Naruto's mornings had become a choreography—a seamless duet of aggression and restraint, as practiced as a tea ceremony but powered by brute caffeine and deadlines. The apartment, which they'd selected together (the word "together" had required several attempts), reflected their combined physics: the living room held Sasuke's museum-grade, low-profile sofa, but Naruto had colonized every inch of it with throw pillows in a traffic jam of neons and pastels. Sasuke's coffee table—heavy, matte black, designed to resemble an art installation more than furniture—was topped with Naruto's rotating centerpiece of potted succulents, which he referred to as "the Chosen Ones." The walls bore neither family photos nor modernist abstraction, but a patchwork of Naruto's framed manga panels and, in the kitchen, a single precious print of Hokusai's wave, strategically hung at Sasuke's eye level.
Naruto awoke to the sound of a hairdryer somewhere in the apartment's echoing acoustics, followed by the thud of a sliding closet door and the click of the espresso machine booting up in the kitchen. By the time he'd stumbled out, feet unsteady on the cold tile, Sasuke was already stationed at the breakfast bar, laptop open, hair damp and shining. The only sign of life on his otherwise immaculate face was the crescent of a bruise-blue shadow beneath each eye, the universal marker of a man who'd chosen work over REM cycles.
Naruto, sporting only a t-shirt and boxers printed with cartoon foxes (a birthday gift from Kiba that he refused to stop wearing), drifted toward the coffee machine, where two mugs were already lined up—one black, one garishly orange.
"Morning," Sasuke said, not looking up from his screen.
"Is it?" Naruto mumbled, reading the clock above the sink. 7:12. "You didn't have to get up this early."
"I didn't," Sasuke replied, and gestured to the array of documents spread out beside his laptop: contracts, printouts, a production calendar marked with slashes of red pen. "Karin sent three drafts overnight. She expects notes by nine."
Naruto made a noise in his throat, somewhere between sympathy and complaint. "She really doesn't sleep, does she."
"Not unless you count power naps in the supply closet," Sasuke replied, and at that, Naruto snorted.
Naruto fished through the fridge, emerging with a tub of vanilla yogurt and a plastic bag of mutant-sized strawberries. He watched Sasuke work, every muscle in his body still slow and syrupy, and spooned the yogurt directly into his mouth.
For a while, neither spoke; the only sounds were the tap of Sasuke's fingers on the keyboard and Naruto's lazy stabs at the strawberries, which stained his lips and the corners of his mouth red.
"So… about tonight," Naruto ventured, mouth full, "you think there's any chance it doesn't become a shitshow?"
Sasuke's typing paused for the first time. He looked up, blinking as if calibrating to a different wavelength. "Define 'shitshow.'"
"You know," Naruto said, waving his spoon for emphasis, "cameras, reporters, the entire board of Jiraiya Publishing pretending to be super happy for us, then going home and writing nasty group chats."
Sasuke's face was unreadable, but a muscle twitched in his cheek. "The media won't care. They'll care about the adaptation. If we keep it focused on the project, it'll be fine."
"And if someone asks about us?" Naruto pressed, wiping strawberry juice from his lip with the back of his hand.
"They won't," Sasuke said, but the certainty in his voice was thinner than usual. "And if they do, we smile and move on."
—
They arrived fashionably late, which in industry time meant two minutes after the hour, but even that delay was enough for a knot of photographers and journalists to coalesce around the entrance. The venue—an unholy marriage of restored Art Deco and LED screens—throbbed with the kind of curated energy that made every guest feel like they were being watched, even when the cameras weren't pointed directly at them.
Naruto followed Sasuke out of the car, blinking in the flood of flashbulbs and LED uplighting. A publicist hustled them to the velvet ropes, while a harried staffer with a clipboard mouthed a prayer and tried to line up the press queue. Instantly, the night's air congealed into a single moment of performance.
"Naruto! Over here!" screamed a woman with enough rings on her fingers to constitute a security threat.
"Mr. Uchiha, to your left!"
"Look at the camera, boys—there's a story here!"
