Naruto knew where he was—by sound, by scent, by creeping cold—and that he was safe—from everything except the one he feared most.
He drifted in and out of sharp-clear-pain and floating detachment, and lessons learnt early and well kept him still. Someone was helping him, and they were gentle and didn't make anything hurt more or leave him all alone and he didn't want any of that to change so he worked very very hard at being silent. Silent, and still, unless they wanted him to move. Then he did his very best to comply. He was going to do everything they asked. He was going to be good. He was going to be so good.
(Dad, he thought, Dad is holding me, Dad is here with me, Dad will save me— and then tried not to dream that dream because he was hurting enough, but he also wanted to hold onto it, to dream it as hard as he could, it even smelled like Dad and he hadn't been sure what Dad smelled like—)
"Please drink, just a little, you don't have to drink a lot—do your best to swallow, okay? Well done. You're doing so well, Naruto. I'm putting some tablets on your tongue now, they'll help with the pain—there, there you go, you're doing so well, Naruto—"
He dreamed of colors and pain and then Dad was in his dreams again. Wanted him to sit up. It hurt. He didn't know why dream-Dad needed him to sit up.
He sat up (let the arms pull him up). Didn't make a sound.
Be quiet. Pain ends. Be quiet. It will end faster.
He dreamed of Yugito. Or Yugito was there, but he wasn't lying in his spot like he had been. They were training. She hit his shoulder, his side, kept hitting his side. She was so angry. Because she was dead. It was a wooden training staff, not sharp, but the pain—the pain was sharp—
And he was in his corner again, no Yugito no training time and dream-Dad was making him move again. Sit up and—and lean on him, so he could feel the dream's chest rising and falling behind him, feel the little crack and pull of agony in his ribs with each breath—his breath, Dad's breath.
"It hurts, I know it hurts," Naruto's dream-Dad said. He sounded so sorry. So soft. "We need you upright in case there's fluid in your lungs. If there's anything in your lungs, we need you sitting up, so it can drain, and you're doing so good, Naruto, just a few more minutes..."
Dream-Dad said other things, too, but Naruto was thinking about how warm he was, how much better he felt with Dad's breaths bumping against his breaths. He didn't hurt less, didn't fear less, but it was so warm. If this was his messed-up head's new way of coping with being alone, he was okay with it.
When dream-Dad moved to ease him down again, Naruto panicked. Almost made sound. One hand did scrabble up, reach an arm and hold it tight, tight and warm across his chest. Then his brain caught up and he went as still as he could go. Didn't breathe. There was someone—someone being gentle with him, and patient (Yugito? It was usually Yugito—) and he grabbed them and—that wasn't okay, that wasn't appropriate. They would hit him. And then they would leave him.
He pulled his hand away slowly, unwinding numb fingers one by one. Ducked his head in apology. Waited for the cold to swallow up everything warm.
"Hey, I've got you," Dad said. Maybe no one was holding him after all. "We can stay like this. We can stay just like this. It's okay. It's okay, Naruto."
So—so—he was still dreaming. If dream-Dad was here, maybe he hadn't done anything wrong. Maybe he was alone. Maybe he could dream a little longer. Stay warm a little longer.
Daring, dreaming, barely breathing, he reached up again.
Held on.
In the dream, Dad started to hum. He could feel it. Recognized it. He felt—felt the stiffness in toes—then hips—then shoulders, neck, head go quiet, aching, tender. Felt the control that made all the little muscles in his face into a careful mask slip away. Felt air suck in deeper, pressing agony into his ribs but the oxygen still felt good and if it shuddered a little on the way out—he was safe. He was dreaming.
"Breathe, breathe," murmured the dream. "I've got you. I've got you, Naruto." There was a pause. And then there was the humming. The same melody, over and over, tired, safe, gentle.
Dad's voice and Dad's warmth in a song his inside-everything knew. He would be extra hollow, when he woke up, and remembered that the cost of filling emptiness with wishing was too much. Always too much.
That would happen. Right now, the humming he dreamed vibrated in the throat above his cheek, and the chest he leaned his head against was warm, and the arms around his shoulders were strong.
He wouldn't dream forever. Pain would wake him.
Pain. He was in a lot of pain. But he could feel Dad, holding him, saving him—it was only a dream, but—he was selfish. He was foolish. He'd dream while he could.
.
VlolV
.
