Naruto slunk up the driveway like a thief, keeping to the shadowed side of the house where the snow was still unsullied by footprints. His parents' house loomed over him, decked in enough blinking lights to be visible from space—or at least from Sasuke's hotel room, which was a thought he immediately tried to murder with a mental pillow.
He navigated the side yard, careful not to trip the motion sensor light, and let himself in through the laundry room. The blast of warm air and the smell of fabric softener almost undid him; he had to steady himself against the washer, eyes squeezed shut until the tremor in his hands subsided. His neck itched suspiciously in a spot he refused to check in the mirror.
His escape plan was simple: make it to his old room, shower away any evidence, change, and pretend he'd been there all along. But he didn't make it three steps before a voice boomed from the kitchen:
"Naruto! You better have a damn good excuse for not texting your mother back!"
He winced. Facing his father was somehow less terrifying than explaining why he smelled like expensive cologne he definitely didn't own.
Kushina stood at the stove, red hair blazing in the early sunlight, a spatula in one hand and her phone in the other. She whirled on him as he entered, eyes flashing from furious to relieved to suspicious in the space of a single breath.
"There you are!" she said, marching across the tiles. "I called. I texted. I even put out an Amber Alert in my head! Where the hell were you last night?"
Naruto forced a crooked smile and held his hands up in mock surrender. "Sorry, Mom. Kiba wanted to show me some new place and my phone died. Totally my fault. Ended up crashing on his couch."
Kushina's eyebrows shot up. "Oh really? Funny, Kiba's sister just posted a picture of him passed out on his parents' futon at nine p.m."
Naruto's brain short-circuited. "I... meant Shino?"
"He's in Europe."
"Choji?"
"Getting his wisdom teeth out yesterday."
"Would you believe I was abducted by seasonal mall elves?"
She stared at him, unblinking, until he looked away.
"Sit," she commanded, pointing him to the breakfast nook.
Naruto obeyed, folding himself into the same vinyl booth where he'd spent his childhood spilling juice and doodling in the margins of his homework. He angled himself toward the window, away from the kitchen light that might reveal too much.
Kushina returned to the stove, muttering under her breath. She made a show of stirring the oatmeal, slamming the spoon with unnecessary force. "You look like hell," she said finally, not looking at him. "Did you even sleep?"
He laughed too quickly, his eyes darting to the door. "Not much. You know how parties go."
She turned and fixed him with the Mom Stare. Naruto immediately tugged his collar higher, then pretended to scratch his neck.
"Your face is all… puffy. And you've got a bruise. Did you get in a fight?"
He touched the welt on his cheek, winced, and shook his head. "No, nothing like that. Just, uh..." He swallowed, suddenly fascinated by a crack in the sugar jar. "Rough night."
Kushina came over and set a mug of coffee in front of him. She hovered for a moment, then reached out and pressed a cool hand to his forehead. Naruto froze, afraid to breathe.
"You don't have a fever," she said, withdrawing her hand. "But your pulse is all over the place."
Naruto sipped his coffee to hide his face, wishing it was something stronger.
She leaned in, voice softer now. "Did something happen?"
He hesitated, eyes fixed on a spot just above her shoulder. "No. I just… it was weird seeing everyone again."
Kushina nodded, as if this explained everything. She slid into the seat opposite him, stretching her arms across the table. For a long minute, she said nothing, just watched him with the patience of someone who'd seen every version of him.
"You know, I had this dream last night," she said suddenly, voice distant. "You were five again. We were at the park and you fell off the swings. You came running, bleeding and howling, but you wouldn't let anyone else touch you. Not even your father. You only wanted me."
Naruto's throat tightened. Through the window, he could see the Uchiha's car still parked in the driveway next door. Mikoto had brought his mother homemade bread every Sunday for twenty years. Their families had shared Thanksgiving dinner since before he was born. If he told her what Sasuke had done—both then and now—the carefully tended bridge between their homes would collapse.
"Yeah," he said, forcing the word past the knot in his chest. "Guess I never grew out of it."
Kushina's hand found his and squeezed, tight and fierce. "Just remember: you can always come home. No matter how bad it gets out there."
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
She stood, her movements brisk and efficient. "Okay, breakfast. Eat before your dad gets to the table and inhales everything."
Naruto ate in silence. The oatmeal was thick with brown sugar and cinnamon, just the way he liked it, but it felt like eating glue. Kushina bustled around the kitchen, wiping counters, setting out fresh towels, humming Christmas songs under her breath. Every so often, she'd glance at him over her shoulder, the worry lines deepening around her eyes.
When she finally sat down again, it was with a sigh that seemed to empty her out.
"So," she said, eyes locked on him. "How long are you staying this time?"
He glanced at the clock, mentally tallying the hours until the first available flight back to the city. "Actually… something came up at work. I need to get back tonight."
Kushina's face fell, just a little, but she covered it with a smile. "Of course. Busy author, always in demand. Your dad will be sad we missed you, but I'm glad you came home at all."
Naruto's stomach twisted into a knot. The lie tasted sour on his tongue. He was doing it again—running away when things got complicated.
"I'll help you pack," she said, and left no room for argument.
