Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sasuke had never cared for sweets. Ironic, really—considering he ran one of the most acclaimed bakeries in the city.

But Mangekyō Pan-kyō  wasn’t your average cupcake-slinging, unicorn-latte joint. There were no pastel signs or cutesy puns scrawled in chalk on the walls. Instead, the bakery was sleek and restrained: matte black tiles, brushed gold fixtures, and soft jazz drifting through the air like a whispered secret. Every detail was intentional. The pastries—impossibly flaky croissants, earthy matcha financiers, dark chocolate tarts sculpted like modern art—spoke of precision. Mastery. Perfection.

Sasuke didn’t need to taste them to know they were good. He rarely indulged, anyway. His tastes leaned toward the bitter and austere—black coffee, salted broth, clean umami. Sugar had never been his vice. But craft? That was different. He could build perfection from butter and flour, even if he didn’t crave it.

Which made the guy leaning against his display case that morning all the more perplexing.

“Yo,” said the blonde, grinning like they were old friends. He dropped his elbows on the glass like it was a diner counter, gaze scanning the neatly arranged pastries with the energy of someone who hadn’t read a single label. “Lemme get that twisty thing? No—three. Those cinnamon... whatchamacallits.”

He looked like he belonged at a skatepark, not a patisserie. Tall, wiry, and sun-browned, with a mess of golden hair and bright blue eyes that practically radiated chaos. A faint scar curved along one cheek when he smiled—something he seemed to do reflexively. Tattoos ran down both arms in bold, tangled lines: foxes mid-leap, waves crashing, flames dancing. His chipped black nail polish and silver septum ring clashed delightfully with the scent of vanilla and cardamom in the air.

Sasuke arched a brow, already reaching for the tongs. “ Canelé ,” he said, voice cool, precise.

The guy blinked. “Yeah, that.”

Sasuke said nothing more. He didn’t ask why someone who looked like a street fighter was buying delicate French pastries at nine in the morning. He just boxed up three canelés with practiced efficiency, tied the box with a matte black ribbon, and rang him up in silence.

The man watched him the whole time with a curious tilt of his head, like he was trying to figure Sasuke out.

Sasuke didn’t flinch under the gaze. He’d dealt with worse. But as the door chimed behind the man’s exit, cinnamon still lingering in the air, he realized something.

That smile had been disarming—and it had worked .

—-

The blonde kept coming back.

Every week, like clockwork. Sometimes twice.

And each time, he ordered exactly three pastries. Never more, never less. One week it was croissants—laminated to golden perfection and still warm from the oven. Another, a trio of chocolate éclairs. Once, it was a slice of pistachio chiffon cake so delicate that Sasuke, suspicious of its softness, had reluctantly taste-tested it himself to ensure the flavor was right. It was. Annoyingly so.

The guy— Naruto , Sasuke eventually learned—never stopped smiling. Or talking.

He said the most ridiculous things. “This tastes like a hug from someone I used to hate,” he’d declared after biting into a hazelnut tart. Or, “If this dessert were a song, it’d be lo-fi hip hop... but sexy, y’know?”

Sasuke never laughed. But he listened.

And after six weeks of sugar, sass, and a voice that somehow always hit the exact pitch between irritating and oddly comforting, Sasuke finally gave in.

“You don’t look like the type to be into pastries,” he said one quiet afternoon, as Naruto licked powdered sugar from his thumb with zero shame.

Naruto grinned, unbothered. “And you don’t look like the type to be a baker.”

Sasuke tilted his head, eyebrow raised. “What do I look like, then?”

Naruto pretended to ponder, squinting like a game show contestant. “Mmm... broody salaryman who drinks too much black coffee and regrets his life choices.”

“Wrong,” Sasuke replied flatly. “I hate sweets. Not my job.”

That earned him a laugh—loud, rough, real. The kind that filled the quiet corners of the shop like sunlight on tile.

“I’m Naruto, by the way,” he said, offering a sugar-dusted hand.

Sasuke didn’t usually shake hands. He didn’t usually care about names. But this time, something tugged at him. So he took it.

“Sasuke.”

Naruto’s grip was firm—warm, confident, calloused. The kind of hands that had done real work. Sasuke noticed.

“So what do you do?” he asked, curiosity slipping into his voice before he could help it. “When you’re not, apparently, terrorizing pastries.”

Naruto’s grin stretched wider. With a casual motion, he lifted the hem of his black hoodie, revealing a tight portfolio inked along his forearm—sleek linework, crisp contrast. A fox mid-snarl. A dagger. A sequence of moon phases that wrapped toward his elbow in delicate grayscale.

“I’m a tattoo artist,” he said. “Shop’s a couple blocks down—Kurama Ink. You should stop by sometime. I’ll give you a tragic little black cat or something.”

Sasuke blinked. That wasn’t what he’d expected.

“You don’t look like the type,” he said before he could stop himself.

Naruto barked out another laugh. “Oh yeah? What do I look like?”

“A failed SoundCloud rapper.”

Naruto clutched his chest dramatically, as if mortally wounded. “Rude! I’ll have you know I survived design school by sheer force of will. I’ve got the degree, the student loans, and the lifelong back pain to prove it.”

Sasuke held his gaze for a beat. And then, despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitched upward—just slightly. Barely a smirk. But it was enough.

Naruto’s eyes lit up like he’d won something.

—-

They started talking more after that.

Nothing dramatic—just small things, at first. A comment here, a question there. Naruto would linger a little longer by the counter, and Sasuke, to his own quiet surprise, wouldn’t mind. He found himself listening more intently, offering the occasional dry remark that Naruto always met with a grin or a snort of laughter. It was easy. Easier than it should’ve been.

One Thursday afternoon, without any lead-in or preamble, Naruto said, “Hey—come by the shop sometime.”

Sasuke glanced up from tying a ribbon around a box of sesame mochi. “Shop?”

“Kurama Ink,” Naruto said, already scribbling something on the back of a napkin. “You know, the tattoo place I mentioned. It’s like five minutes from here. I just finished redoing the inside. You’ll like it—kinda got that ‘broody minimalist’ vibe you seem into.”

He handed Sasuke the napkin like it was the most natural thing in the world, then turned and left with his pastries and a lazy wave.

Sasuke stared at the napkin for a moment, then tucked it into his apron pocket.

He went the next day.

Kurama Ink was tucked between a vintage bookstore and a record shop that smelled like patchouli. From the outside, it looked understated—clean signage, deep green facade, matte black door. But when Sasuke stepped inside, he blinked.

The space was unexpectedly beautiful.

Natural light pooled through high windows, illuminating warm wood floors and walls lined with prints, sketches, and framed flash sheets. A minimalist black leather couch sat against one wall beside a tall snake plant. The lighting was soft but deliberate, casting golden warmth across a central desk scattered with pencil-smudged paper and ink samples. Everything was curated without being clinical—cozy but sharp.

Naruto emerged from the back with a grin and smudges of graphite on his fingers. “Knew you’d show.”

Sasuke gave a noncommittal shrug, but his gaze wandered over the space, quietly impressed.

Naruto didn’t press. Instead, he walked over to the desk and flipped open a sketchbook already filled with clean, bold lines. “C’mere. I wanna show you something.”

Sasuke stepped closer. Naruto turned a few pages, then paused on a spread of designs: stylized foxes with curling tails, delicate florals wrapped around blades, geometric shapes merging into natural forms. His linework was tight, expressive—balanced with just enough chaos to feel alive.

“These are mine,” Naruto said, casually. “Stuff I’ve been working on lately. I usually keep things simple for clients, but... I dunno. Been experimenting.”

Sasuke studied the pages in silence. The designs were good. Really good.

“You drew all these?” he asked quietly.

“Yup. No AI. No tracing. Just me and too much caffeine.”

Sasuke reached out, brushing the edge of the paper with his fingers. There was something deeply intentional in the strokes—wild but restrained. Like Naruto himself.

“They’re... impressive,” he admitted after a beat.

Naruto grinned, pleased. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as high praise.”

Sasuke’s gaze lingered on a minimalist design of a fox curled into a spiral, its tail forming a crescent moon. It was clean, hauntingly simple. Beautiful.

“You ever think about getting one?” Naruto asked, his tone light, but his eyes sharp.

Sasuke didn’t answer right away. He just kept looking.

Then, almost absently, he said, “Maybe.”

And Naruto’s smile changed—slower, quieter, something just beneath the surface.

“Cool,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

It became a quiet sort of routine.

On nights when the rain came down in steady sheets or business had slowed to a hush, Sasuke would box up the unsold pastries—whatever remained after the day’s rush—and walk them down to Kurama Ink . He never announced himself. Just stepped through the black door, set the box on Naruto’s counter with a nod, and stayed long enough to hear the delighted “Oh hell yeah!” that always followed.

Naruto never asked for them. But he always looked like he’d won the lottery when Sasuke showed up.

Sometimes Naruto would show up at Mangekyō Pan-kyō  in return—never during rush, always when it was quiet. He’d slip in, still smelling faintly of ink and citrus, and make his way to the back table with a coffee and a napkin, or three. He’d sit for hours, hunched over his makeshift sketchpad, head tilted in thought, pencil dancing through loose designs as the rain tapped gently against the wide café windows. The soft hum of jazz played on, uninterrupted.

Sasuke never invited him to stay.

But he never asked him to leave, either.

He told himself he tolerated Naruto’s presence because it was interesting . That was all. Naruto saw the world in strange metaphors and curious turns of phrase. He’d describe a mille-feuille as “layered like emotional baggage,” or say things like, “This ganache is emotionally stabilizing.” He brought an energy to the place that Sasuke didn’t expect—but didn’t mind.

It wasn’t because of the way Naruto smiled—bright and genuine—whenever something tasted exactly right, like it surprised even him. Or how his fingers moved when he was focused: precise, deliberate, confident in a way Sasuke instinctively understood.

And it definitely wasn’t because of the fox tattoo behind Naruto’s left ear. The tiny one, barely visible unless you were standing very close. Closer than friends stood.

Sasuke noticed anyway.

He didn’t mention it.

Some days, he found himself looking forward to that flash of blonde in the corner of the shop. The scuffed skateboard propped near the door. The rustle of napkins being pulled from the dispenser, already marked with swirling flames and sharp, elegant linework. Naruto’s presence filled the space in a way that wasn’t loud—just warm.

Familiar, somehow.

Sasuke told himself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just routine. Just a habit.

But even as he wiped down the counters at closing time, his eyes would drift to the clock.

And more often than not, he found himself leaving a little extra in the pastry box—just in case Naruto was still at the shop.

Still waiting.

—-

It happened one night in early autumn.

The rain was heavier than usual—steady, cold, the kind that soaked through your jacket no matter how fast you walked. The windows of Mangekyō Pan-kyō  fogged at the edges, softening the glow of the pendant lights inside. The shop had long since emptied, chairs flipped on tables, floor mopped, and the espresso machine cleaned and shut down for the night. Sasuke stood behind the counter, tying up a box with the last of the day’s pastries—black sesame financiers, a miso caramel tart, and a croissant or two he’d set aside intentionally, though he’d never admit it.