Naruto froze, his feet suddenly heavy on the red carpet, hands searching for a place to be—pockets? cuffs?—before finally settling on the entirely inadvisable clasp behind his own back. He managed a smile that was ninety percent terror and ten percent dental miracle, and instantly regretted it. Sasuke, meanwhile, had already adjusted his posture to the appropriate angle, one hand at Naruto's elbow, guiding him with invisible force toward the photo line.
They posed, then posed again, Sasuke turning his head by the subtlest degree to catch the "natural" lighting. Naruto tried to keep his breathing regular, but his heart was already pounding out Morse code for "GET ME OUT."
In between flashes, Naruto felt Sasuke's hand slide from his elbow to the small of his back. It was not possessive, but grounding—an anchor, as if to say: Don't float away. The gesture was so smooth that the cameras never caught it, but Naruto felt it for the next five minutes, a phantom touch lingering beneath his jacket.
The press line started slow, then snowballed. At first, it was all polite questions about the adaptation project: "What inspired you, Naruto?" and "How is the script process going?" Naruto answered with a blend of sincerity and rehearsal, drawing occasionally from the notes he and Sasuke had practiced in the Uber, but mostly leaning on the nervous charm that had always gotten him out of trouble.
Then a reporter with a fox tattoo on his wrist leaned over the tape and said, "So is it weird, mixing work with… whatever you two have going on?"
Naruto nearly dropped his voice, but Sasuke answered before he could panic.
Sasuke said, "It's only weird if you don't get along with your partner." His face was unflinching, deadpan, but a trace of humor flickered at the corners. "Finding someone who complements both your work and your heart is rare good fortune."
There was a ripple of knowing laughter from the reporters—approving, not mocking—and the line moved on.
Naruto exhaled, grateful, then leaned into the next question about deadlines and future projects. Sasuke stood beside him for every answer, occasionally chiming in with measured phrases ("We're committed to authenticity," "The production team is world class," "Naruto's vision deserves the best possible adaptation") and fielded logistical queries like a pro.
They survived the gauntlet and moved inside, the blast of air conditioning instantly erasing the sweat on Naruto's brow. The ballroom was a controlled explosion of money and taste—gold-veined marble, glass columns, waiters in black tie gliding like sharks between the clusters of guests. Each round table was decked with centerpieces that looked like floral arrangements but were, upon closer inspection, tiny edible sculptures crafted by a molecular gastronomy chef.
Within minutes, they'd been absorbed into the crowd: first accosted by Jiraiya, who bear-hugged Naruto and clapped Sasuke on the back with enough force to rearrange his vertebrae ("You look like a million bucks, kid! Both of you do!"), then by a series of creative directors and producers, all of whom wanted selfies, handshakes, and the promise of future collaboration.
Naruto tried to float through the evening, grateful for the constant movement. Every time he risked a look at Sasuke, the other man seemed perfectly in control, trading business cards and pleasantries, but never more than a step away. Occasionally their hands brushed, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. Each touch was quick, almost covert, but in the context of their new public identity, it felt scandalous.
There were moments when Naruto caught Sasuke looking around the room with a strange intensity, as if mapping escape routes or searching for someone in the crowd. He checked his pocket—inside breast, always the same one—at least three times over the course of the night. Naruto, who had seen that move a hundred times, suspected it was more than just nerves. Maybe he'd brought backup business cards. Maybe he was carrying a thumb drive with tonight's final cut. Or maybe, Naruto thought, he's just waiting for this to be over, like I am.
The awards presentation began with a fanfare of intro music and dry banter from a second-tier talk show host. Naruto and Sasuke sat at the Jiraiya Publishing table, flanked by Jiraiya himself and a perpetually exhausted Shizune, who managed to keep her smile going through the entire three-hour ceremony. They applauded in all the right places.
At intermission, Naruto excused himself to the lobby, desperate for a moment without cameras. Sasuke followed, as always, but this time the hallway was empty except for a bored coat-check girl reading on her phone.
They leaned against a cool marble wall, neither speaking at first. Sasuke stared at the carpet. Naruto, after a moment, elbowed him softly.