Every two hours, Minato made Naruto sit up, take small sips of the electrolyte mix he'd found in the first aid kit, and stay upright for enough minutes that any fluid possibly pooling in his lungs had a chance to drain. He expected—groans and complaints, or half-delirious obstinacy, or outright hostility, or—anything but the tightly controlled silence and compliance he got. Naruto didn't seem to be entirely conscious; he was a selective sort of responsive that doubled the chill itching up Minato's spine. He followed requests and allowed every touch and tried very hard to swallow even when Minato could see his adam's apple jumping with a barely suppressed gag reflex. He didn't make any sounds of pain. Didn't make any sounds at all. Once or twice, Minato felt cracked-open eyes watching him.
"Hey, hey, kiddo," he soothed, even if it was really only comforting himself. "You're doing great, you're being so brave, you must—it must be hurting so much—I got you, it's okay, I got you..." again and again, until it was probably safe to let Naruto lie down again, and he'd ease him centimeter-by-centimere with shaking hands and whatever hopefully-comforting words made it out of his mouth ended up being apologies instead.
He hated letting go. Hated moving back enough to give Naruto space. He watched the way the boy's face stayed stiff, like every muscle was under tight command to betray nothing at all, and moved back anyway. If he sat where Naruto couldn't see him when his eyes cracked open, couldn't feel the heat of his body or hear him breathe, those lines eased—just a bit, just enough for Naruto's lips to open, his breath become a little more ragged, and sometimes fingers would come up, press cautiously at a wounded side. The inside of Minato's cheeks bled and his fists ached but his brain catalogued times and symptoms and tried very hard to come up with more logic than anxiety.
Fear is not my friend.
On his third time sitting Naruto up, he dared to slip ibuprofen tablets onto his son's tongue before offering the electrolyte drink. Naruto swallowed. By the time Minato shifted into position to ease Naruto's body upright again, he looked—better. Less like a plaster mold of his own face. Minato shifted them both through the careful choreography of lifting-holding-balancing-bracing, ending with him sitting with Naruto's back against his front. He lifted the arm wrapped around the top of Naruto's chest once the position was stable; lurched still when cold fingers touched his wrist. Naruto was—was holding onto him, keeping his arm wrapped around him, and suddenly his heart was beating so fast, hope filling up his throat so thick he couldn't move couldn't think couldn't breathe—
The clutching-tight fingers went lax. Uncurled, one by one. Minato closed his eyes so he wouldn't watch them fall away. Naruto's head curled down; the smudged-pink spot where it had rested chilled, spreading seeping cold. Fear clung so thick he didn't know if it was his or Naruto's. "Hey, I've got you," he whispered. Please, please, he prayed. Please, let me hold onto you— "We can stay like this. We can stay just like this. It's okay. It's okay..."
Please.
The hand came back. So slow. So tentative. Fingers found his wrist, crept around, stayed—there, warm, not quite closing—but holding, like anything they gripped might turn to powder. Puff away.
Unable to get more words past the lump in his throat, Minato began to hum. The same song. Their lullaby. And—Naruto—Naruto melted. Eased and sunk and toes uncurled, head lolling back to rub more dried half-washed blood into Minato's shoulder. Minato's tears were running into Naruto's hair, making more stains on his shirt, and Naruto breathed out. Long, shuddering, a release.
"Breathe," said Minato, remembering that was something he needed to do, too. "Breathe, breathe. I've got you." Paused. Swallowed. Dabbed the sleeve of his free arm under his running nose. "I've got you, Naruto."
His hips went numb, his legs cramped, his back throbbed—he didn't move, laughed with relief that his pain of the moment was the warmth and weight of the boy in his arms, the living breathing boy in his arms. His legs could fall right off, he spine could hunch up into a permanent stoop; see if he cared. If he could keep just enough strength to be a place for his son to rest his head. Just enough to keep his arms around this boy. Just enough to stay awake and hear Naruto breathe.
It sounded better. It sounded better, the breathing, and he was ninety-percent-sure that wasn't only half-sane wishing fooling his brain.
He didn't know what time it was. He'd put down the burner phone he'd brought with him when he prepared to get Naruto upright; its display was blank, it was out of reach, and Minato wasn't wearing a watch. Naruto was holding on to him; he wasn't about to reach for anything else.
Naruto slept. Really slept. Soft-warm-hushed, no stiffness, no peaking eyes. While the rest of him went limp and loose, his carefully-curled fingers gripped tight. Held strong.
So—long, slow minutes; long, slow hours; long, slow days—however long, and painful, and precious, Minato held his child.
Until a phone began to ring.
.
HiUiH
.
Itachi and Sasuke searched in circles. It seemed Sasuke's cryptic statement had been remarkably literal: they were, in fact, searching for a payphone.