By the time he stepped into the rain with the ribboned box under one arm, it was past ten.

Kurama Ink was dark when he arrived.

The CLOSED sign hung crooked in the window, but a soft light glowed from the back of the shop. Sasuke didn’t knock. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, rainwater dripping from the hem of his coat.

Naruto looked up from his desk, a pencil tucked behind one ear and graphite smudged along the side of his hand. He blinked, then grinned like he’d been expecting him all along.

“You’re late,” he said.

Sasuke raised a brow and set the pastry box down on the desk beside Naruto’s sketchbook. “You’re still open.”

Naruto shrugged. “Not really. Just didn’t feel like leaving yet.”

He flipped the lid off the box like a kid on his birthday, eyes lighting up. “You brought the miso caramel. Hell yes.”

Sasuke didn’t answer. He just stepped around the desk and leaned against the edge of it, arms crossed, watching as Naruto took a bite of the tart and immediately made a sound that was entirely too satisfied.

“This is illegal,” Naruto mumbled through a mouthful. “I should arrest you.”

“You’re not a cop.”

“Right. Vigilante justice, then.”

Sasuke rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched—barely. He let his gaze fall to the open sketchbook in front of Naruto. More foxes. A new one, curled in a bed of camellias. Another design that looked suspiciously like the chandelier that hung in Mangekyō Pan-kyō 's front window. Soft lines. Hidden detail.

“You draw here often?” he asked.

Naruto nodded, licking a smear of caramel off his thumb. “When I can’t sleep. Or when I’ve got stuff in my head I need to get out. This place... it’s quiet in a good way.”

Sasuke hummed low in his throat. “You could draw anywhere.”

“Yeah, but it wouldn’t be the same.”

Naruto didn’t look up when he said it. He just kept sketching, like the words weren’t heavy, like they hadn’t landed exactly where Sasuke would feel them.

A pause stretched between them, soft and steady like the rain outside.

Then, Naruto glanced up, and something shifted in his expression—less teasing, more real. The kind of look that asked a question without speaking.

“You ever think about why you bring me those?” he asked, voice quiet.

Sasuke didn’t answer immediately. He looked at Naruto’s hands instead—the way they moved across the paper, confident and sure, smudges of graphite pressed into the creases of his fingers. He thought about the fox tattoo behind Naruto’s ear. The rain on the windows. The taste of sugar on a mouth that always smiled like it meant it.

“I don’t waste good food,” he said eventually.

Naruto smiled, slow and knowing. “Right. Of course.”

Sasuke turned to leave, but paused in the doorway. The rain had let up slightly, mist rising from the pavement in soft curls. He stood there a moment longer, listening to the silence behind him.

“You should stop by the shop tomorrow,” he said without looking back.

“For what?” Naruto asked, already halfway into another sketch.

Sasuke glanced over his shoulder, just enough to catch the curve of Naruto’s mouth in the lamplight.

“I’m working on something new.”

The next morning, Naruto showed up earlier than usual.

It was still raining, but softer now—more of a mist that clung to the air like breath on glass. He pushed open the door to Mangekyō Pan-kyō , sending the little bell overhead into a delicate chime. The shop smelled like espresso and fresh dough, butter melting somewhere beneath the hum of the ovens.

Sasuke was behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, flour dusted across his forearms. He didn’t look up right away.

“You’re early,” he said.

“You said you were working on something,” Naruto replied, kicking his skateboard upright and tucking it near the coat rack like it lived there. “Figured I’d come supervise.”

Sasuke didn’t smile, but he didn’t argue either.

Instead, he motioned to the far end of the counter, where a single pastry sat under a glass dome. The display was empty otherwise, save for a few cooling racks and a half-finished tray of galettes still glistening with egg wash.

Naruto stepped closer, peering through the dome. Inside was a small tart—delicate, geometric. The crust was black as slate, charcoal-dusted. A swirl of matcha cream curled at the center, topped with candied citrus and a scattering of gold leaf that caught the light in quiet gleams.

Naruto blinked. “Is this... for me?”

“No,” Sasuke said flatly. “It’s a threat.”

Naruto snorted, but his eyes didn’t leave the tart. “Damn. Looks like something you’d put in a museum. Or on the altar of a pastry cult.”

Sasuke lifted the dome and slid the plate forward, silent invitation.

Naruto took a bite.

His expression shifted instantly—something softened behind his eyes. He chewed slowly, then let out a breath, almost like a sigh.

“This tastes like... the first day you realize fall is your favorite season,” he said, voice low. “Like, cozy and a little sad but in a good way. You know?”

Sasuke didn’t know. But he listened.

Naruto set the fork down gently and looked at him. Really looked.

“You made this for me,” he said—not teasing, not accusing. Just... stating it, like a truth hanging in the air between them.

Sasuke held his gaze. “I made it,” he said, carefully.

Naruto leaned on the counter, arms folded, smile curved at the edges like he knew exactly what Sasuke wasn’t saying.

They stood like that for a moment—quiet, the morning light spilling through the windows in soft, golden slants. Jazz murmured low from the stereo. Somewhere behind the counter, the oven timer dinged, but Sasuke didn’t move.

“I want to draw you something,” Naruto said suddenly.

Sasuke blinked. “What?”

“A design. For you,” he clarified, voice softer now. “Not a fox. Not anything with knives or skulls. Just... something that feels like you.”

Sasuke hesitated. “You don’t know what that is.”

Naruto shrugged. “Maybe not. But I think I’m starting to.”

There was a pause. Sasuke looked away first, reaching for the empty plate, wiping down the counter like it gave him something to do with his hands.

“Fine,” he muttered. “One design.”

Naruto grinned.

“Cool. I already started it.”

Naruto showed him the design, a faint buzz of excitement beneath his usual casual air,, the sketch folded neatly into a napkin like it was something fragile. Sasuke unfolded it slowly, careful not to smudge the pencil lines.

It was small—precise, elegant. Inked in fine lines and soft shading: a tiny canelé, perfectly shaped, the ridges subtle but clear, its caramelized top captured with a delicate touch of shadow. Somehow, Naruto had taken something simple and made it meaningful—quiet, refined, and unmistakably him .

Sasuke stared at it for a long moment.

Then he said, “Something small.”

Naruto tilted his head, a slow grin spreading. “This is small.” Naruto didn’t say I thought so . He didn’t say I made it for you . 

So they scheduled it. Late in the evening, after Kurama Ink had closed and the rain had started again outside—because it always seemed to rain when something mattered.

Naruto didn’t talk much while he worked, and Sasuke didn’t need him to. The whine of the machine, the hum of jazz through the speakers, the warmth of Naruto’s hand steadying his wrist—it was enough. Intimate in a way that went deeper than words.

And then it was done.

The next week, Sasuke wore a bandage on his inner wrist. Neat, precise, taped down like a secret. Customers didn’t notice. Staff didn’t ask.

Only Naruto saw it—his eyes flicking to it once, the way someone looks at a shared memory. Sasuke caught the glance, said nothing. When someone finally asked about it, he answered with a shrug.

“It’s private.”

But at night, when the shop was closed and the silence settled in like sugar dust on countertops, Sasuke would sit alone by the kitchen window and peel the gauze back carefully.

He would trace the lines with a finger—black and crisp, the shape of the pastry rendered with almost reverent detail. A canelé. Elegant. Understated.

Bittersweet.

Just like him.

—-

It wasn’t the kind of tattoo that demanded to be seen.

It wasn’t sprawled across skin or screaming for attention. It was tucked away, close to bone and pulse, in a place only someone intentional would notice. Someone invited.

Naruto never mentioned it again. Not directly.

But a few days later, he stopped by Mangekyō Pan-kyō  near closing time. He didn’t order anything, just sat at his usual spot at the back table, sketchbook in hand, thumb idly spinning a pencil as he stared out at the dimming street.

Sasuke brought him a coffee without asking. Set it down. Didn’t say anything.

“You ever regret it?” Naruto asked suddenly, voice low. Not casual—not really.

Sasuke didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He leaned against the table, folding his arms. “The tattoo?”

Naruto nodded, not quite looking at him. “It’s permanent, you know.”

“I’m aware,” Sasuke said dryly.

Naruto huffed a small laugh. “Guess I’m just used to people getting stuff like that for the wrong reasons. Impulse. Dares. Because it looks cool on someone else.”

Sasuke looked down at his wrist, hidden beneath the cuff of his sleeve. The canelé wasn’t about sweetness. It wasn’t about pastries, either.

“I don’t regret it,” he said quietly. “It’s mine.”

Naruto looked up at him then—really looked. There was something unguarded in his face. Soft, but not fragile. Open in a way that Sasuke still didn’t entirely know how to hold.

“I’ve drawn hundreds of things,” Naruto said. “For other people. Custom designs, cover-ups, matching sets with initials they’ll forget in six months. But that one... that one mattered.”

Sasuke didn’t answer. Just met his gaze and held it.

Then, after a long moment, he rolled up his sleeve and turned his wrist toward the light.

The canelé sat there, small and precise. Just a flicker of black ink against pale skin. Naruto’s work. His hands. His intention, pressed into skin like memory.

Sasuke let him see it.

Naruto’s fingers hovered just shy of it, not quite touching. “Can I...?”

Sasuke nodded.

And Naruto did. Lightly. Just a brush of fingers against ink and skin and everything neither of them had been saying for weeks. It wasn’t electric. It wasn’t cinematic. It was quieter than that. Steady. Real.

“You made it,” Sasuke said, his voice almost a whisper.

Naruto looked up, expression unreadable but soft at the edges. “Yeah,” he said. “But it belongs to you now.”

Sasuke’s hand didn’t move.

Neither did Naruto’s.

The moment passed—but not because it broke.

Naruto’s hand eventually fell away, casual in the way that people pretend not to care when they absolutely do. Sasuke rolled his sleeve back down, slow and deliberate, as if he hadn’t just let someone see something no one else ever would.

Neither of them mentioned it again.

The days slipped by with a strange new rhythm. Naruto still came to Mangekyō Pan-kyō —always near closing, always bringing his sketchbook but rarely opening it. Sometimes he brought a thermos of tea, sometimes nothing at all. Occasionally, he helped stack chairs without being asked. They didn’t talk much about important things. Just the weather. Music. A weird customer Sasuke had earlier. A back tattoo Naruto was halfway through.

They never said anything about the tattoo on Sasuke’s wrist, or the way he’d stopped wearing long sleeves when Naruto was around.

But the tension lingered.

It lived in the silences between them, taut and electric. In the way Naruto would glance up when Sasuke passed by his table, eyes catching for a beat too long. In the way Sasuke would pause behind the counter just to watch Naruto flip through his sketchbook, pages worn at the edges, full of things he hadn’t shown anyone else.

One night, the rain was falling harder than usual. A cold wind slipped in through the door every time someone left, and by the time the shop emptied out, the front windows were fogged in ghostly white.

Naruto was already at the back table, a familiar presence in the quiet.

