The hard grey glare of Gatwick's drop-off zone stabbed through Sasuke's sunglasses like needles drilling into his eye sockets. He slumped lower in the passenger seat, the leather upholstery of Itachi's Lexus reeking faintly of citrus polish and his own poor life choices.
Coal tar soap. Sea salt.
The memory of Naruto's bedsheets clung to his shirt—that stupid, earthy scent that had lingered even after Sasuke had fled the flat at dawn. He'd nearly tripped over the blond's sleeping form on the floorboards, Naruto's arm flung out as if reaching for him in sleep.
"Remind me why we're collecting Sakura at seven AM?" Sasuke muttered, pressing cold fingers to his throbbing temple.
Itachi chuckled into his cup of coffee. "Because someone volunteered before remembering their robust social calendar last night."
Sasuke gritted his teeth.
"I'm sure I did no such thing, this must have been your idea."
The car's digital display read 06:58. Somewhere above them, planes screamed through drizzle-heavy clouds.
"So," Itachi continued, voice smooth over the engine's idle purr, "Good evening had by all was it? Did you find out if Naruto will be joining us for the internship dinner? I need to confirm numbers with the restaurant."
The question hung twisting in the air. Sasuke's stomach churned—half from last night's tequila, half from the phantom press of Naruto's mouth against his.
"He's… busy."
"With?" Itachi looked at him expectantly with the type of stare Sasuke was sure he used for interrogating suspects.
Fuuuuuuuck.
A knock shattered the interrogation. Sakura's face appeared at the window, sun-kissed and grinning behind heart-shaped sunglasses. "Hello you two!"
Itachi exited to embrace her, his cashmere coat repelling the drizzle. Sasuke slid out stiffly, the airport's fluorescent lights like daggers to the back of his retinas.
"Christ Sasuke, you'regreen," Sakura laughed, tossing her suitcase at him. She was wearing a linen floral dress and smelled of Amalfi lemons and new leather, several Liberties fabric bracelets adorning her left arm, silver bangles on her right. She sported new roman sandals he noted. "Who died?"
"Just my dignity," Sasuke said quietly, hefting the case. He turned to look at her with an eyebrow cocked. "Six weeks in Milan and you still dress like a cruise ship pianist."
She flicked him on the nose before hugging him.
Itachi's phone chimed as they loaded the boot. "Madara's confirmed Monday for your internship orientation. I've booked Zuma for seven—will Naruto require dietary adjustments?"
Sasuke froze, suitcase handle biting his palm. Through his sunglasses, Sakura's gaze sharpened, looking between Sasuke and Itachi, her green eyes narrowing on Sasuke's sunglasses and pallid skin.
"He'll eat anything." Sasuke said quickly, as if the act of rushing syllables into syllables would somehow reduce his own awkwardness. He slid into the back seat, keen to avoid further eye contact.
Itachi's raised brow could've toppled governments. "Noted."
Sakura buckled her seatbelt with a clatter of silver.
The words curdled in Sasuke's throat. He saw Naruto's face again—sleep-soft and vulnerable in dawn light, the purpling bruise on his jaw from their… tussle.
The engine hummed to life. Sasuke slumped against cool glass, the world tilting nauseously. Somewhere beneath Heathrow's flight paths, Naruto was probably awake now—smirking at the ceiling, tracing split knuckles, remembering how Sasuke's breath had caught when—
"—earth to Grumpy?"
Sakura's manicured fingers snapped before his sunglasses. "Hello, what is this? You're dating Uzumaki?"
Sasuke swallowed and readjusted his sunglasses, "Something like that." He tried to say in the best nonchalant tone he could manage. Sakura's green eyes seemed to spear into him.
"Your medic—friend must run… spirited gatherings," Itachi remarked, merging into the departures lane. The pause before 'medic' spoke volumes.
"Oh," Sakura laughed, "you've not heard the half of what goes on. I think one of them got hauled up to the principal's office for suturing someone else's head wound whilst drunk."
"Sounds fun." Itachi said in an Itachi tone that was halfway between a laugh and disapproval.
Sasuke pressed his throbbing temple against the window, watching rain distort Gatwick's neon signage into migraine art.
