Naruto woke with the taste of blood and citrus curdling on his tongue, eyelids welded shut by the dried glue of cheap champagne. For a long time, the only thing he could process was the violence of his own hangover—every pulse of blood against his skull was a small, well-organized coup. He tried to swallow but his throat stuck; he tried to turn over, and discovered he was cemented in place by an unfamiliar weight. Sheets of improbable luxury slithered over his chest, a million-thread-count cocoon so soft it felt like an apology for something.
A white, unfamiliar ceiling swam into view. The air vibrated with silence, disturbed only by the gentle thrum of central heating. Somewhere beneath the blanket, his toes tested the carpet and found it plush as mousse. Naruto blinked, then blinked again, and slowly pieced together that he was in a hotel room. A really nice hotel room—gold stripes on the wallpaper, dramatic velvet drapes, the kind of glass-top nightstand that doubled as a weapon in spy movies.
Panic flexed in his chest. He jerked upright, which was a mistake; his brain slammed against the inside of his skull so hard he saw stars. He clutched his head, gritting his teeth as the world tipped and then leveled. A pale shaft of winter sun slid through the curtains and spilled across the bed, outlining a shape beside him. Not a shape—a person. Not a person—a specific person, whose back was to Naruto and whose hair looked, even in sleep, like a threat.
Sasuke.
Naruto's lungs seized. He went absolutely still, then slowly, carefully, craned his neck to take in the scene: Sasuke, facedown, one arm extended across the mattress as if grasping for a ledge. His shoulder blades rose and fell with each slow breath. The sheets stopped at his waist, exposing the flawless expanse of his back and the elegant curve of his spine. Naruto's fingers tingled with the memory of claws scraping down pale skin, but he willed himself not to think about that.
He glanced down and realized, with horror, that he was entirely naked under the sheet. He curled forward, clutching the blanket to his chest, and scanned his own body for damage. Bruises on his hips. A crescent of teeth marks just above his nipple, already yellowing. He remembered nothing after tequila, nothing after the hallway, nothing but the vague, fuzzy sense of falling—a thousand times, in a thousand ways. His mouth was dry, but he still managed to croak a single word, as if it could undo the laws of physics: "Shit."
There was a battered digital clock on the nightstand, glowing 10:48 AM in judgmental red. The world outside the window was bright and cold, blinding with sunlight reflected off snow, but the room itself was dim and close, like the inside of a drum. Naruto's heart pounded in his chest with the regularity of a dying engine. He risked another look at Sasuke, who hadn't moved, not even a hair.
He racked his brain for last night: the party, the endless rounds of shots, the confrontation in the hallway. He remembered Sasuke's hand on his arm, hard enough to bruise, and then a blur of movement—a taxi? An elevator? There was the ghost of a memory, Sasuke's breath hot against his neck, the slur of words Naruto couldn't piece together, and then the sound of glass breaking. He remembered laughing, then crying, then the way their bodies had crashed together with the inevitability of weather patterns. Everything after that was static.
Naruto gingerly pulled the sheet tighter, then peeked beneath it, as if expecting to find a ransom note or a tattoo warning. Instead he found more bruises—one the size of a thumbprint near his hip bone, another shaped suspiciously like a bite, and worse of all, dried wetness between his legs.
There was a tangle of clothing on the floor—a shirt, a pair of black slacks, a belt uncoiled like a dead snake. His own jeans, inside out, halfway under the bed. Socks balled and flung in opposite directions, as if someone had been in a hurry. Naruto's jacket hung from the brass knob of the bathroom door, sleeve trailing on the carpet. He let out a long, shuddering breath, then began to inch toward the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the other occupant.
Each movement sent aftershocks through his skull, and a sharp pain in his backside, but he forced himself to keep going, eyes flicking back to Sasuke every two seconds to make sure he remained unconscious. Sasuke's mouth was open slightly, breath slow and even, lashes thick against his cheek. In sleep, his face looked less severe, almost young. Naruto hated him for that.
A sharp, acid taste flooded Naruto's mouth as fragments returned to him—lips colliding outside the elevator, Sasuke's hand fisting in his hair, teeth scraping skin. Had he really moaned that loudly? Had he actually whispered Sasuke's name like that? His fingertips brushed over a tender spot on his collarbone, and he flinched. The evidence was pressed into his skin, but his mind kept rejecting it, kept asking: What the hell was I thinking? How could I have let this happen? With him, of all people?
He managed to slip out from under the sheet, clutching it to his waist as he tiptoed across the cold floor. He gathered his jeans and boxers and tried to pull them on one-handed, which resulted in a near face-plant into the dresser. The second attempt was more successful, but he was still only half-dressed when he glanced up and saw himself in the mirror above the minibar.
His hair looked like it had been electrocuted. There was a patch of red on his cheek, and his lips were swollen—one corner split and just beginning to scab. There was a hickey, a goddamn hickey, blooming purple on the side of his throat. He poked at it and winced. "What the hell did I do?" he whispered to his reflection, voice cracking. The mirror offered no answers, only the face of someone he barely recognized—a version of himself he'd sworn he'd never become again, weak and wanting and willing to forget everything for one night with Sasuke.