Sasuke approached with two mugs of black coffee this time. No pastries. No distractions.

Naruto looked up, a faint smile playing at the edge of his mouth. “You ever think this is weird?”

Sasuke raised an eyebrow. “What is?”

“This.” Naruto gestured around. “Me. Here. You, tolerating it.”

Sasuke stared at him a moment, then sat across from him.

“I don’t tolerate things I don’t want around,” he said simply.

Naruto blinked. Then grinned, bright and wide, like something about that answer mattered more than it should have.

“Well,” he said, picking up the mug, “guess I’ll stop worrying about overstaying my welcome.”

Sasuke didn’t smile, but he didn’t look away either.

The shop hummed with the soft clatter of rain and jazz low on the stereo. 

—-

It began, as most things with Sasuke did, without warning.

One overcast afternoon, he walked into Kurama Ink without calling ahead. His black apron was still tied around his waist, faintly dusted with flour and powdered sugar. He smelled faintly of burnt caramel and espresso. His expression, as always, gave away nothing.

Naruto was seated at the front desk, hunched over a sketchpad, half-focused on a page of foxes and flame motifs while absently eating cold curry out of a takeout container. He looked up, startled.

Sasuke stepped closer.

“I need one of your needles,” he said, tone flat and matter-of-fact.

Naruto blinked. “Uh. Okay. Gonna need you to be a little more specific. What kind of needle are we talking here? Tattooing? Sewing? Acupuncture? Murder?”

Sasuke didn’t reply. He just extended a gloved hand, palm up, as if that explained everything.

Naruto stared for a beat, then slowly set his chopsticks down.

“…This feels like one of those ‘I shouldn’t ask questions’ moments.”

Still, he turned to his workstation, rifling through organized drawers and sealed packets until he pulled out a pristine liner needle—finely tipped, sterile, the kind used for delicate linework and precision detailing.

He handed it over without ceremony.

“This is professional-grade,” he said, pointing a chopstick like it was a warning. “I want it back. Clean. Preferably not covered in blood, pastry cream, or vengeance.”

Sasuke nodded once and took it, tucking it into his apron like it was a natural extension of his kitchen tools.

Then, without so much as a thank you, he turned and walked out, the bell above the shop door jingling faintly behind him.

Naruto stared after him, chopsticks hovering in midair. He muttered to himself.

“What the hell does a baker need with a precision liner needle?”

And then, because it was Sasuke, he figured he’d find out eventually.

Probably.

Maybe.

If Sasuke ever decided to tell him.

Which—realistically—he wouldn’t.

He didn’t return it for two days.

Naruto told himself it was fine. Totally fine. Naruto told himself it wasn’t a big deal. He was chill. Extremely chill. The chillest.  The kind of guy who didn’t get wound up over a single missing tattoo needle—even if it was a rare, imported liner he’d special-ordered from Kyoto, and even if it did cost more than his last grocery run. Nope. Not a problem.

But by the third day, his chill cracked like a dropped macaron shell.

He headed to Mangekyō Pan-kyō  after closing, when the city had started to dim and quiet around the edges. The windows of the bakery glowed faintly gold, and through the glass, he could still catch the ghost of jazz playing somewhere in the ceiling.

The closed sign hung in the door. Naruto knocked once—then let himself in without waiting.

“Sasuke?” he called, stepping inside. “You alive back here, or did the croissants finally rise up and devour you?”

No answer.

Just the soft, precise sounds of movement in the kitchen. Metal clinking. Something being piped.

Naruto followed the noise and peeked around the corner.

And stopped.

Sasuke stood at his worktable, brow drawn in intense focus, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. A tray of impossibly delicate miniature cakes sat in front of him like tiny edible sculptures. One gloved hand held a tart steady. The other—

“ Are you using my tattoo needle as a piping tool?! ” Naruto shouted, voice cracking halfway through.

Sasuke didn’t flinch. “It’s precise.”

“That’s not what it’s for!”

“It’s sterilized.”

“That’s still not what it’s for!”

With surgical calm, Sasuke added one final drop of ultra-fine icing to the center of a raspberry tart. He looked completely unbothered.

“Your needles have better line control than any piping nozzle I own,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“That’s because they’re made to pierce human flesh,” Naruto sputtered, storming into the kitchen. “Not—frost mille-feuille!” 

But he stopped mid-rant when he got a closer look.

The pastries were... art.

Tiny layered tarts with filigree icing like lace, mille-feuille with crisp layers and abstract chocolate shapes, cream puffs dusted with sugar and decorated with what looked suspiciously like stylized sakura petals—and one tart, so meticulously piped it bore the unmistakable shape of the Uchiha fan crest in white chocolate.

“…Are those sakura petals?” he asked, pointing at a puff.

“They’re stylized,” Sasuke said coolly.

“You made an aesthetic decision using my needle?!”

Sasuke glanced at him, dark eyes flat. “You said you wanted it back clean.”

“Not glazed in raspberry compote and existential betrayal!”

Naruto stood there, equal parts horrified and impressed. His mouth opened, then closed. He looked at Sasuke, who remained maddeningly smug, and finally sighed like he’d aged ten years.

“You’re so lucky this is the most on-brand crime I’ve ever seen.”

Sasuke smirked faintly. “Want one?”

Naruto scowled, but his hand moved before his pride could stop it. He picked up the sakura-topped cream puff and took a bite.

Silence. Then a slow blink.

“…Goddamn it,” he muttered, cream on his lower lip. “That’s good.”

Sasuke didn’t say I told you so , but it was there—in the way he looked at Naruto, in the subtle shift of his shoulders, in the smug tilt of his mouth as he turned back to the tray.

Naruto licked sugar off his thumb and muttered, “Next time you borrow one, I’m billing you for emotional trauma.”

“I paid you in pastries.”

“I ate your crime, Uchiha.”

Sasuke shrugged, already reaching for another tart to finish detailing.

—-

Later that week, while restocking supplies and reorganizing his ever-chaotic workstation, Naruto opened the drawer where his precious needles lived—and froze.

There it was.

Nestled neatly between sterile packs and ink caps: the missing liner needle, re-sealed in fresh plastic, clean as the day it shipped from Kyoto.

Beside it sat a small black pastry box, matte and minimalist, tied with a thin gold ribbon. Taped to the top was a plain white label, scrawled in neat, sharp handwriting:

For culinary emergencies.
Do not tattoo.
– S.

Naruto stared at it for a second. Then again. Then burst out laughing—loud, full-bodied, tears-in-his-eyes laughing that echoed through the shop like a storm breaking.

He laughed until he had to sit down. Until his ribs ached. Until one of his apprentices poked their head out from the back and asked if he was okay, and he just waved them off, still wheezing.

Then, when he could finally breathe again, he wiped his eyes, gently placed the box and needle back in the drawer, and locked it with an exaggerated flourish.

—-

Sasuke thought he’d gotten away with it.

Sure, Naruto had made a scene over the tattoo needle—something loud and vaguely sacrilegious about “sacred tools of the trade” and *“you’re lucky you’re hot”—*but eventually, he’d let it go. No permanent damage done. He still showed up at Mangekyō Pan-kyō  like clockwork, still inhaled three pastries at a time like it was his god-given right, still made stupid comments about jazz being “music for emotionally repressed ghosts.”

So when Naruto strolled in one Saturday morning—quiet, suspiciously well-behaved, not a single jab at the Miles Davis playing overhead—Sasuke should have known.

Instead, he handed him a croissant without a word, half-distracted by his tray of citrus tarts, and returned to his work like a man who didn’t yet know sabotage was unfolding in real time.

“Busy in the kitchen today?” Naruto asked, resting his arms on the counter with fake casualness.

Sasuke didn’t look up. “Why.”

Naruto shrugged. “No reason. Just wondering how you’re gonna make twenty cream puffs with no offset spatula.”

Sasuke paused.

Turned.

Slowly.

“…What.”

Naruto’s grin bloomed like a sunrise. From the pocket of his hoodie, he produced a sleek, high-carbon steel spatula—the one Sasuke guarded like it was a wand from Ollivander’s. The one with perfect balance, the only one that didn’t throw off the curl of his choux.

Sasuke stared like he'd just witnessed a kitchen war crime.

“You—”

“I needed it,” Naruto said, utterly unapologetic. “For something delicate.”

Sasuke came around the counter like a predator.

“What did you do with it.”

Naruto held the spatula aloft like a trophy. “Art. You wouldn’t understand.”

Sasuke advanced another step. “ What. Did you do. ”

“I cleaned it!” Naruto said quickly. “Twice! Sterilized it. No pathogens were harmed in the making of my masterpiece.”

Sasuke looked like he was genuinely debating whether murder or exile would be less paperwork.

“You used my pastry tool,” he said slowly, “ on someone’s skin. ”

Naruto held up a hand. “Correction. I used your pastry tool to enhance someone’s skin. You know that koi fish piece I did yesterday?”

Sasuke did. It had been on Naruto’s Instagram, flowing down someone’s ribcage with impossible depth.

Naruto grinned wider. “Shading on the scales? Chef’s kiss. Your spatula has insane pressure control. It’s basically a shader brush in disguise.”

Sasuke stared at him. At the spatula. At the universe that had betrayed him.

“You’ve doomed this tool to a life of shame.”

Naruto leaned in, smug. “You piped buttercream florals with my tattoo needle. Let he who is without cross-disciplinary sin cast the first éclair.”

Sasuke rubbed his temples with the weariness of a man twice his age. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I’m reconsidering.”

Naruto flopped into his usual seat, helping himself to a second croissant without asking. “You love it. Admit it. We're revolutionizing our crafts.”

Sasuke sighed. Then, very carefully, took the spatula from Naruto’s hand. Turned it over. Ran his thumb along the edge. His brow furrowed.

“…You really used this for shading?”

“Like a dream. The handle’s got ergonomic flow, man. I’m telling you, the Uchiha brand of passive-aggression somehow translated into perfect grip dynamics.”

Sasuke muttered something in Japanese that Naruto was pretty sure wasn’t flattering.

But—he didn’t throw the spatula out. Didn’t even glare that hard. Instead, he wiped it down with his heaviest-grade cleaner, returned it to his case like nothing had happened, and said flatly, “You’re buying me a new one.”

Naruto grinned, already pulling out his wallet. “Deal. But I’m naming the koi after you.”

Sasuke paused.

“You already did, didn’t you.”

Naruto’s grin turned absolutely wicked. “It’s called Dobe. ”

Sasuke closed his eyes like he was trying to reboot his entire nervous system.

Then, without a word, reached into the display case and handed Naruto a shortbread tart—sugar-dusted, geometrically perfect, the citrus slices arrayed in a pattern that looked like a stylized sunburst.

“At least let me feed you before you commit further aesthetic crimes.”

Naruto bit in.

His eyes fluttered shut.

“…Okay. That’s criminal. You’ve weaponized citrus.”

Sasuke said nothing, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Naruto caught it. Didn’t comment. Just leaned back in his chair, chewing slowly.

Revenge, it turned out, tasted like candied orange peel and silent victory.