They finished breakfast in silence. Afterward, Naruto retreated to his old room. He shoved everything he'd brought into his suitcase, each item landing with the weight of another broken promise. His eyes caught on the photos taped to the walls—him and Kiba, him and Sakura, him and Sasuke. He turned away, shame burning hot beneath his collar. The childhood trophies and comic strips he'd once drawn stared back at him accusingly. It felt like trespassing on someone else's life—someone braver.
When he zipped up the suitcase and turned to leave, he found his parents standing in the doorway. His mother held a plastic baggie with two ibuprofen and a single-serve packet of miso soup. Her eyes were red, but she smiled anyway. Behind her, his father's tall frame filled the remaining space, his blond hair—so like Naruto's own—disheveled as if he'd just woken up.
"Don't forget to call when you land," Kushina said, voice barely above a whisper.
Minato stepped forward, placing a steady hand on Naruto's shoulder. "Son, whatever's going on—"
"It's fine, Dad," Naruto cut him off, unable to meet those eyes that saw too much.
His mother pulled him into a hug that nearly cracked his ribs while his father wrapped his arms around them both, creating a fortress of warmth Naruto didn't deserve.
They held on longer than usual, then let him go. He shouldered his suitcase and made his way down the stairs, the creak of each step louder than it had any right to be.
At the front door, he paused. "Thanks," he said. "For everything."
His parents stood side by side, his mother's eyes shining, his father's mouth set in a worried line.
"Go be amazing, Naruto," Kushina said. "But don't forget who you are."
He stepped into the cold, suitcase thumping behind him, and didn't look back until he reached the end of the driveway. His parents stood framed in the window, hands raised in silent farewell.
Naruto raised his own hand in answer, then turned and walked away, letting the house and everything inside it shrink behind him.
Naruto made it to the airport two hours before his flight, because the idea of waiting at home with nothing but his own thoughts was unbearable. The security line was long and slow, filled with people who shuffled their bags forward with the resigned air of livestock on their last walk. He clutched his suitcase so hard his knuckles turned white. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone who might recognize him from high school, or worse, from last night.
At the gate, Naruto paced. He scrolled through his dead phone out of habit, hoping it would miraculously spark to life. He gnawed his thumbnail until it bled. The overhead speakers cycled through delays and gate changes, but he barely heard them. All he could see was Sasuke's sleeping face, the bruises along his ribs, the impossible heat of their bodies crashing together like tectonic plates.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to think of anything else.
His brain offered up every humiliation from the past twenty-four hours in high-def. The walk of shame through the hotel. Itachi's cool, clinical eyes. His mother's worried hands, tracing the bruise on his cheek. Sasuke's hand, grabbing his in the elevator, the grip so tight Naruto could still feel it in his bones. The way he'd run from it—again—like he always did.
When his group number was called, Naruto all but sprinted down the jet bridge. He found his seat, shoved his bag under the chair in front, and jammed his headphones over his ears. He didn't even pretend to listen to music, just pressed them hard enough to block out the world.
He couldn't sleep. Every time he drifted, a memory clawed its way to the surface: Sasuke's lips against his throat, the taste of skin and whiskey, the sound of someone—maybe both of them—crying in the dark. He'd jerk awake, heart galloping, sweat slick on his neck.
His knee bounced nonstop, earning glares from the businessman in the aisle seat. He checked his dead phone every ten minutes. He picked at the scab on his lip until it broke open again, a tiny burst of pain that was almost a relief.
He turned his face to the window, watched the clouds smudge by. For a moment, his own reflection startled him—eyes puffy, hair wild, the purple mark on his neck impossible to miss. He tried to smooth his hair with his hands, but it only made things worse. The face in the glass looked haunted, desperate, feral.
He wanted to go back and fix it. He wanted to call Sasuke and say something—anything—but the fear of what he might hear in response was enough to keep him paralyzed. He replayed every word from the night before, trying to patch the holes in his memory, to rewrite the story in a way that made sense. But the truth was a black hole, one his mind couldn't or wouldn't piece together.
By the time the captain announced their descent, Naruto had chewed his thumbnail down to the nub. He forced himself to breathe, slow and deep, like his therapist had taught him. He ran through the checklist: breathe, focus, ground yourself in the present. The city below sparkled in the dusk, unfamiliar and vast. He told himself, out loud and under his breath, that this was the last time. He'd lock it down. He'd write it out, exorcise it on paper if he had to, and move forward.
When the wheels hit the tarmac, he jerked in his seat. The businessman shot him another look; Naruto ignored it.
He waited for the aisle to clear before grabbing his bag. He filed off the plane with the rest of the exiles, shoulders hunched, moving fast. He kept his eyes on the floor as he wound through the terminal, as if the answer to everything might be written in the scuff marks.
At the exit, he paused for just a second. He looked back through the glass, at the city unfolding in the orange dusk, and tried to find a version of himself that made sense. He didn't, so he pulled his suitcase tight and kept going.
Out in the cold, the city noise hit him like a blessing. It was loud, and anonymous, and full of people who didn't know or care about what he'd done. He let it wash over him, a new story waiting to be written. Maybe he'd screw it up, but at least he was the one writing it.
He squared his shoulders and disappeared into the crowd, the mark on his neck hidden, or maybe not, but his eyes fixed forward, unblinking.