Underground. In hidden passageways and highrise basements and underground parking lots. Which is where they found one: hidden behind the garage-style doorway at the end of a long line of identically covered loading docks of Konohagakure's second-largest shopping mall, where large trucks were packed and un-packed. All of the other doors hid nothing but the unloading bays they were supposed to cover. Itachi knew this, because they had started at the wrong end.
"...Better work," Sasuke said to the payphone, which he was attempting to x-ray through the focused spite of his gaze alone.
Itachi tried to sound supportive. "We can move on to alternate plans, if it doesn't."
Sasuke just speared him with his attempted-superpower stare. "Can't. Won't." Turned back to the payphone. "So. Here goes."
He flipped the not-100-yen coin, caught it, lifted the receiver, inserted the coin.
Pressed nine nines.
Itachi watched Sasuke in between watching everything else. Their location should be random enough to be secure—there were plenty of exits—no one seemed to be answering.
"He'll pick up," said Sasuke, to a question Itachi carefully didn't ask. Sasuke's chin jutted.
And if Naruto didn't pick up? Was there anything Itachi could do to hold onto his brother, to hold his brother together? Anything—he would do anything. If Naruto didn't answer—if Naruto couldn't answer—
Something changed. No one answered, as far as Itachi could tell, but Sasuke snapped straight, then stepped back, receiver still clutched to his ear. Stared back toward the hidden door leading back to the Gates. Itachi moved to block as much of Sasuke's body as he could, hand on the hilt of his gun.
"There," said Sasuke, nervous and triumphant. Gestured at blank wall.
No—not blank. A tiny red LED blinked, dull in the garage's half-light.
Itachi breathed, heard the wheeze in his own too-loud exhale, let go of his gun to dig into his pocket for his inhaler. He couldn't do this. He couldn't drown in his own body right now.
Sasuke left the phone. "Move fast," he said. "We're clear. Naruto wouldn't have lit the way if we weren't."
Itachi followed him to the little light, past it, through the door. Behind the gates, three more pinpricks glowed red, spaced meters apart in a straight line down the corridor.
The inhaler had helped. There was enough oxygen getting through Itachi's lungs. Running came easy, muscles falling smoothly into a sustainable pace. He kept himself between possible attack and Sasuke's back; admired and hated the way his brother slipped through shadows he shouldn't belong to, fought back cold dread clawing up the base of his neck. They reached a door with no lights lit beyond its place in the corridor, and Sasuke immediately moved through. Its traps were disabled; they'd come through it already, and Sasuke set about resetting the trap while Itachi stepped gingerly after him. Then they were running again. Red blinking LEDs laid their path.
"Otouto."
"I'm not slowing down. We were just here, you know this bit's easy—"
"Sasuke, did you hear Naruto?"
They both knew how to move quietly, but the rushing beat of their feet was still too loud, the tunnel too long and too narrow and too possibly not empty. Sasuke didn't answer, which was exactly the answer Itachi had hoped to be wrong about. The next trap was a trip wire, lit helpfully red by LED light. Sasuke skidded, slid under it; Itachi took advantage of his long legs to step over it.
"We're running to a place we won't be able to run away from."
"We're running to Naruto."
"Sasuke. It may not be—" probably isn't— "Naruto."
Sasuke stopped. Didn't turn, and Itachi had to brace a hand against the corridor wall to avoid colliding with his brother's stubborn back. "You don't have to come."
That didn't deserve an answer.
"If it's not Naruto, it's someone who has a good chance at finding Naruto," Sasuke said, the line of his shoulders easing a bit. He was breathing harder than he should be, for the distance they'd run; started walking again, sharp long strides. Itachi fell into step beside him.
He needed to remember that he'd already lost this fight.
This time, the door the lights ended at swung open for them. Electricity sparked along naked wire as the stepped very, very carefully through; three inches of bulletproof metal ticked shut behind them.
No way out. Their footsteps echoed. When Sasuke was distracted by the next door swinging open at the end of the corridor, Itachi made swift use of his inhaler again.
Sasuke caught him. Froze midstep, mouth opening, brow creasing, sudden indecision opening up that familiar, deadly crack through his psyche.
"I'm all right," Itachi said immediately, making the inhaler disappear. He smiled. "Just one way left to us, Otouto." He stepped forward, poked the scowl-crease between his brother's eyebrows. Kept moving, steady now, breath coming clear.