And he couldn’t wait to get even again.

—-

A few days passed.

The spatula incident became another entry in their ongoing ledger of minor betrayals and pastry-themed warfare. Sasuke replaced it, of course. Naruto left a sticker of a koi in sunglasses on the new one, which Sasuke peeled off without comment. They returned to their routine like nothing had happened—except now, every conversation seemed to stretch a little longer. Every silence hung a little heavier.

Then it happened.

It was late—a Thursday, closing time. Rain tapped soft against the windows of Mangekyō Pan-kyō , blurring the world outside into watercolor. The shop was quiet, warm with the scent of butter and burnt sugar. Sasuke stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, polishing his knives like it was a meditation. Naruto sat at the window, sketching something in a travel notebook, half-eaten financier beside him.

He’d been quieter that night. Not in a bad way—just… different. Thoughtful. Like a joke was waiting, but hadn’t quite made it out yet.

“Hey,” he said suddenly.

Sasuke looked up. “Hm?”

Naruto turned toward him, tapping the pencil against his chin. “Serious question. Don’t throw anything.”

Sasuke arched a brow. “That depends entirely on the question.”

Naruto smiled, quick and crooked. “Would you go out with me?”

The words hung there—simple, unpolished. No lead-up. No fanfare. Just a truth, laid bare between bites of cake and the soft hum of jazz.

Sasuke didn’t answer right away.

He just stared. Not shocked, exactly. But quiet in a way that made Naruto’s chest go tight.

“…Like,” Naruto continued, voice a little lower now, a little more careful, “a real date. Not pastry blackmail or emotionally charged utensil theft. Just… me. You. Outside this place. Somewhere you don’t have to wear an apron.”

The pause stretched.

Sasuke set his cloth down with precision. Then walked out from behind the counter, slow and deliberate, until he stood in front of Naruto—arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

“You’re asking me out,” he said. Not a question. A statement. Like he was turning the words over, inspecting them for cracks.

Naruto nodded once. “Yeah. I am.”

Sasuke was quiet for another heartbeat. Then—

“Okay.”

Naruto blinked. “Wait. Okay okay? Or like, sarcastic Sasuke okay that actually means go die in a ditch?”

Sasuke sighed. “ Yes. Okay. I’ll go.”

Naruto grinned so wide it looked like it hurt. “Holy shit.”

Sasuke stepped past him, grabbed a pastry box from the counter, and started packing the last financier with meticulous care.

“You’re paying,” he said.

“Obviously.”

“And I pick the place.”

“Also fair.”

He handed over the box. Their fingers brushed, just briefly.

Naruto’s grin softened. “This is the part where I make a really bad joke and ruin the moment, right?”

Sasuke gave him a flat look. “Don’t.”

Naruto held up his hands. “No promises.”

But he didn’t ruin it. He just took the box, tipped an invisible hat, and murmured, “Can’t wait, Dobe .”

Sasuke didn’t smile. Not quite.

But his ears were pink.

And Naruto noticed.

—-

The Date: T-minus 2 Hours

Sasuke, true to his word, picked the place.

It was a tiny yakitori bar on a back street in Nakameguro, wedged between a used bookshop and a plant store. No neon signs, no crowds. Just a charcoal grill, ten stools, and an old man behind the counter who didn’t believe in menus.

Which was exactly how Sasuke liked it—quiet, unpretentious, smoky. He could blend into the shadows, eat skewered things in peace, and avoid any setting where someone might use the word "vibe."

Still, he was… prepping. Not overthinking. Just… considering.

He stood in front of his mirror, hair still damp from the shower, pulling on a crisp black shirt. Collar open. Cuffs rolled.

He paused.

Then unrolled the cuffs. Too formal?

Then rolled them back. Too uptight?

He muttered something under his breath and changed shirts entirely.

He did not think about how Naruto would look. Or how close they might sit at the counter. Or whether the faint scent of vanilla from the bakery clung to him like a secret.

When he finally laced up his boots, he glanced down at his wrist—the canelé tattoo hidden beneath a dark watchband. Small. Bittersweet.

He smoothed his thumb over it once, then grabbed his coat and locked up.

Meanwhile, 

Naruto was tearing through his apartment like a very determined hurricane.

“Where’s my good hoodie?” he demanded of no one, tossing aside a pile of laundry. “No, not the ramen-stained one—damn it—where’s the black one with the stitched sleeves?”

He found it eventually, under a sketchbook and half a burrito.

He held it up, sniffed it, frowned. Tossed it in the dryer with a dryer sheet and a prayer.

Next came the mirror check.

Naruto wasn’t exactly insecure—he liked the way he looked. But this felt… different. Not a hookup. Not a hang. Not just "casually harass a hot baker and eat his entire pastry case." This was a date.

With Sasuke.

He ran his fingers through his hair, tousled it more, then frowned and tried to smooth it down. No good. He tousled it again.

Eventually, he said “screw it,” threw on a silver chain and his lucky boots, and went hunting for cologne that didn’t smell like regret.

Before leaving, he paused by the tiny fox statue near his front door—a kitsune charm he'd had since high school. He tapped it twice for luck, then grabbed the sketch he’d been working on for a week and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Just in case.

—-

The Yakitori Bar

8:17 p.m.

The place was exactly as Sasuke remembered.

Dim lighting. The hiss of dripping fat on hot coals. A radio playing old enka through crackling speakers. The owner, gruff and mostly silent, gave him a small nod when he walked in.

Naruto arrived three minutes later—jogging, a little breathless, hoodie zipped halfway up and hair still damp at the ends. He stopped just inside the doorway, eyes sweeping the narrow space, then landed on Sasuke at the corner of the bar.

He smiled.

Sasuke’s heartbeat did something annoying. He ignored it.

“Sorry,” Naruto said, sliding onto the stool beside him. “Had to fight traffic. And a dryer.”

“You’re only a few minutes late.”

“I panicked. What if you bailed because I was late? What if I showed up and you were just a pile of smoke and disdain?”

Sasuke gave him a flat look. “I’m not that dramatic.”

Naruto grinned, eyes crinkling. “Sure you’re not . ”

Sasuke glared. The chef grunted from behind the counter. Without a word, he placed two mugs of cold beer in front of them and began setting skewers on the grill.

No menu. No choices. You got what the chef felt like making. Sasuke had warned him.

Naruto took a sip, then leaned in slightly, voice lower.

“So… this is nice. Quiet. Very you.”

“You expected a rooftop rave?”

“I expected a dungeon with knives.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Sasuke muttered, but the edge of his mouth quirked.

They ate in stretches of comfortable silence, broken by soft commentary.

Chicken thigh with yuzu pepper. Charred shishito. A skewer of duck breast so tender Naruto actually groaned.

“That good?” Sasuke asked, dry.

“I wanna marry this duck,” Naruto said reverently. “Sorry in advance if this date ends with me eloping with food.”

Sasuke didn’t laugh, but he made a low sound in his throat that might have been the ghost of one.

Then—between skewers, between glances—Naruto shifted, elbow brushing Sasuke’s just slightly on the bar.

He didn’t pull away.

Neither did Sasuke.

The warmth sat there. Quiet. Steady.

Eventually, Naruto wiped his fingers on a napkin, cleared his throat, and pulled something from his jacket pocket. A folded sheet of sketch paper, worn at the corners.

“I, uh… wasn’t gonna show you this. But.”

He unfolded it and slid it across the counter.

It was a drawing—ink, clean lines, soft shading. A small pastry box, half-open. Inside: tiny, perfect desserts. And curled around them like a guardian fox spirit was a stylized version of Naruto’s tattoo—a swirl of tails and fire and laughter.

Sasuke stared.

“You drew this.”

“Yeah. I don’t know. Just… kept thinking about you. About Mangekyō Pan-kyō . About all the things you make and don’t eat.”

He laughed a little, rubbed the back of his neck.

“It’s stupid. I just thought… if you ever wanted something more permanent than sugar.”

Sasuke didn’t speak for a long moment.

Then: “It’s not stupid.”

He traced the edge of the paper with a fingertip. Not quite touching the drawing. Just close enough to feel it.

Naruto watched him, suddenly nervous. “Too much?”

“No,” Sasuke said softly. “It’s… enough.”

Naruto smiled, wide and relieved and golden.

And when they stepped out into the cool Tokyo night, the air smelled like smoke and rain and something just beginning.

Sasuke didn’t reach for his hand.

But he didn’t flinch when Naruto brushed their fingers together.

And Naruto?

Naruto didn’t say a word.

He just stayed beside him the whole walk home.

—-

The morning after, Sasuke didn’t expect him to stay.

He’d walked Naruto home in the rain, under shared silence and neon reflections, every step wrapped in the kind of tension that felt less like a string pulled tight and more like one being tuned—delicately, purposefully, until it rang true.

They hadn’t kissed.

Naruto hadn’t tried.

And Sasuke had half-expected that to be the end of it.

But now, in the soft gray light of morning, there was the unmistakable sound of humming coming from his kitchen.

Humming.

Sasuke sat up on the couch—where he’d fallen asleep reading emails, naturally—and stared at the hallway like it had personally betrayed him.

Then: the clink of ceramic. The hiss of the kettle.

He found Naruto standing in front of his espresso machine, squinting at the controls like they were part of a spaceship.

“…You shouldn’t be in here,” Sasuke said.

Naruto jumped a little but didn’t look sorry. He grinned over his shoulder. “Your machine tried to kill me.”

“It’s an Elektra Verve. It’s not meant for amateurs.”

“I pushed the steam button and it screamed.”

“That’s what it’s supposed to do.”

Naruto stuck out his tongue and went back to what he was doing, somehow coaxing the machine into brewing something drinkable. He was barefoot, wearing the same clothes from last night, but his hoodie was slung over the back of a chair and his hair was sticking up in ways that made Sasuke feel vaguely off-balance.

There was something terrifyingly domestic about it.

“Why are you here?” Sasuke asked, softer than he meant.

Naruto didn’t look at him this time. Just poured a mug—black, no sugar—and pushed it across the counter like he knew exactly how Sasuke took it.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Kept thinking about you.”

Sasuke stared at the mug. At Naruto’s hands. At the quiet tension behind those words.

Then Naruto leaned forward on his elbows, voice low and honest.

“You don’t let people close, I get that. But I think I’m already in. Somewhere between the croissants and the stolen spatula and that stupid little canelé on your wrist.”

Sasuke’s fingers curled slightly against the countertop.

“I’m not easy,” he said, quietly. “I don’t say things out loud. I don’t always know how.”

Naruto gave a slow, crooked smile.

“Yeah. But you listen. And you show up. And you gave me a pastry that tasted like being seen.”

A beat.

Then Sasuke picked up the coffee and took a slow sip.

“…It needs less pressure on the tamp,” he said. “But not bad.”

Naruto’s grin broke across his face like sunlight.

And for a while, that was enough.

No declarations. No sudden kiss. Just shared coffee, soft jazz from the speaker in the corner, and the warmth of two people realizing that “more” didn’t have to mean fireworks.