"You okay, bastard?"
Sasuke nodded. "Just… a lot."
"Yeah." Naruto let his head tip back, staring at the chandeliers. "Do you want to bail? We could get ramen."
Sasuke almost smiled. "We can't leave. You know that."
Naruto said, "We could. Nobody's stopping us."
Sasuke shook his head, but there was something gentle in it. "You did well, you know. With the press."
Naruto scoffed. "You're the one who saved us. I almost puked on the red carpet."
Sasuke turned, closing the space between them, voice lower. "You never have to do this alone."
Naruto felt the heat creep up his neck. He opened his mouth to say something—he wasn't sure what—but Sasuke's hand was already on his arm, grounding him again.
They stood like that for a minute—just breathing, not needing words—until Jiraiya came barreling out of the ballroom, glass in hand, and shouted, "There you are! The next course is up and the chef threatened violence if we don't sit down immediately!"
Sasuke let go first. Naruto grinned at Jiraiya, and the three of them walked back into the party together, side by side.
The rest of the night went fast: more wine, more handshakes, one polite but pointed conversation with a board member who wanted to know if Sasuke was "fully committed" to the adaptation ("I have never been more committed to a project in my life," Sasuke said, with the glacial certainty of a closing statement), and at least six more covert touches under the table.
When the evening wound down, they made their way to the exit, flanked by Jiraiya's entourage and a few photographers waiting for "departure shots." As they walked, Naruto caught Sasuke checking his pocket again—this time, holding whatever was inside just a little tighter.
Naruto didn't ask. Not yet. He figured if it was important, he'd find out soon enough.
They posed once more for the cameras, side by side, Sasuke's hand at Naruto's back. The flashbulbs went off, freezing them in a moment that would be on the internet within the hour.
As they waited for their car, Naruto looked at Sasuke, who was staring out at the city, face unreadable.
"Hey," Naruto said, voice soft enough for only Sasuke to hear. "We did it."
Sasuke nodded, but his jaw was tight, like he was holding something back.
Naruto nudged his shoulder, and Sasuke finally looked at him.
"Yeah," Sasuke said, and this time, he let the smile show all the way to his eyes.
The car arrived, and they climbed in together, leaving the paparazzi and the world behind.
All the way home, Sasuke kept his hand on Naruto's knee, as if to remind him that whatever came next, they'd face it together.
—
The elevator ride up to their floor was quiet, but not in the way that marked defeat or even exhaustion. It was more like the hush after a storm, when everything—air, heart rate, thought—felt scrubbed raw and a little new. They walked the hallway together, Sasuke's steps steady but his grip on Naruto's hand tighter than before.
The apartment greeted them with its familiar, curated chaos: the succulents asleep in their dirt, the manga panels reflecting moonlight, Sasuke's papers lined up like a tiny, obsessive army on the coffee table. Naruto kicked off his shoes, then paused, watching Sasuke fumble for the light switch.
For the first time all evening, Sasuke seemed less than perfectly composed. He loosened his tie, undid the top button, and ran a hand through his hair with a roughness that left it standing at impossible angles.
Naruto dropped his suit jacket on the nearest chair and, without thinking, started to unbutton his own shirt. Sasuke blinked, distracted, then followed suit, the stiff fabric giving way to bare skin and the relief of being unarmored. For a minute, neither moved; they just stood in the kitchen, half-dressed, lit by the jaundiced glow of the under-cabinet LEDs.
Naruto was the first to speak. "You hungry? I could order ramen. Or we could just drink the champagne."
"Champagne," Sasuke said. He didn't move to get it.
Naruto raised an eyebrow. "You're acting weird."
Sasuke's lips twitched, the tiniest quirk. "Am I?"
"Yeah. You are."
Sasuke shrugged, but the movement was awkward, like he'd forgotten how to fit inside his own body. Naruto crossed the distance and poked him in the chest, just above the open collar.
"Seriously, what's up? You're freaking me out."
Sasuke looked at him, really looked, and for a moment Naruto saw something unguarded flicker across his face. Fear, maybe. Or hope, sharp enough to hurt.