Itachi's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. "Though I'd hoped Sasuke might cultivate friends with quieter enthusiasms. Stamp collectors. Tax auditors."
Sasuke rolled his eyes, "I'm already related to you aren't I?"
Itachi pulled a face as if this remained to be proven and turned his attention back to the road.
"Anyway, he's tolerable." Sasuke's phone buzzed—three unanswered texts from last night burned his palm:
Naruto(01:47):
still breathing?
Naruto(02:15):
ice packs bottom drawer
Naruto(03:03):
…floor's cold btw
The tips of his ears warmed. Sakura twisted around in the front seat to talk to him.
"He's still a medic isn't he?" Sakura rummaged through her embroidered tote. "I think he told me he wants to specialise in emergency care, naturally. He's an ADHD candidate if I ever set eyes on one, pure chaos. We met through Ino's gallery thing a few months ago. Remember Sas?"
"No." Sasuke said acridly. He had no memory of the encounter and wondered vaguely if he had been sleepwalking.
Gatwick's neon signs blurred past—WHSmith, Pret, a Boots he desperately wished sold intravenous paracetamol. Sasuke's temple throbbed in time with the wipers.
Sakura unscrewed a jade roller from her tote, gliding it over dewy cheeks. "So what's the deal with Zuma? Since when does Madara spring for sushi?"
"It's not Madara's event." Itachi's voice cooled two degrees. "I'm hosting. To celebrate Sasuke's… enthusiasm for corporate law."
The unspoken 'before Uncle consumes him whole' hung heavy on the air. Sasuke's phone buzzed—three new emails from Uchiha Holdings' HR department. Subject lines screamed 'Orientation Itinerary' and 'NDA Compliance'.
Sakura froze mid-roll. "Wait, are you bullshitting me? You're taking the internship? Six months ago you told me 'corporate lackeys can choke on their gavels'." Sakura's gaze burned into Sasuke's profile. "What happened to 'the law should serve people, not portfolios'?"
Rain drummed the sunroof. Somewhere over Surrey, Naruto was probably dissecting cadavers or whatever med students did—scalpel in hand, sunshine hair stuffed under a scrub cap, that infuriating grin undimmed by formaldehyde fumes.
"Circumstances changed."
"What circumstances?" Hehatedit when she used that tone, her psychoanalysis voice.
"Things." He said glaring at her from behind his sunglasses - a poor attempt at intimidation.
"Bullshit squared." Sakura's jade roller clattered into the footwell. "Since when do you—"
"Was it not enough to be the cause of my brother's death Sasuke?" Madara asked in a cool almost casual manner. "That you must disrespect his memory so?"
"Sakura." Itachi's tone was diplomatic but laced with the tone he used as part of the force. "Perhaps you could enlighten us on Milan's breakthroughs? Sasuke's clearly on the edge of his seat."
She held Sasuke's gaze a moment longer before relenting. "Fine. The conference? Wild. We trialled psilocybin microdosing paired with VR landscapes—Alps, Seychelles, that weird pink beach in Bali. Patients with treatment-resistant depression showed forty per cent improvement in…"
Sasuke closed his eyes, allowing Sakura's voice to mingle with the rain on the car roof.
Naruto's texts flashing again before his eyes. He'd left them unanswered. Cowardice, Sakura would call it. Survival instinct, Madara would sneer. It wasn't really fair to drag him into all of this.
"—which is revolutionary, right?"
Itachi nodded noncommittally. "How interesting. Sasuke do you think you would benefit from psychedelic interventions? Might improve your mood?"
" mind with magic mushrooms and he might actually enjoy a lecture."
The Lexus halted in traffic. Sasuke reached for the window button rolling the pane down, desperate for air not steeped in Naruto's ghost.
"Thursday at seven," Itachi reminded. "Inform your medic."
Sasuke drizzle slid across his face as Sakura's laughter tinkled from the front seat. "Oh this I've gotta see—Uzumaki at Zuma? He'll eat the decorative rocks and propose to the sushi chef."
A car beeped at a pedestrian trying to cross at a green light. Naruto's voice echoed in memory—"You can say no, Sasuke."