He bent for his socks, freezing when a low, throaty sound came from the bed. His pulse spiked so hard he felt dizzy. Sasuke rolled, arm flopping over his eyes, still asleep. Naruto's gaze snagged on the constellation of bruises across that pale chest. His own fingernails had left crescent moons along Sasuke's ribs.
He yanked his shirt on inside-out, fumbling with his wallet and dropping it twice. His fingers wouldn't cooperate. Every second felt like a countdown to disaster. Where were his goddamn shoes? He spotted them under the end table, laces impossibly tangled, and jammed his feet in without untying them. The carpet muffled his movements, but each rustle of fabric sounded deafening.
At the door, he glanced back. Sasuke lay asleep, his dark hair spread across the white pillow. The sheet barely covered his hips. Naruto's teeth had left a purple mark on his collarbone. Naruto couldn't swallow.
His palm was too sweaty to grip the doorknob properly. He wiped his hand on his jeans and tried again. What if Sasuke woke up right now? What would he even say? The lock finally clicked open. He slipped into the hallway and leaned against the wall, his heart pounding hard enough that he felt it in his fingertips.
The hallway stretched before him, empty and unforgiving. At the far end, the elevator dinged. Naruto bolted toward it, thumb jamming the call button as if his life depended on it. He pressed his forehead against the cool metal door, trying to slow his racing heart. Morning sounds filtered through his panic—carts rattling down corridors, someone's muffled voice ordering room service, coffee aroma drifting from somewhere. It all felt like another universe, one that had already forgotten what happened in room 1403.
When the elevator finally arrived with its soft, forgiving chime, Naruto stumbled inside. His hunched reflection stared back at him from every mirrored wall—rumpled, red-eyed, marked. He jabbed at the lobby button until it glowed accusingly, then turned away from his multiplied shame. The memory of Sasuke's sleeping form burned in his mind: dark hair spread across white pillows, bruises Naruto's own hands had left. He squeezed his eyes shut.
The descent seemed endless. Each floor passed with a subtle shift in his stomach, carrying him further from last night's mistake but never far enough. When the doors finally opened, they revealed a world of wealth and indifference.
Naruto stepped into a lobby that belonged in an architecture magazine—marble floors so polished they mirrored his disheveled state, vases of white lilies towering over end tables. The air carried notes of citrus and pine, underscored by the particular hush of money being very well-spent. Near the front desk, four concierges in identical blazers murmured discreetly into headsets while businessmen checked watches and a family in ski gear tracked melting snow across the immaculate carpet.
Naruto's first instinct was to keep his head down, slip through the lobby, and vanish into the city without a trace. But a heartbeat later, he realized he was being watched.
In a leather armchair by the grand piano sat Itachi Uchiha—perfectly still, utterly alone. A newspaper lay open on his knee, one pale finger tracing the edge of the page as though reminding the print who was in charge. He wore a black turtleneck and a tailored coat, his dark hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. A cup of coffee steamed, untouched, at his elbow.
Their eyes met across the marble expanse, and Naruto froze under the intensity of Itachi's gaze. He could have glanced at the oversized Christmas tree in the atrium or admired the sculpted glass chandelier above the reception desk, but he didn't. He was pinned in place.
Then Itachi's eyes flicked down: the rumpled shirt, the hastily zipped jeans, the jacket shrugged on inside-out. He noted the hickey at Naruto's throat, the swollen lip, the welt on his cheek. Heat crept up Naruto's collar, flooding his cheeks with shame that no hotel heater could match.
For a suspended moment, the world shrank to the width of a single look. Then Itachi's mouth curved in the faintest of smiles—half sympathy, half scrutiny—and he dipped his chin in acknowledgment. I see you. I understand. It changes nothing.
Naruto's knees threatened to buckle. He straightened his shoulders and forced his feet to move, though his eyes stayed fixed on the marble floor. Behind him, he felt the cold precision of Itachi's stare, cataloging every detail for possible blackmail—or worse.
Meanwhile, the hotel bustled on. A bellhop called for by a guest, the snap of a briefcase closing, a child's delighted scream as he launched onto a velvet ottoman—all these ordinary sounds amplified Naruto's sense of exposure. Each footstep echoed like a public confession.
By the time he reached the revolving doors, his pulse hammered in his ears. Stepping into the brittle daylight, he almost left his phone behind before slamming it into his jacket pocket. The outside air bit into him, stripping away the lingering warmth of the lobby.
At the curb, he raised a shaky hand and flagged down the first taxi. The driver didn't bother to look up from his phone as Naruto slid into the backseat and slammed the door.
"Where to?" the driver asked, eyes still glued to the screen.
Naruto hesitated for a fraction of a second, then rattled off his parents' address. The words felt sour in his mouth.
The taxi peeled away from the curb, merging into the river of traffic. Naruto slumped in the backseat, knees pressed together, hands shoved into his jacket like they could hide him from what had just happened. In the rearview mirror, the hotel receded—Itachi's silhouette still visible through the glass, sipping his coffee with infuriating calm.
Naruto closed his eyes and counted the city blocks, willing his pulse to settle. It didn't.