"Nothing's wrong," Sasuke said, softer now. "I just… Can we go out on the balcony? I need air."
Naruto followed, sliding the glass door open and stepping onto the narrow ledge above the city. The wind was gentle but cold, slicing through the remnants of their formal wear and raising goosebumps on Naruto's arms. The city below was a field of constellations—each window, streetlamp, and passing car a tiny, perfect universe of its own.
They stood side by side, the railing pressing cool against their hands. Sasuke was quiet for so long that Naruto almost said fuck it and went for the champagne himself.
Instead, Sasuke broke the silence.
"When we were kids," Sasuke said, "did you ever think we'd end up here?"
Naruto snorted. "Not unless 'here' means 'the principal's office,'" he said. "I figured you'd be running for mayor. Or plotting world domination."
Sasuke shook his head, a smile barely curving his mouth. "I thought we'd lose each other."
Naruto let the words hang, their weight settling like fog. "We did, for a while."
Sasuke's jaw worked. He didn't look at Naruto. "That's what I'm afraid of, sometimes. That I'll fuck it up again, and you'll be gone for good."
Naruto felt the old ache stir in his chest, but there was no anger in it now. Just the echo of years lost, and the stubborn certainty that neither of them would ever let go again.
He put a hand on Sasuke's. "You won't."
Sasuke's fingers tightened. Then, before Naruto could say something irreverent, Sasuke reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black velvet box.
Naruto's brain did not immediately compute what was happening. He stared at the box, then at Sasuke, then back at the box. Sasuke's hands, so steady on a keyboard, so precise with a pen, were shaking.
Sasuke dropped to one knee—not the fancy, public kind of proposal, but the real, messy, private one, out of sight and out of costume. He opened the box, revealing a simple platinum band.
"I want to spend my life making up for every day we lost," Sasuke said, voice low and certain. "If you'll let me."
For a moment, the only thing Naruto could hear was the city, the hum of distant traffic, the thousand lives being lived below them. Then his eyes started to burn.
"You dumbass," Naruto said, voice wobbly with laughter and tears. "You could have just asked."
Sasuke's lips twitched, and for the first time, the smile was entirely for Naruto, unfiltered and a little wild.
"Okay," Naruto said, already pulling Sasuke up by the lapels. "Yes. Obviously yes."
They kissed—clumsy, desperate, teeth clacking—and Naruto felt the city tilt around them, the stars and windows blurring into streaks of color. He didn't care. He didn't care about anything except the taste of Sasuke's mouth and the warm, real press of his hands.
When they broke apart, the balcony air was sharper, cleaner, and the only thing that mattered was the circle of metal Sasuke slid onto Naruto's finger.
Back inside, they drank the champagne from mismatched mugs, barely tasting it. They made calls: Jiraiya first, who screamed so loudly the phone vibrated; then Gaara and Lee, who demanded immediate details and threatened to fly out and officiate themselves. The last call was to Mikoto Uchiha, who answered on the first ring.
"Is everything okay?" she asked, the worry already audible.
Naruto grinned, suddenly shy. "Actually, yeah. We just wanted you to know…" He looked at Sasuke, who nodded. "We're getting married."
There was silence, then a sound that might have been a sob or a laugh. "Oh," Mikoto said, her voice watery. "Oh, that's wonderful. I'm so proud of you both."
Sasuke said nothing, but Naruto could see the tension leaking out of his frame, replaced by something like relief.
"Let me know if you need help with the planning," Mikoto said. "And tell Naruto's parents I expect an invitation."
"Will do," Naruto promised. "Thank you."
They hung up, and for a long time after, just sat in the living room, legs tangled together, letting the future stretch ahead of them.
Naruto traced the band on his finger, unable to stop smiling. Sasuke leaned against him, eyes half-closed.
"I always thought we'd destroy each other," Sasuke said, voice a little sleepy. "But maybe this is better."
Naruto nodded, and outside, the city kept shining, oblivious.
He didn't know what would come next, but for the first time, it didn't matter. The world was out there, waiting. And they had forever to face it—together.