The car's ambient lighting caught Sakura's new bracelet - a twisted silver serpent eating its own tail.
"You'll need this." Itachi passed back a thermos. The scent of ginger and honey cut through Naruto's lingering sea salt ghost.
Sasuke sipped grudgingly. "Since when do you keep hangover remedies?"
"Since my brother became a dirty stop out." Itachi adjusted the rearview mirror by precisely two degrees. "Incidentally, your medic's faculty dean chairs the police liaison board. Fine mind, if overly fond of golf anecdotes."
Sakura's bracelets clinked as she turned, eyes gleaming. "Imagine - our Sasuke, bringing a date." She looked thrilled.
"Zuma's private dining room has exceptional acoustics," Itachi continued, as though discussing a stock portfolio. "If you want to give him a thorough psychological evaluation."
"Oh, we'll use the standard battery of tests."
"I'm counting on it."
The thermos warmed Sasuke's palm.
Sakura muffled laughter in her scarf. Sasuke's phone lit up with a new notification - Naruto's contact photo grinning from the lock screen, hair haloed by dissection lab fluorescents.
Naruto (07:22):
ice packs gone warm. ur fault
A droplet slid down Sasuke's neck, tracing the path Naruto's teeth had taken hours earlier. The thermos trembled slightly in his grip.
"Though perhaps," Itachi mused, watching a windscreen wiper's metronomic arc, "we should prepare alternative conversation topics. Your friend's opinions on marine conservation quotas might prove…"
"Electrifying?" Sakura offered.
"...diverting," Itachi concluded.
The traffic lurched forward. Sasuke closed his eyes, the thermos' heat bleeding into his thigh. Somewhere beneath this stretch of asphalt lay the Gatwick Express tunnels, trains screaming toward London with their cargo of suitcases and separation anxieties. He imagined Naruto sprawled in some sunlit anatomy lab, all brash laughter and ink-stained scrubs, blissfully unburdened by Uchiha expectations.
Sakura hummed along to the jazz that Itachi had punched into the stereo system. Sasuke counted raindrops until they blurred into streaks of light.
The pitch smelled of impending rain and the sharp tang of liniment. Naruto scuffed his boot across mud already churned by nervous feet. Across the field, the scrum machine crouched like a rusted relic of last term's humiliation.
"Flanker's napping!" Coach Yamato's voice carried the quiet despair of a man watching his life's work unravel.
Kiba snorted from the front row, shoulder-to-shoulder with the practice pack. "Oi, Uzumaki. Your tactical genius better not involve another interpretive dance routine at the breakdown."
Naruto flipped him a lazy salute. "Get fucked, Inuzuka."
The whistle pierced the grey sky. Naruto exploded forward, cleats tearing turf as the pack surged. His palms met Shikamaru's shoulders—the lock's usual slouch replaced by coiled tension—as they drove the machine backward.
Good. Clean. Focused.
Then the ball squirted loose.
Naruto's pivot came half a heartbeat late. A rookie winger slipped past his outstretched arm, whooping as he dummy-passed to thin air.
"Flanker!" Yamato's clipboard hit the turf.
"Wind's tricky today." Shikamaru said dryly.
Naruto spat grass blades, ignoring his friend's raised brow.
"Wind my arse," Kiba muttered, peeling tape off his wrists. "Your situational awareness's gone full ostrich."
Three more drills. Two missed tackles. One spectacular interception that almost—almost—made up for it.
The showers dripped almost in unison as Naruto stared at his locker door, where a postcard from Tsunade's Greek odyssey curled at the edges—Santorini sunsets cure most stupidity. You'll need volcanoes.
Kiba's shadow fell across the bench. "You've been playing like someone'a been force feeding you decaf."
"Cheers, mate. Your rucking's about as subtle as Hana's hen night."
A damp towel snapped against his thigh with a crack. Naruto winced as the sting climbed up his leg.
"What are you mooning over Naruto?"
Naruto's fingers stilled on his bootlaces. The room's steam thickened.
"It's strategic radio silence," he said, too lightly.
"Strategic." Kiba dropped onto the bench, the wood creaking under his weight. "Like that time you 'strategically' convinced Akamaru to swallow Jiraiya's hearing aid?"