Sometimes, it just meant staying.

—-

It happened after closing.

Mangekyō Pan-kyō  was quiet, lit only by the warm under-glow of the shelves and the last of the fading twilight. The jazz had long since faded to silence. The pastries were boxed for tomorrow. The counters wiped down. And Sasuke stood behind the bar, drying a glass he’d already cleaned twice.

Naruto sat at one of the tall stools, spinning it idly with the side of his foot, watching Sasuke the way he always did—like he was trying to memorize him without being obvious.

“You always this tense after hours?” he asked softly.

Sasuke didn’t answer right away. He set the glass down, folded the towel. “Sometimes.”

Naruto tilted his head. “Want help?”

“With what?”

“Whatever’s making you look like that glass personally offended you.”

Sasuke huffed a quiet breath. Almost a laugh. “It didn’t.”

“Good,” Naruto said, and stood—moving toward the counter slowly, carefully, like he was approaching something wild. “Because I’ve been waiting weeks to do this, and I’d hate to get interrupted by a glass.”

Sasuke looked up, startled.

Naruto was close. Not crowding. Just... there. Steady. Real. Waiting in the space between breaths.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Sasuke said, voice low and barely above the hush of the quiet shop.

Naruto smiled. “Then let me.”

And he leaned in—not fast, not demanding, but sure. One hand braced lightly on the counter, the other lifting just enough to graze Sasuke’s jaw with the back of his fingers, slow and reverent.

Sasuke didn’t move at first. Just stood there, watching him.

Then—barely perceptible—he leaned in, too.

The kiss was soft. No fireworks, no movie-score swells. Just warmth, and a tremble in the space between certainty and surrender. Naruto kissed like he’d been thinking about it for a long time. Sasuke kissed like he was still deciding—but couldn’t stop himself.

When they pulled apart, Naruto didn’t say anything at first.

Just looked at him.

Sasuke’s eyes fluttered open, pupils dilated in the dim light. His lips parted like he was about to speak—but didn’t.

Naruto bumped their foreheads gently. “You good?”

Sasuke nodded, once. Then again. Firmer. “Yeah.”

Naruto grinned. “Cool. Because I’d really like to do that again sometime.”

Sasuke stared at him.

Then, quiet and steady: “You can.”

They didn’t say much as they left the shop.

Sasuke locked the door behind them, pocketed the keys like it was any other night. But it wasn’t. Not really. There was still the ghost of Naruto’s mouth on his, the faint warmth of it blooming at the edges of his ribs. He didn’t know where to put that feeling yet—so he didn’t try. Just walked beside Naruto under a sky smeared with stars, the streetlights humming low above them.

Naruto didn’t fill the silence. That was new. He stayed close, hands in the pockets of his jacket, shoulder brushing Sasuke’s now and then as if by accident. It wasn’t.

His apartment wasn’t far. A few blocks. Past a mural Naruto had painted with his crew last summer, past the ramen place that stayed open too late. Sasuke knew the way by now.

But tonight, it felt different.

When they reached Naruto’s door, neither of them moved right away.

Naruto leaned against the frame and looked at him—not searching, not teasing. Just there, open and real in a way that Sasuke had spent most of his life avoiding.

“You wanna come up?” he asked.

Sasuke held his gaze for a beat. Then, “Yeah.”

Naruto’s apartment was warm, cluttered, lived-in. Plants on the windowsill. Sketches taped to the walls. An unfinished painting leaned against the side of the couch. There was a comfort to it, the kind that came from someone who didn’t pretend to be anything but exactly who they were.

Sasuke stood in the doorway for a moment, taking it in.

“You okay?” Naruto asked, toeing off his boots.

“Yeah,” Sasuke said, quieter than before. “It’s just… real.”

Naruto looked at him over his shoulder. “You want it not to be?”

“No,” Sasuke said. “I just don’t know what to do with it.”

Naruto crossed the room, slow and careful again. Like he always was with Sasuke.

“You don’t have to do anything with it,” he said. “Just be here.”

So Sasuke was.

They didn’t go to bed right away. They sat on the floor, backs against the couch, sipping leftover jasmine tea and talking about nothing. At some point Naruto kicked his legs over Sasuke’s lap and didn’t move them. At some point Sasuke stopped minding.

It was late when Naruto finally touched him again—just a hand, brushing down his arm to his wrist, finding that small, hidden tattoo of the canelé. His thumb passed over it once, soft.

“You didn’t just get this for the aesthetic, did you?”

Sasuke didn’t answer right away.

Then, finally: “No.”

Naruto smiled. “Good.”

They kissed again. Slower this time. Not tentative. Not questioning. Just the warm, steady kind of kiss that said: I’m still here.

And later, when they did fall asleep—tangled up on the too-small couch, a blanket half-thrown over them, one of Naruto’s fox-print pillows wedged under Sasuke’s shoulder—neither of them said anything.

—-

The morning sun spilled through the slats of Naruto’s blinds, casting lazy lines of gold across the couch. Sasuke blinked awake first—because of course he did—and lay still for a moment, listening to the slow, even rhythm of Naruto’s breathing beside him.

They were a tangle of limbs. One of Naruto’s arms was slung over his waist, warm and heavy. His face was pressed into the crook of Sasuke’s shoulder, his hair a golden mess. Sasuke considered moving.

He didn’t.

Instead, he let the moment stretch out, quiet and strange in its comfort.

Naruto stirred eventually, blinking groggily up at him.

“Morning,” he mumbled, voice gravel-thick with sleep.

Sasuke gave a faint nod. “You drool.”

Naruto snorted and shoved him half-heartedly. “Yeah, well, you smell like almond flour and moral superiority.”

Sasuke raised a brow. “You’re not complaining when you’re inhaling lemon tarts like oxygen.”

Naruto yawned and stretched, grinning as he flopped dramatically onto his back. “Honestly, if I end up in the hospital with sugar-induced cardiac arrest, it’s gonna be your fault.”

“You say that like I’m force-feeding you.”

“You are ,” Naruto said, pointing accusingly. “Do you know how many pastries I’ve eaten since I met you? I used to have abs. I was a temple. Now look at me.”

Sasuke glanced over him, unimpressed. “Still looks like a shrine to bad decisions.”

Naruto gasped, hand over his chest. “ Rude. I’m a monument to resilience and good ink, thank you.”

Sasuke smirked faintly, standing and stretching with the elegance of someone who actually didn’t eat three pastries a day. “You’re going to get cavities.”

“Worth it,” Naruto muttered, already reaching for his phone. “Though I might need you to make me a protein croissant or something. For balance.”

Sasuke shot him a deadpan look. “That’s not how that works.”

Naruto shrugged. “Still gonna ask. I’m basically your best customer now. I should get perks.”

“You get free samples.”

“I get temptation,” Naruto corrected. “And glazes that make me question my life choices.”

Sasuke moved toward the door, grabbing his coat. “Maybe I’ll bring something sugar-free next time.”

Naruto made a face like Sasuke had personally insulted his grandmother. “ Cruel. ”

But his voice softened a beat later, when Sasuke paused at the door and glanced back.

“You coming by later?” Naruto asked.

Sasuke gave a slight nod. “If you haven’t keeled over from pastry-induced diabetes.”

Naruto grinned, crooked and sure. “Don’t worry. I’ll die happy.”

Sasuke didn’t smile exactly. But something shifted in his expression—warmth that only Naruto seemed able to draw out.

“Save me a spot on the couch.”

“Always,” Naruto said, and meant it.

Chapter Text

Three Weeks Later…

The first time Sasuke showed up at Kurama Ink with actual groceries instead of leftover pastries, Naruto nearly dropped his tattoo gun.

"What's all this?" he asked, eyeing the canvas bags with suspicion.

Sasuke set them down on the counter with practiced efficiency, already unpacking ingredients like he was performing surgery. "You said you wanted protein. Real food."

"I said I wanted a protein croissant. As a joke."

"I don't do jokes with food."

Naruto watched, fascinated despite himself, as Sasuke produced a small camping stove, a cast iron pan, eggs, spinach, and what looked like homemade bread wrapped in parchment.

"You're gonna cook? Here?"

"Your kitchen consists of a mini-fridge and a coffee maker that's held together with electrical tape," Sasuke said flatly. "This is an intervention."

"My coffee maker works fine!"

"It sparks when you turn it on."

"That's... ambiance."

Sasuke gave him a look that could have curdled milk. Then he cracked an egg into the pan with the kind of precision that made Naruto's heart do something stupid.

The shop filled with the scent of butter and herbs, an odd counterpoint to the usual smell of ink and antiseptic. Naruto's client—a college student getting her first tattoo, a delicate cherry blossom on her wrist—kept glancing over at the impromptu cooking show.

"Is that your boyfriend?" she whispered.

Naruto's hand stilled for just a moment. "Yeah," he said, surprising himself with how easily the word came. "He worries about my nutrition."

The girl smiled. "That's sweet."

Sasuke, overhearing, made a noncommittal sound that might have been agreement or disgust. Hard to tell with him.

Twenty minutes later, Naruto was eating the best spinach and herb omelet of his life while trying to maintain steady hands for linework.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered around a bite. "I can't concentrate on tattooing when you're being domestic."

"Then eat faster."

"I'm savoring. There's a difference."

Sasuke cleaned his makeshift cooking station with military precision, then settled into the chair by the window with a book—something thick and serious-looking about Japanese pastry techniques. He read in the same focused way he did everything else, occasionally glancing up to watch Naruto work.

It was... comfortable. Domestic in a way that should have been terrifying but wasn't.

When Naruto finished the tattoo and sent his client on her way with aftercare instructions, he found Sasuke still reading, now with his legs stretched out and a cup of tea—where had he gotten tea?—steaming beside him.

"You planning to set up a permanent kitchen here?" Naruto asked, settling onto the arm of Sasuke's chair.

"Depends. You going to keep surviving on convenience store ramen and whatever I bring you?"

"I eat other things."

"Name one."

Naruto opened his mouth, then closed it. "Cereal counts."

"Cereal is not food."

"Says who?"

"Says anyone with a functioning digestive system."

Naruto leaned down to press a kiss to the top of Sasuke's head, breathing in the scent of his shampoo—something clean and understated, like him. "You're lucky you're cute when you're judgmental."

Sasuke's ears went pink, but he didn't pull away. "I'm not cute."

"Right. Devastatingly handsome. Dangerously attractive. A walking thirst trap in an apron."

"Stop."

"Criminally sexy. A menace to public—"

Sasuke reached up and covered Naruto's mouth with his hand, but there was fondness in the gesture. Naruto licked his palm, earning a disgusted look and a swat to the back of his head.

"Gross."

"You love it."

Sasuke didn't deny it.

—--

Sasuke discovered that Naruto owned exactly two clean shirts.

It happened on a Tuesday morning—one of those soft, overcast days when the city felt wrapped in gauze. Sasuke had stayed over again, which was becoming a habit he refused to acknowledge as anything more than convenience. Naruto's couch was decent. His coffee was passable. And if he happened to wake up with golden hair tickling his jaw and an arm slung possessively across his ribs, well—that was just efficient use of space.

