He has a ridiculous urge to run outside and dance in the rain. It drums against the windows like falling conkers and he can see himself there, feeling numb and new, swinging off lampposts in trousers wet to the knee. A one-man tango, among mirror puddles and windscreen wipers, he'd be whole, he's sure.
"Hello?" Naruto's head snaps up, broken thoughts shifting. The customer taps his fingers on the counter, they're long and pretty—piano-playing fingers—no dirt beneath the nails. The blond snatches one last look at that cloud-dulled sky, imagines socks squelching in lace-up shoes, and becomes himself.
"Yes?" He replies, uninspired. The suit has a newspaper tucked under his arm and glinting cufflinks on his shirt. Dark, soulless eyes. A funeral waiting to happen.
There's a pause; awkward tendrils reaching between them. "Black coffee, no sugar."
The money's in his hand before Naruto can ring up the amount on the till.
Which is why, the next morning, he's surprised to see him again, hair drowned and dripping. A wistful expression. "Sasuke," the stranger confesses—as if he's sinned—and takes the cardboard cup without a word more. No expensive watch, no black umbrella. Naruto stares after his back and doesn't quite know what to think about it. He wipes down the plastic wood-effect tables hours later, still wondering about bitter beverages and a pavement quickstep.
He might be made of glass, he's so cold, as their palms brush briefly on the third day, and Naruto has an irrational fear of shattering him by the seventh. It seems stupidly easy, though, to take that delicate wrist in one hand and splinter the bone, cracks spider-webbing their way beneath a pinstriped sleeve.
There's a smile for Sasuke, now, that comes with the coffee. Unreciprocated.
He leaves a book, Wednesday. Naruto watches him curiously as he serves a teenaged girl (grande soy vanilla chai), perched on a cushioned chair, peeling a satsuma into one dimpled swirl. The barrista takes it home with him, the paperback, even though he's probably not supposed to. The Kite Runner. By the orange light of a small bedside lamp, he reads, duvet huddled around his waist, learning page by page about gut-wrenching shame. It's some obscure midnight hour when he finishes, and his sleep is riddled with sadness.
At eight am, sliding it back over the counter, he says simply "The rape was a bit shitty," and Sasuke laughs, covering his mouth with his hand in obscure Asian modesty. Naruto likes the sound. There's a promise of another; and the lingering something-or-other in Sasuke's eyes has yet to be identified. Like an oil-slick rainbow, shining silver flecks around the pupils. He has the longest eyelashes Naruto has ever seen.
They kiss over the cover of A Thousand Splendid Suns, and the blond's heart aches. It took them both by surprise, when he leans over, hindered by the table, mouths pressed together for a few sweet seconds. Sasuke blinks—once, twice—knocking the menu askew and then their tongues tangle.
Weeks skip by without a beat; water trickles down the double glazing of Sasuke's living room. It's fastidiously tidy and monochrome minimalist; Naruto feels out of place amongst the glass and stainless steel. He shifts nervously on the leather sofa while Sasuke makes tea. There's a tray and a teapot, and he doesn't belong.
The liquid burns as he gulps it down and there's an uncouth clatter as he sets the china teacup on the saucer, standing to leave, goodbye. The one-way eyes widen, a hand clutches at his shoulder.
"Don't go," is whispered into his neck, a command. His T-shirt is pulled over his head and his jeans are pooled at his ankles. They're joined: lips, chests, hips, in a clash of teeth and frenzied passion. Sasuke, Sasuke, muttering half-formed words, beautiful incoherency, clawing at Naruto's back with those pianist's fingers. Back arched with a sigh.
He wakes up on the cold side of the bed, mouth open on a drool-streaked pillow.
"Hello." A man murmurs, stroking his hair like feathers.