"He retrieved it."
"Yeah…eventuallyafter three days. It was like that scene in Jurassic Park II—"
"It was Jurassic ParkIIIactually."
"Fuckingnerd." Kiba said, arms crossed and looking at him as if he had gone mad.
A laugh escaped Naruto's throat, sharp and unbidden. Kiba's grin flashed—all teeth, no mercy.
"Look." He nudged Naruto's knee with his mud-caked boot. "He's nice, good co-president material but maybenotfor you."
Naruto studied a grass stain on his palm. "Since when do you moonlight as Agony Aunt?"
"Since you lost all common sense? Besides you told me nothing happened."
"Nothingdidhappen."
"Well then? Why do you care."
Naruto glowered at Kiba, the thought ringing around his head:because I wanted something to happen.
The showers hissed. Somewhere down the row, Shikamaru sighed over a pathophysiology textbook.
Naruto stood abruptly. "I don't."
Kiba's snort followed him into the spray. " ."
The freezing water needled Naruto's shoulders. He pressed his forehead to damp tiles, replaying Saturday's chaos—the crack of knuckles on jawbone, the electric silence before the kiss, the way Sasuke's defences had faltered when Naruto's fingers found his waist.
No one has a gun to your head.
Sasuke's answering glare could've flash-frozen the Thames.
He emerged pink-skinned and prickly. Kiba leaned against the lockers, tossing a rugby ball between hands that still bore scars from their great badger-wrestling misadventure of '12.
"Hinata's hosting post-match drinks," he said, too casually. "Bring crisps. And your attitude is optional."
Naruto yanked a shirt over damp hair. "Pass."
"Right. You'll be busy staring at your phone like it's—"
The locker door screeched. Beneath crumpled training schedules and a half-eaten chocolate bar, Naruto's phone glowed.
Sasuke(17:36):
Zuma, Thursday, 7pm
Kiba peered over his shoulder. "Booty call or kidnapping?"
"Same difference with his lot." Naruto slammed the locker, pulse roaring in his ears.
Shikamaru didn't look up from his notes. "Statistically, restaurants increase reconciliation chances by…"
"Pissoff, both of you."
But Naruto's reflection in the foggy mirror betrayed him—the twitch at his mouth's corner, the renewed spring in his step as he shouldered past Kiba's knowing smirk.
Uchiha Residence 18:23
Rain lashed the bedroom window as Sasuke stared at his phone, its glow painting his face ivory-pale against the storm-darkened room. The essay draft lay abandoned beside him—Ethical Implications of Corporate Tax Avoidance—its cursor blinking like a metronome.
Zuma, Thursday, 7pm
He'd sent the text fifty-three minutes ago.
The silence rang louder than the grandfather clock downstairs, its pendulum swinging in time to Madara's last words: I cannot imagine what Fugaku would have said to me if he could see you now, he would be so disappointed. Perhaps it is best Sasuke that he is not here to witness this.
Sasuke rolled onto his back, the duvet bunching around his waist. Naruto's unanswered messages still burned in their chat history—floor's cold btw—sent four days ago after he'd fled the flat. After he'd kissed him like a man starved and woken up choking on guilt.
His thumb hovered over a follow-up text. It's not a date, he rehearsed in his head. It'sstrategic. Itachi requires—
The phone vibrated.
Naruto(18:24):
Who's this?
Sasuke's exhale fogged the screen. Rainwater traced the glass pane beside his bed, distorting the amber streetlights into smears of liquid gold.
Sasuke(18:25):
Don't be obtuse.
Naruto(18:26):
Not sure I take orders from ghosts.
Last I checked you'd vanished into the ether.
The essay draft blurred. Sasuke's thumb hovered. The essay margins filled with unconscious doodles—spirals, interlocking circles, the curve of a jawline that refused to stay abstract.
Sasuke(18:27):
It's a dinner. Not an exorcism.
Naruto(18:29):
Heard that before.
What's the catch?
Lightning flashed, bleaching the room white. Three miles to Naruto's student halls. Three seconds until thunder.
Sasuke(18:30):
No catch. Itachi's insisting on… civility.