He was halfway through getting dressed when he realized his shirt from the night before had somehow acquired a large coffee stain. Right across the chest. Dark, obvious, and completely unwearable.

"Shit," he muttered, holding it up to the light like that might make it better.

"What's wrong?" Naruto called from the kitchen, where he was doing something that involved a lot of clattering and what sounded suspiciously like him talking to the coffee maker.

"My shirt's ruined."

"Oh. Wear one of mine."

Sasuke paused. "I'm not wearing your clothes."

"Why not? We're basically the same size. Maybe i’m a little broader in the shoulders, but—"

"I'm not wearing your clothes," Sasuke repeated, but he was already opening Naruto's dresser drawer like his hands had betrayed him.

The first thing he pulled out was a faded band tee with holes in the sleeves. The second was tie-dyed. The third had a cartoon ramen bowl on it with the words "SOUP-ER HERO" in glittering letters.

Sasuke stared at it like it had personally wronged him.

"You have the fashion sense of a thirteen-year-old," he called out.

"Hey!" Naruto's voice carried over the sound of the espresso machine hissing. "That's vintage Harajuku streetwear, thank you very much."

Sasuke kept digging until he found something black—a plain long-sleeved shirt that looked like it had actually been washed this decade. He held it up, checking for stains or suspicious cartoon characters.

It looked... normal.

He slipped it on.

And immediately understood why Naruto never seemed cold.

The fabric was soft—worn in that perfect way that only came from years of wear. But more than that, it was fitted. Not tight, exactly, but it followed the lines of Naruto's body in a way that suggested... structure. Muscle. The kind of casual strength that came from years of physical work.

Sasuke looked at himself in the mirror and blinked.

The shirt clung to his torso, highlighting the lean lines of his frame. But it also made him think about the person who usually filled it out. About the way Naruto's shoulders moved when he worked, all controlled power and easy confidence. About the glimpses of toned arms beneath rolled sleeves, the flat plane of his stomach when he stretched—

"You find something?" Naruto appeared in the doorway, two mugs in hand, and stopped short.

His eyes went wide.

"Oh," he said, very quietly.

Sasuke felt heat creep up his neck. "It's fine. It fits."

Naruto's gaze traveled slowly down the length of the shirt, then back up. There was something unguarded in his expression—appreciation, maybe, but softer than that. Warmer.

"Yeah," he said, voice a little rough. "It does."

They stared at each other for a beat too long.

Then Naruto cleared his throat and held out one of the mugs. "Coffee?"

Sasuke took it, their fingers brushing. "Thanks."

When he looked up, Naruto was staring again.

"What?"

"Nothing," Naruto said quickly. "Just... you look good in my clothes."

There was something in his voice—possessive, almost—that made Sasuke's pulse quicken. Like seeing him wear Naruto's clothes had flipped some kind of switch, marked him as belonging to someone in a way that felt both foreign and oddly thrilling.

"I'll wash it," Sasuke said, tugging at the too-long sleeves.

"Don't," Naruto said, then caught himself. "I mean, you can if you want. But you don't have to. It looks..." He paused, seeming to search for words. "It looks right on you."

They stood there for a moment, caught in the strange tension of almost-admissions and careful distances. Then Sasuke cleared his throat and reached for a clean apron.

"I should make breakfast."

"Yeah," Naruto said, but he didn't move, just watched dumbstruck.

"You're still staring," Sasuke observed.

"Yeah," Naruto said again, grinning. "I'm starting to think this might be a habit."

As they walked to the kitchen, he caught Naruto stealing glances at him in the reflection of the windows. Small, quick looks that made Sasuke's chest do something complicated.

He pretended not to notice.

But he didn't change shirts.

—--

The aprons appeared two days later.

Sasuke was in the middle of the morning rush, hands deep in croissant dough, when Naruto strolled through the back entrance of Mangekyō Pan-kyō like he owned the place. Which, technically, he didn't. But he'd been spending so much time there lately that even Sasuke's staff had started nodding at him like he belonged.

"Hey," Naruto said, setting a paper bag on the counter. "Brought you something."

Sasuke didn't look up from his laminating. "If it's another 'protein croissant' recipe you found on the internet, I'm banning you from the kitchen."

"It's not food-related. Well, not directly."

That made Sasuke pause. He glanced over.

Naruto was grinning in that particular way that meant he'd done something either very thoughtful or very stupid. Possibly both.

"What did you do?"

Instead of answering, Naruto reached into the bag and pulled out two aprons.

They were beautiful—not the cheap, mass-produced kind you'd find at a restaurant supply store. These were hand-stitched, heavy canvas dyed a deep charcoal gray. The straps were leather, soft and perfectly finished. And embroidered in subtle silver thread across the chest of each one was a small, elegant fox.

Sasuke stared.

"You had aprons made."

"I had aprons made," Naruto confirmed, holding one up. "For us. Matching. Don't freak out."

"I'm not freaking out."

"You're doing that thing where you go very still and I can't tell if you're about to thank me or murder me."

Sasuke reached out and touched the fabric. It was perfect—the kind of quality he appreciated but would never spend money on for himself. The fox design was subtle, stylized in a way that felt artistic rather than cute.

"They're..." he started, then stopped.

"Too much?" Naruto asked, suddenly uncertain. "I know we're not, like, officially anything, but I thought—since I'm here so much anyway, and you're always getting flour on your clothes—"

"They're perfect," Sasuke said quietly.

Naruto's smile bloomed slow and bright. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Sasuke took the apron, running his thumb over the embroidered fox. "Put yours on."

They tied their aprons in comfortable silence, the familiar ritual of preparing for work made somehow more intimate by the matching canvas, the small foxes that marked them as a pair.

When Sasuke's assistant came in twenty minutes later, she took one look at them—standing side by side at the prep counter, Naruto carefully portioning cookie dough while Sasuke piped filling into éclairs—and smiled knowingly.

"Cute aprons," she said.

Sasuke's ears went pink, but he didn't deny it.

Naruto just grinned and kept working.

—--

The routine developed organically, the way good things do.

Sasuke would arrive at Kurama Ink around noon on his days off, usually with ingredients for whatever meal he'd decided Naruto needed to survive. He'd taken over a corner of the shop with a small electric burner, a cutting board, and a selection of knives that made Naruto's clients nervous until they realized he was just making lunch.

In return, Naruto started showing up at Mangekyō Pan-kyō during the mid-afternoon lull, when the morning rush had died down and the evening crowd hadn't yet arrived. He'd curl up at the back table with his sketchbook, occasionally offering commentary on the music or the customers.

"That guy's definitely having an affair," he'd whisper, nodding toward a man nervously buying an elaborate cake.

"How can you tell?"

"Body language. Plus he asked for a cake that says 'Happy Birthday Sarah' but his phone screen says 'Jennifer.'"

Sasuke paused in his piping. "Should we say something?"

"Nah. Sarah's gonna figure it out when she gets a birthday cake and it's not her birthday."

They'd developed their own language of glances and gestures. Sasuke would catch Naruto's eye and nod toward the kitchen when he had something new to try. Naruto would tap his pencil against his bottom lip when he was stuck on a design and needed a distraction. Neither of them talked about it, but they both noticed.

The city seemed smaller with Sasuke in it, more manageable. Naruto found himself looking forward to the quiet moments between clients, when he could watch Sasuke move through his shop like he belonged there. And Sasuke... Sasuke found himself staying later, cleaning up slower, just to stretch out the time before Naruto had to leave.

One evening, as autumn settled deeper into the city and the first hints of winter crept into the air, Naruto looked up from his sketchbook to find Sasuke watching him.

"What?"

"Nothing," Sasuke said, but he didn't look away.

"It's not nothing. You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one you get when you're thinking too hard about something."

Sasuke was quiet for a moment, wiping down a surface that was already clean. "I'm not used to this," he said finally.

"This?"

"Having someone... around. Regularly."

Naruto set down his pencil. "Is it bothering you?"

"No," Sasuke said quickly. Then, softer: "That's the problem."

Naruto tilted his head, studying him. "Why is that a problem?"

Sasuke shrugged, a gesture that tried for casual but missed. "People leave."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with history Naruto didn't know but could feel the weight of. He stood, crossing to where Sasuke stood behind the counter, and reached out to touch his wrist—the one with the canelé tattoo.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said simply.

Sasuke looked down at their joined hands. "You don't know that."

"I do, actually. You're stuck with me. I've already mentally redecorated half your apartment and planned our grocery runs for the next month."

That earned him a small smile. "You hate grocery shopping."

"I hate shopping for myself. Shopping for us is different."

"Us," Sasuke repeated, like he was testing the word.

"Yeah," Naruto said, thumb tracing over the hidden tattoo. "Us."

—--

The first real fight happened on a Tuesday.

It was stupid, the way most fights are—a misunderstanding that snowballed into something bigger because they were both too stubborn to back down.

Sasuke had been having a rough week. A bad review in a food magazine, a supplier who'd sent the wrong flour, a wedding order that had fallen through at the last minute. He was wound tight, all sharp edges and barely contained frustration.

Naruto, picking up on the tension but not sure how to help, had tried to lighten the mood with jokes. Bad ones. The kind that landed flat and made everything worse.

"Maybe you should just tell that reviewer where to shove his opinion," he'd suggested, sprawled in his usual chair while Sasuke aggressively cleaned mixing bowls.

"I can't just tell a critic to fuck off, Naruto. That's not how business works."

"Why not? Guy sounds like a pretentious asshole anyway."

"Because some of us care about our professional reputation."

The words came out sharper than Sasuke intended, with an edge that made Naruto sit up straighter.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sasuke paused, realizing too late what he'd implied. "Nothing. I didn't—"

"No, go ahead. Some of us care about our reputation. Unlike what, exactly?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Isn't it?" Naruto stood, arms crossed. "You think because I'm a tattoo artist, I don't care about being professional? You think I just fuck around all day drawing cartoon characters on people?"

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to."

They stared at each other across the kitchen, the air between them crackling with tension. Sasuke opened his mouth to apologize, to explain, but Naruto was already grabbing his jacket.

"You know what? Forget it. I'll get out of your professional space."

"Naruto—"

But he was already gone, the bell above the door chiming his exit with finality.

—--

They didn't speak for three days.

Three days of Sasuke staring at his phone, typing messages he didn't send. Three days of Naruto throwing himself into work, staying late at the shop, taking on clients he usually wouldn't just to keep his hands busy.

On the fourth day, Sasuke cracked.

He showed up at Kurama Ink after hours, when the CLOSED sign was up but the lights were still on. Naruto was alone, working on a large piece—a phoenix rising from flames that covered most of someone's back. The client was lying face down on the table, probably asleep.

Sasuke knocked softly. Naruto looked up, saw him through the glass, and for a moment their eyes met. Then Naruto looked away, focusing back on his work.

Sasuke tried the door. Unlocked.

He stepped inside quietly, not wanting to disturb the session. Naruto didn't acknowledge him, just kept working with steady, practiced hands. The buzz of the tattoo gun filled the silence.

