was to remain, and Sasuke had to be quiet. His older brother would look after him during the afternoons, when their parents were working.
He could read books, he could write, he could sleep. It was silent. It was okay. He was allowed to go outside and play, if the nanny found the weather suitable. Though, most of all, Sasuke liked to draw. He used colourful finger paint; he used crayons; he used watercolours. He liked to draw animals – cats, dogs and horses. He liked to draw humans – superheroes and princesses.
Itachi noticed this. He came home to take care of his brother, and saw those drawings. Nothing compared to what his artistic friends could do, but very good for a seven-year-old. Of course, Itachi had to tell his father about this. Uchiha Fugaku would be very pleased to know of Sasuke's talent.
He was pleased; Fugaku immediately grasped this. If his son had a talent, then Sasuke would get the opportunity to practice it. He expected nothing but flawlessness from his sons. He also knew that a famous artist within the family would do the clan well. An artist's name could last forever. Being an artist was innocent, respectable.
Uchiha Mikoto, Fugaku's wife, was very pleased to see a creative string in her youngest child. She wanted, as her husband, to give Sasuke the opportunity to carry out his potential. She found that her eldest son had gotten everything, while Sasuke had been shunned by Fugaku. Now, she was happy to see her husband's interest in Sasuke.
Sasuke was very happy. Happy that his father suddenly cared for him, for his biggest hobby. For once, his father seemed to be interested in him. For once, his older brother wasn't the one holding his father's attention. For once, Sasuke was given a chance.
Of course, he would use that chance. He knew, even as a seven-year-old, that there might not be anymore chances for him to fight his way into his father's heart. Immediately, his life came to circle around art.
Crayons and finger paint were soon forgotten, and he was forced to leave that stage of his childhood. To grasp something greater, his teachers said. He had several teachers, all trying to prop his head full with art history, art techniques, art supplies. How to use it; how to do it; how to draw it.
As Sasuke grew, his passion remained. A year after the start of his classes, he still wanted to do this. He was a stubborn child. His love for drawing bodies and faces increased – he drew anyone in his presence; his long-haired brother, his beautiful mother, his wrinkly aunt and even his cousin's girlfriend.
When he was nine years old, Fugaku told him to 'stop this nonsense.'
No more faces, no more bodies – no more portraits. No one got famous by drawing just portraits. If he wanted to live up to the clan's expectations, he would drop it. He would pick up something else, something memorable. Wide and modern – mainstream and well-known to the crowd. 'Play the safe card. Become someone.'
Think Picasso, his grandmother said. Think Monet, his uncle offered. Think Derain, his cousin's girlfriend said. Think Cezanne, his father's friend suggested.
It really was a shame that no one said: 'Think you.'
To Be Continued