The last corridor wasn't long. It looked almost like it belonged in a residential building, with exposed brick and bright lamps and decorative tile. Sasuke moved in close as they reached the final door, let their shoulders brush.
He looked like he wanted to say something. Itachi waited, as he always did; Sasuke's mouth shut on the words he almost said, as it usually did. Instead, the younger brother reached for the heavy door knocker. Itachi stopped him with a hand on his wrist.
"Since I came with you, indulge me one more time," Itachi murmured, and used the hand on Sasuke's arm to nudge the boy behind him. He reset the gun in his other hand, angled carefully down and to the side where Sasuke wasn't; he'd already clicked the safety off. "I'll go first."
He expected Sasuke to protest. Saw the way his jaw locked, lifted his own chin in challenge. He didn't know what he would do if he couldn't win this small, final battle; went almost dizzy with gratitude when he didn't have to.
Gun in hand, brother as shielded as he could make him, Itachi knocked on Kyuubi's door.
.
TuYuT
.
Guilt plus fear plus doubt twisted so tight in Sasuke's gut that it took locked teeth and bitter discipline to keep his body up and straight enough to see over his brother's shoulder as the last door swung open.
If you die, I die right after you, he promised Itachi, to comfort himself. If the Fox was going to murder his brother, Sasuke wasn't letting him stop there.
Breathe. Be ready.
"Itachi." That voice—low—not threatening—familiar. "It's okay. It's okay. Put away the gun, and come in."
Namikaze.
Itachi's shoulders sagged—by a millimeter, but it was enough to crumble the brother-as-barrier thing he had going on, made it simple for Sasuke to muscle past and in.
There was an impression of rug-table-chairs-lamps but all Sasuke saw was what wasn't. He turned on Namikaze.
"Naruto—where's Naruto?"
"It's just us here," Namikaze was telling Itachi, at the same time, maybe because Itachi still hadn't put away his gun. But if that was his answer to Sasuke's question, too—
"Here, bastard," called Naruto, voice scraped raw like that time he'd yelled himself hoarse singing along to a concert they'd snuck into without tickets. Sasuke lurched in the direction of the voice—to the door he'd missed in his first frantic look, half-open, spilling flourescent light.
Naruto was behind it. On a stool in front of security monitors and switch boards, curled over the counter like he'd fall off if it wasn't there supporting him, one arm pressed tight to his ribs.
Sasuke closed his eyes. Opened them. Naruto was still there, with a big idiot smile and dried blood streaking his chin. Bandaged and ghoulish in the blue light of the monitors and—and he could feel him, feel moving muscle under the bunched-up coat sleeve Sasuke'd grabbed.
"Weren't supposed to waste that coin on me, you crazy bastard. I only had that one! I gave it to you for when I couldn't help you—"
He was in pain. Naruto was in so much pain, Sasuke could tell. By the way the tendons in his neck stood out. The way his fingers dug at the desk. The way his eyes darted over the security screens, again and again, too quick to focus.
"Get up. I'm getting you to a bed."
"You know, Sasuke," Naruto told him slowly, finally focusing enough to turn solemn eyes up to his. "This...this is why people think we're gay."
Namikaze was crowding in next to him, and Sasuke's cheeks were getting kind of hot, and without thinking he was laughing. Laughing because Naruto was okay. Naruto was okay.
"He's right about getting you to a bed," Namikaze was saying. "You answered the phone. Opened all the doors. Closed all the doors. They're here. They made it. Anything else you need to do, Son, before I drug you and make you sleep again?"
Namikaze sounded like he'd stressed himself beyond lots of breaking points. He reached for his son, but Sasuke was still holding onto Naruto, and Naruto leaned into Sasuke, both of them shifting automatically to accomodate Naruto's weight as he slid off the stool. He went stiff, all white and not breathing, experimentally balancing on one foot, then the other. Sasuke clung to the arm thrown around his shoulders, tried to support more, take all the weight.
Then Naruto was grinning up at his father. "One more," he said, oblivious to the way Namikaze's face had blanked, hands still reaching. "Got one more door to open."
Sasuke followed where the jut of Naruto's chin told him to go: another door, and Naruto braced against him and punched in a code on the keypad, then did something to a hinge and opened the door from the wrong side. Naruto caught Sasuke's eyeroll, snickered. "You know how long you woulda spent tryna crack that lock without ever trying the other side of the door? Long enough to get caught, Bastard. Now you know the trick, so there's no way to like scientifically test it, but I'm right. I'm totally right..."