Sasuke waited.

Twenty minutes later, Naruto finished the session, cleaned and bandaged the work, and sent his client on their way with aftercare instructions and a follow-up appointment. Only then did he turn to face Sasuke.

"We're closed," he said.

"I know."

"So what are you doing here?"

Sasuke pulled a small pastry box from his bag, set it on the counter. "Apology cake."

Naruto glanced at it, then back at Sasuke. "I'm not hungry."

"It's not about being hungry."

They stood there, the weight of the fight still between them. Finally, Naruto sighed.

"What you said—"

"Was wrong," Sasuke interrupted. "Completely wrong. I was frustrated and I took it out on you, and that wasn't fair."

Naruto studied his face. "Do you really think I don't care about my work?"

"No," Sasuke said immediately. "God, no. I've seen you work, Naruto. I've seen how much you care. You're... you're incredible at what you do."

"Then why—"

"Because I'm an idiot," Sasuke said simply. "Because I was angry and scared and I said something stupid that I didn't mean."

"Scared of what?"

Sasuke was quiet for a long moment. "Of fucking this up. Of you realizing you could do better."

Naruto's expression softened. "Better than what?"

"Than someone who doesn't know how to say the right thing. Who works too much and doesn't know how to let people in. Who thinks apology cake fixes everything."

"Does it?" Naruto asked, nodding toward the box. "Fix everything?"

"I don't know. But it's a start."

Naruto opened the box. Inside was a single cupcake, perfectly crafted, with intricate icing that spelled out "Sorry" in Naruto's own handwriting—recreated in buttercream with painstaking detail.

"You copied my handwriting," Naruto said, something like wonder in his voice.

"I practiced. A lot."

Naruto looked up at him, and Sasuke saw the exact moment he forgave him. It was in the softening around his eyes, the way his shoulders relaxed.

"This is really good," Naruto said, taking a bite. "Like, offensively good. How am I supposed to stay mad at you when you make food that tastes like being hugged?"

"You're not," Sasuke said. "That's the point."

Naruto laughed, shaking his head. "Emotional manipulation through baked goods. I should have seen it coming."

"Is it working?"

"Yeah," Naruto said, reaching for him. "It's working."

They kissed there in the tattoo shop, surrounded by ink and art and the lingering scent of antiseptic. It tasted like buttercream and forgiveness.

"I'm sorry too," Naruto murmured against his lips. "For walking out. For not letting you explain."

"Don't," Sasuke said. "You had every right to be angry."

"Maybe. But I should have stayed. Should have fought it out instead of running."

They held each other in the dim light of the shop, learning how to weather their first storm.

—--

The marriage comment happened by accident.

They were sitting on Naruto's fire escape, sharing a bottle of wine and watching the city settle into evening. Sasuke had brought leftover financiers; Naruto had provided the wine and a blanket that smelled like his laundry detergent.

It had been a good day. Quiet. The kind where they'd found their rhythm—Sasuke working in focused silence while Naruto sketched at the corner table, occasionally looking up to steal bites of whatever was cooling on the racks.

"This is nice," Naruto said, settling back against the railing with his wine glass balanced on his knee.

Sasuke hummed in agreement, gaze fixed on the lights beginning to flicker on in windows across the street.

"Like, really nice," Naruto continued. "Domestic. Could get used to this."

"The wine or the company?"

"Both. All of it." Naruto gestured vaguely at the space between them, the shared blanket, the easy quiet. "This whole... setup we've got going."

Sasuke turned to look at him. Naruto's face was soft in the golden light, relaxed in a way that made Sasuke's chest tighten with something he didn't have words for.

"Setup," he repeated.

"You know what I mean. The routine. Me at your place, you at mine. Shared food, shared space. It's like..." Naruto paused, taking a sip of wine. "Like we're already married or something."

The words hung in the air.

Sasuke went very still.

"Not that I'm—I didn't mean—" Naruto started, but Sasuke cut him off.

"Would that be so bad?"

Naruto blinked. "What?"

"Being married," Sasuke said, voice careful and quiet. "To me."

Naruto stared at him for a long moment. Then a slow smile spread across his face—not his usual grin, but something softer, more real.

"No," he said. "That wouldn't be bad at all."

They looked at each other in the growing dusk, wine making them honest, the future suddenly feeling less like an abstraction and more like something they could reach out and touch.

"Good," Sasuke said simply.

"Good," Naruto echoed.

And they left it at that.

For now.

—---

The morning Sasuke truly appreciated Naruto's physique started like any other.

They'd fallen asleep on the couch again—a habit that probably said something about their relationship priorities, but one neither of them seemed inclined to break. Sasuke woke first, as usual, but instead of extricating himself immediately, he let himself look.

Naruto was sprawled beside him, one arm thrown over his head, the other resting across Sasuke's waist. His shirt—the same black one Sasuke had borrowed weeks ago—had ridden up slightly, revealing a strip of toned stomach and the sharp cut of his hip bones.

Sasuke had known, intellectually, that Naruto was fit. You didn't do physical work for a living without building muscle. But seeing it like this—relaxed, unguarded—was different.

There was real strength there. In the defined line of his arms, the broad span of his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell with easy, even breaths. It was the kind of build that came from actual work, not hours in a gym. Functional. Real.

Naruto stirred, blinking awake slowly.

"Morning," he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

"Morning," Sasuke replied, then immediately felt heat rise in his cheeks because he'd been caught staring.

Naruto noticed—of course he did. His eyebrows rose slightly, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"See something you like?"

Sasuke's blush deepened. "Shut up."

"I'm just saying," Naruto said, stretching languidly, "if you want a better look, all you have to do is ask."

The stretch pulled his shirt up further, revealing more of that lean, muscled torso. Sasuke's mouth went dry.

"I wasn't—"

"Sure you weren't." Naruto sat up, the motion fluid and easy, and Sasuke was struck again by the casual way he moved—like someone comfortable in his own skin, confident in his own strength.

It was attractive. More than attractive.

It was devastating.

"You work out," Sasuke said, which was possibly the most obvious statement he'd ever made.

Naruto laughed. "Not really. Just the job, you know? Lots of sitting, but also lots of moving equipment, setting up, breaking down. Plus I skate everywhere." He glanced down at himself, then back at Sasuke with a knowing grin. "Why? You interested in a workout partner?"

The suggestion sent heat straight through Sasuke's chest and lower. He stood abruptly.

"I should get to the bakery."

"Sasuke."

He paused at the door.

"You know you can look, right?" Naruto's voice was gentle, serious under the teasing. "I want you to."

Sasuke met his eyes in the morning light, saw the honesty there, the invitation.

He nodded once, quick and almost shy.

"Good," Naruto said softly. "Because I like looking at you too."

Sasuke fled to the bakery with his face burning and his heart doing things that definitely weren't regulation.

But that afternoon, when Naruto showed up in a tank top and rolled his sleeves while helping him clean the espresso machine, Sasuke let himself look.

And appreciate.

And maybe, just maybe, start planning ways to see more.

—--

It happened on a Thursday.

Sasuke was in the middle of laminating croissant dough—a process that required precision, timing, and absolutely no interruptions—when the espresso machine decided to have what could only be described as a mechanical breakdown of epic proportions.

Steam shot from three different valves. The grinding mechanism made a sound like a dying whale. Water pooled across the counter in an accusatory puddle.

"Fuck," Sasuke said, which was approximately four levels above his usual vocabulary of mild irritation.

The morning rush was in twenty minutes. He had three dozen croissants in various stages of completion, a machine that had apparently achieved sentience purely to spite him, and no backup plan.

That's when Naruto walked in.

"Morning, sunshine," he called, then stopped. "Uh. Why does it look like your coffee machine declared war on everything?"

"It's broken," Sasuke said through gritted teeth, elbow-deep in mechanical troubleshooting.

"No shit." Naruto dropped his bag and rolled up his sleeves. "Move."

"You don't know anything about—"

"I fix machines for a living," Naruto said, gently but firmly pushing Sasuke aside. "Tattoo guns, airbrushes, compressors—it's all the same principle. Pressure, flow, mechanical sympathy."

Sasuke watched, skeptical, as Naruto poked and prodded at the Elektra Verve like he was examining a patient.

"Yep," Naruto said after a moment. "Your gasket's fucked. And this valve's clogged." He paused. "Do you have any—"

"Second drawer, blue toolbox," Sasuke said automatically.

Naruto shot him a surprised look. "You have a toolbox in your bakery?"

"I maintain my own equipment."

"Of course you do."

Twenty minutes later, the machine purred like a contented cat. Naruto emerged from behind it looking smug and slightly oily, wiping his hands on a towel.

"That'll hold until you can get a proper service," he said. "But you should probably call someone soon. The pressure regulator's seen better days."

Sasuke stared at him. Then at the machine. Then back at Naruto.

"You just saved my entire morning."

Naruto shrugged. "Figured it was the least I could do. Considering all the free coffee."

Sasuke didn't mention that the coffee had never actually been free. He just handed Naruto a chocolate croissant—warm from the oven, the chocolate still melting—and said, "Thank you."

Naruto bit into it and made the same satisfied sound he always made, closing his eyes briefly.

"Damn," he mumbled around a mouthful. "This is worth getting grease under my nails."

And Sasuke, for reasons he couldn't quite name, felt his chest do something warm and complicated.

—--

Winter came early that year, blanketing the city in snow that turned everything soft and quiet. Mangekyō Pan-kyō looked like something from a fairy tale, its windows glowing warm against the white streets.

Sasuke had always loved winter—the way it slowed everything down, made people crave comfort and warmth. Business was good. Hot chocolate and seasonal pastries, mulled wine events in the evenings. He'd added a new dessert to the menu: a deconstructed hot chocolate tart that had people lining up in the cold.

Naruto had started spending more nights at Sasuke's apartment, claiming his own place was too drafty. Sasuke pretended to mind, but he'd cleared out drawers and made space in his closet without being asked.

One particularly cold morning, Naruto woke up before Sasuke—a minor miracle—and decided to surprise him with breakfast. He crept into the kitchen, careful not to wake him, and stared at the elaborate espresso machine like it was a puzzle he needed to solve.

Twenty minutes and several failed attempts later, Sasuke found him glaring at the machine with the intensity of someone plotting murder.

"It's not that complicated," Sasuke said, voice still rough with sleep.

"It has more buttons than my tattoo gun. How is that not complicated?"

Sasuke moved behind him, hands covering his on the controls. "Here. Like this."

He guided Naruto through the process—the grind, the tamp, the extraction. His chest pressed against Naruto's back, his breath warm against his neck. It was intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with trust.

"See?" Sasuke murmured when perfect crema appeared in the cup. "Not complicated."

Naruto leaned back against him. "Easy for you to say. You speak machine."

"I speak precision. There's a difference."

They stood like that for a moment, wrapped in morning light and the scent of fresh coffee. Then Naruto's stomach growled, loud and demanding.

"Right," Sasuke said, pulling away with a small smile. "Food."