Naruto(18:32):
Civility. Right.
That why you bolted at dawn?
The pen between Sasuke's teeth snapped. Plastic shards scattered across Kant's Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals.
Sasuke(18:33):
You were unconscious.
Naruto(18:34):
Not an answer.
Downstairs, Itachi's piano stumbled through a Chopin nocturne—staccato, reproachful. Sasuke rolled onto his stomach, the duvet bunching around his hips.
Sasuke(18:35):
I had obligations.
Naruto(18:36):
Cool story.
A droplet snaked down the windowpane. Sasuke traced its path, imagining Naruto's face—not sleep-soft as he'd last seen it, but sharp with that infuriating I-couldn't-care-less smirk.
Sasuke(18:37):
The sushi's decent.
Naruto(18:38):
Wow.
Decent.
How's a guy resist.
Sasuke(18:39):
There's wagyu.
Naruto(18:40):
Bribery now?
Classy.
Sasuke(18:41):
It's not—
He deleted the reply. Rewrote.
Sasuke(18:42):
I'm asking. Not ordering.
The ellipsis bubble pulsed. Stopped. Pulsed again.
Naruto(18:43):
Asking what exactly?
Sasuke's thumbnail dug into the phone case. His reflection in the dresser mirror glared back—shirt creased, hair mussed, the ghost of Naruto's teeth marks beneath his ear.
Sasuke(18:44):
For you to come.
Naruto(18:45):
Why?
Because I want you the admission curdled behind his teeth. Madara's contract loomed on the desk—Uchiha Holdings Internship Agreement bleeding red ink at the margins.
Sasuke(18:46):
Itachi prefers the narrative.
Naruto(18:47):
Ah.
The narrative.
The ellipsis lingered.
Naruto(18:48):
Thursday's tricky.
Got practice.
Sasuke's throat tightened.
Sasuke(18:49):
Skip it.
Naruto(18:50):
Not how team sports work, princess.
Sasuke(18:51):
Then come after.
A pause. Rain drummed the windowsill.
Naruto(18:52):
Why?
So you can vanish again?
Sasuke's toes curled against crumpled sheets. The essay's opening line mocked him—Modern jurisprudence conflates fiscal pragmatism with ethical bankruptcy.
Sasuke(18:53):
I won't.
Naruto(18:54):
Convincing.
Lightning flashed. Thunder followed quicker—two miles now.
Sasuke(18:55):
I'll stay.
Naruto(18:56):
Generous.
Sasuke(18:57):
Naruto.
The ellipsis pulsed. Stopped.
Naruto(18:58):
Fine.
But I'm ordering the priciest whisky they've got.
Relief pooled warm in Sasuke's ribs.
Sasuke(18:59):
Predictable.
Naruto(19:00):
You started it.
A pause. The clock chimed the hour downstairs.
Naruto(19:01):
Match against LSE Saturday.
Afterparty at Hinata's.
If you're asking nicely…
Sasuke's mouth twitched. The piano downstairs shifted to a major key.
Sasuke(19:02):
As what?
Naruto(19:03):
Dunno.
My legal representation? Cheerleader?
Sasuke(19:04):
I don't 'cheerlead'.
Naruto(19:05):
Could've fooled me last week.
Heat licked Sasuke's collarbones. He rolled onto his back, arm slung over his eyes.
Sasuke(19:06):
Temporary insanity.
Naruto(19:07):
Wanna make it permanent?
The phone buzzed—a picture of Naruto mid-tackle, hair haloed by stadium lights, mud streaking the bruise Sasuke had left on his jaw. It must have been taken by an actual photographer, Sasuke thought. The quality of it was too crisp, too perfect to have been taken on a smartphone.
Naruto(19:08):
So?
Match starts at 2
Shall I save you a seat?
Sasuke(19:09):
I'll be there.
Naruto(19:10):
Great.
Naruto(19:11):
P.S. Still pissed at you.
And you still owe me a drink
This Sushi better be life changing
Sasuke traced the photo's pixels—the smirk that didn't reach Naruto's eyes, the tension in his shoulders. On the desk, Madara's contract bled red ink.
I shall hope you do the correct thing and reconsider.