He closed his eyes to breathe through what must be some really fucking intense pain, and when they opened again, Sasuke got them moving immediately, because Namikaze had squeezed past them and found a lightswitch and in this room there were beds—bunks, six of them—and the sooner the idiot was tucked in with his feet up so he didn't pass out like he looked like he wanted to, the better.
"Hey, Sasuke," Naruto said, when he was in a bed and had submitted to Namikaze checking all his bandages and had swallowed more painkillers in exchange for a promise that his dad would take a rest on a bunk of his own, "'m glad you're here. ...No one's gonna get you here."
Naruto's eyes were already shut, so no one said any of the things that were making the silence kind of thick and nasty. Namikaze had a great pokerface, but Sasuke had some guesses about some of what was stressing the man out the most—besides Naruto's split scalp and cut hands and beat-up ribs.
It was stupid to come here, he was starting to get. Stupid. Selfish...the unforgivable kind of selfish. His brain got trapped in the echoes of those gunshots and made too many images of Naruto bleeding and he'd needed to prove it wrong. Needed it so much he didn't stop to think about what Naruto needed.
Which wasn't him. Or Itachi. Not here, not where the Fox would find them, and Naruto could kill himself trying to stop the Fox from killing them.
And Itachi wasn't okay. There wasn't much Sasuke could do about Itachi not being okay, beyond trying a lot harder to keep himself out of harm's way.
They should leave.
They should leave right now.
If Naruto could control the doors from the switchboards in that other room, all Sasuke needed to do was figure out how to open them—
"Hey, where're you—hey Sas—"
Naruto was trying to sit up again.
"Just to the other room. You—sleep."
"...Lie."
Sasuke looked away. Had to.
"Naruto," came Itachi, all gentle and reasonable, "it's really best that we go. Sasuke needed to know that you're all right—you aren't, not exactly, but you're alive, so now we can do something more useful. Perhaps contact someone like B or Gaara-sama. ...Someone more welcome."
Like speaking tactfully was going to get through to Naruto. "You don't want us here when the Fox gets back, dumbass."
"No shit," said Naruto, like Sasuke was the dumbass for suggesting it. "Not letting you anywhere near him. He's gone hunting."
"Hunting?" Namikaze, urgent.
"Sent me some messages when I unlocked the Watch Room. We got about fifty hours."
Sasuke sat back down so Naruto would lie back down, and Naruto did. Bloodshot eyes locked with his.
"Stay here," said Naruto. He sounded like all the pain was wrapped around his throat, and Sasuke's throat wound tight with sympathy. "Fox said everyone's looking for you. 'N he's not here, 'n no one else can get in. It's a good place for you. Right now."
Itachi started typing something on his phone, showing it to Namikaze in a stupid secret conversation. Naruto wasn't looking at them. Just kept staring as Sasuke.
Sasuke looked away to pry off his boots, and, to really drive the point home, take off his socks. He folded them and tucked them into the boots and bounced experimentally on the bunk. Sniffed the pillow, the folded blanket. Satisfied that he wasn't cuddling up to dried urine or worse, he tucked himself in.
Tucked himself into bed in the Kyuubi-no-Yoko's underground lair. Looked at Naruto, anxious and watching him; said, slow: "Sweet."
For a moment, all the pain left Naruto's face. All the shadows curved up, and Sasuke's throat suddenly stopped hurting. He turned coolly away from Naruto's chortling, and Naruto laughed harder-laughed into shattered ribs, swore. When Sasuke turned back, Naruto's eyes were closed and his mouth of slack and a-little-bit smiling. Sasuke stayed still until Naruto's breathing sounded like sleeping, reached out—couldn't reach Naruto without getting up, but his fingers snagged the edge of one of the four blankets Namikaze had piled on. Curled around it.
He thought about moving. Thought that Itachi would have questions for him or want something of him or—or something. That Namikaze would ask him to move so he could have the bunk next to his kid. But no one talked to him, and his eyes kept closing. His arm stayed stretched over empty space with a fistful of Naruto's blanket—forced eyes to open—Itachi talking, Namikaze talking, soft, murmuring; Naruto sleep-smiling—thought fleetingly of how it had felt holding Mirai—eyes closed—let them.
.
.
.
A/N: so...we're about two chapters from the end. I have predicted the end before and been (depressingly, hilariously) wrong. I don't think I'm wrong this time. (Eight years. I have been writing this for EIGHT YEARS)
Huge, huge thanks to the few who review. It means everything to me! This story matters to me. So (so so) much. A thoughtful review is the best gift I can get. I'm begging here. Let me know what you think? Hope? Feel? Fear?