He made them eggs Benedict from scratch—hollandaise sauce whipped by hand, English muffins he'd baked the day before, perfectly poached eggs that broke golden when cut. Naruto watched him work with the fascination of someone witnessing magic.

"Do you ever make anything that isn't perfect?" he asked.

"No," Sasuke said without hesitation.

"That's terrifying."

"That's standards."

They ate at Sasuke's small dining table, snow falling softly outside the window. Naruto had syrup in his hair somehow, and Sasuke reached over to wipe it away without thinking.

"You're a mess," he said fondly.

"Yeah, but I'm your mess."

Something flickered across Sasuke's face—too quick to catch, but warm. "Yeah," he said quietly. "You are."

—--

By the fourth month, they had developed what could generously be called a fan club.

There was Mrs. Yamamoto, who came in every Tuesday for her weekly slice of yuzu tart and spent half her visit asking when Sasuke was going to "make an honest man" out of "that lovely boy with the artwork."

There was Kenta, the college student who studied in the corner booth and had started timing his visits to coincide with Naruto's appearances, claiming the "artistic energy" helped with his creative writing assignments.

There was the entire staff of the vintage bookstore next door, who had collectively decided that Sasuke and Naruto were their personal romantic drama and would occasionally peer through the windows with the dedication of soap opera fans.

"They're watching again," Naruto said one afternoon, not looking up from his sketch.

Sasuke glanced toward the window, where three faces immediately ducked behind a display of mystery novels.

"They need hobbies," he said.

"They have hobbies. We're their hobby."

Sasuke made a noncommittal sound and went back to arranging matcha financiers in the display case. But he was careful not to stand too close to Naruto when he walked past his table. The last thing he needed was to give the neighborhood book club more material.

Of course, Naruto had no such reservations.

When Sasuke brought him his usual afternoon coffee—black, no sugar, because somehow Naruto had trained him to know his order by heart—Naruto caught his wrist gently.

"Hey," he said, quiet enough that only Sasuke could hear.

"What."

Naruto's thumb brushed across his wrist, over the hidden canelé tattoo. Just once, soft and deliberate.

"Thanks."

It was such a small thing. Barely a touch. But Sasuke felt it all the way down to his bones.

From the window, someone made a sound like a sigh.

Sasuke didn't pull away.

—---

The tattoo happened on Valentine's Day.

Not because of Valentine's Day—Sasuke had strong opinions about manufactured romantic holidays—but because that was when Naruto finally worked up the courage to ask.

They were at Kurama Ink, closing up after a busy day. Naruto had been fidgety all evening, cleaning equipment that was already clean, organizing supplies that were already organized.

"Spit it out," Sasuke said finally.

"What?"

"Whatever's got you acting like you're about to vibrate out of your skin."

Naruto stopped pretending to organize ink caps. "I want to give you another tattoo."

Sasuke raised an eyebrow. "Where?"

"That's... that's up to you. But I have an idea. If you want to see it."

He pulled out a sketch—delicate, precise. A small cherry blossom branch, the flowers rendered in fine linework with just a hint of shading. But integrated into the design, almost hidden unless you looked closely, was the outline of a fox—curled around the branch like it was sleeping.

"It's subtle," Naruto said quickly. "Nothing big or obvious. Just... a little piece of me. If you want it."

Sasuke studied the design. It was beautiful—elegant and understated, with just enough whimsy to make it interesting. The fox was barely there, more suggestion than statement.

"Where were you thinking?" he asked.

"Wherever you want. Shoulder blade, maybe? Somewhere private."

Sasuke was quiet for a long moment, tracing the lines of the sketch with his finger. Then he looked up at Naruto, something soft in his expression.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yes. I want it."

Naruto's face lit up like Christmas morning. "Really?"

"Really."

They did it that night, after hours when the shop was quiet and the world felt small around them. Sasuke lay on his stomach on the tattoo table, shirt off, while Naruto prepared his equipment with the careful ritual of someone who took their craft seriously.

"You sure about this?" Naruto asked, needle poised over Sasuke's shoulder blade. "Last chance to back out."

"I'm sure."

The needle touched skin, and Sasuke closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the sensation. It wasn't painful—more like a deep scratch, rhythmic and oddly soothing. He could feel Naruto's concentration, the steady focus of his hands.

"Tell me if you need a break," Naruto murmured.

"I'm fine."

They fell into comfortable silence, broken only by the buzz of the machine and the soft jazz Naruto had put on. Sometimes Naruto would pause to wipe away ink and blood, his touch gentle and professional. Sometimes he'd mutter under his breath—critiquing his own work, making tiny adjustments.

"Almost done," he said after what felt like hours but was probably only forty minutes. "Just need to touch up the shading on the fox's tail."

When it was finished, Naruto cleaned the tattoo carefully and applied a thin layer of healing ointment. His hands lingered on Sasuke's skin longer than strictly necessary.

"Want to see?" he asked.

Sasuke stood, rolling his shoulders carefully, and turned to look in the mirror. The tattoo was perfect—delicate and precise, the cherry blossoms soft and feminine, the hidden fox adding just enough edge to keep it interesting. It looked like it belonged on his skin, like it had always been there.

"It's beautiful," he said quietly.

"Yeah?" Naruto sounded uncertain, like he was still seeking approval.

Sasuke turned to face him. "It's perfect."

Naruto's smile was soft and proud and a little relieved. "Good. I was nervous."

"Why?"

"Because it's permanent. Because it's on you. Because I wanted it to be... worthy."

Sasuke reached for him, pulling him close despite the fresh tattoo. "It is."

They kissed there in the shop, surrounded by Naruto's art and the lingering scent of ink and healing balm. And when they broke apart, Sasuke whispered against his lips:

"I love you."

The words hung in the air between them, soft and certain. Naruto's eyes went wide, then crinkled at the corners as he smiled.

"Took you long enough," he said.

"I'm not good with words."

"No," Naruto agreed, hands sliding up to cup his face. "But you're good with everything else. And I love you too."

—--

Spring came slowly that year, reluctant and gentle. The cherry trees bloomed late, their petals falling like snow on the warming streets. Sasuke added seasonal flavors to his menu—sakura mochi, strawberry shortcake, light and airy things that tasted like hope.

Naruto's tattoo healed beautifully, the cherry blossoms soft and feminine against his pale skin, the hidden fox visible only when the light hit it just right. He found himself touching it absently throughout the day, a reminder of permanence and belonging.

They'd fallen into an easy rhythm—dinners at Sasuke's apartment, lazy mornings in bed, afternoons spent in each other's shops. The city felt different now, less like a place they happened to live and more like home.

One evening, as they walked through the park near Sasuke's apartment, Naruto stopped suddenly.

"What?" Sasuke asked.

Naruto was staring at a cherry tree in full bloom, its branches heavy with pink flowers. "Nothing. Just... this is nice."

"The tree?"

"This. Us. Walking around like we belong together."

Sasuke followed his gaze to the blossoms. "We do belong together."

"Yeah," Naruto said, reaching for his hand. "We do."

They stood there under the flowering tree, fingers intertwined, watching petals drift down around them like a blessing. Somewhere in the distance, the city hummed with life—cars and voices and the endless motion of people going about their lives.

But here, in this moment, the world felt perfect and complete.

"I'm hungry," Naruto said eventually.

Sasuke laughed—a real laugh, full and genuine. "Of course you are."

"Your fault. You've ruined me for normal food."

"Come on," Sasuke said, tugging him toward home. "I'll make you something."

"Something sweet?"

"Maybe."

"Something with chocolate?"

"We'll see."

"Something that tastes like you actually love me?"

Sasuke stopped, turned to look at him with something fierce and tender in his expression. "Everything I make tastes like that now."

Naruto's grin was bright as sunshine. "Good," he said. "I'm starving."

They walked home together through the falling petals, talking about nothing and everything, their shadows stretching long behind them on the warming ground. 

—--

The place turned out to be a small beach about an hour outside Tokyo, accessible by train and a short walk through scrub pines that smelled like salt and summer heat. It wasn't crowded—too far from the main tourist routes, too small for organized tours. Just a curve of dark sand, rocks worn smooth by decades of waves, and water that stretched to the horizon like hammered metal.

They bought ice cream from a vendor near the station and ate it while walking barefoot along the water's edge, shoes dangling from their fingers.

"How did you find this place?" Sasuke asked.

"Art school," Naruto said, licking melted vanilla from his thumb. "We used to come here for landscape drawing classes. Most of the students hated it—too far, too isolated, not enough interesting architecture. But I always liked how empty it felt."

Sasuke looked around at the expanse of sand and sky, the way the late afternoon light turned everything golden and soft. "It's peaceful."

"Yeah. Good for thinking."

They found a spot among the rocks and settled in to watch the waves. Naruto pulled out his sketchbook and started drawing—not the ocean, but Sasuke's profile as he watched the water, the careful lines of his shoulders, the way the wind moved through his dark hair.

"You're drawing me again," Sasuke said without looking over.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Naruto paused, pencil hovering over paper. "Because I like the way you look when you think no one's paying attention."

Sasuke turned toward him, expression unreadable. "What do I look like?"

"Less guarded. More..." Naruto searched for the word. "More yourself, I guess. Like you're not performing being fine all the time."

It should have felt invasive, being seen that clearly. Instead, it felt like relief.

"Can I see it?" Sasuke asked.

Naruto hesitated, then turned the sketchbook around.

The drawing was simple—just pencil lines and shading—but somehow Naruto had captured something Sasuke didn't recognize in mirrors. A softness around his eyes. A small smile he hadn't realized he was wearing. He looked... content. Happy, even.

"Is that really how I look?" he asked quietly.

"When you're here with me? Yeah."

Sasuke stared at the drawing for a long moment. Then at Naruto, who was watching him with careful attention.

"I love you," he said.

The words came out simple, matter-of-fact, like he was commenting on the weather or the temperature of the water. Naruto's eyes widened.

"You—what?" 

"I love you," Sasuke repeated, still looking at the sketch. "I thought you should know."

Naruto set the sketchbook down carefully in the sand, like it might explode if handled roughly.

"Sasuke."

"Yeah?"

"I love you too."

Sasuke looked up at him then, meeting his gaze directly. "Good."

"Good?"

"Good." Sasuke leaned over and kissed him, soft and salt-sweet, while the waves murmured against the shore and the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon.

When they broke apart, Naruto was grinning like he'd won the lottery.

"So," he said. "What do we do now?"

Sasuke considered the question. The beach stretched out around them, empty and endless. The train back to the city wouldn't leave for another hour. They had time.

"Now," he said, lying back against the sun-warmed rocks, "we watch the sunset."

Naruto settled beside him, close enough that their shoulders pressed together. "I can live with that."

And for a while, they did exactly that—watched the sky turn from gold to pink to deep purple, watched the first stars appear like scattered sugar across velvet. Listened to the rhythm of the waves and the whisper of wind through the pines.

It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't the stuff of love songs or movie endings.

It was just theirs.

And that, Sasuke thought as Naruto's hand found his in the darkness, was more than enough.