Chapter Text
The house was finally quiet.
Not the brittle silence of grief or the sharp-edged hush of tension, but something softer. Something earned. The silence of a home that had survived another day.
The hallway glowed faintly with pale amber light from the nightlight nestled low against the floorboards. Sasuke stood just outside the open door of the children’s room, arms folded tight across his chest, sweater bunched beneath his fingers. The hush was filled with domestic sounds: the soft static hum of the baby monitor, the gentle whir of the heating vent, and the faint creak of old wood beneath the weight of years. Familiar. Safe.
Inside, Menma lay sprawled diagonally across his mattress—thirteen and long-limbed, with one foot hanging off the edge like he owned the place. One earbud was still barely clinging on, music leaking faintly from it, while a book lay open and forgotten on his chest. His brows were furrowed even in sleep, as if whatever world he’d drifted into still had something to prove. Sasuke allowed a small, silent breath out. His son looked too much like Naruto when he slept. Same stubborn mouth. Same scowl when he dreamed.
In the smaller bed across the room, Arashi was curled into a tight ball beneath a faded blue blanket, her soft breathing muffled by the oversized stuffed rabbit she clutched to her chest. Every now and then, her little foot twitched—dream-chasing, like always. The way she giggled in her sleep made Sasuke’s throat tighten with something fragile and wordless.
And then there was the crib.
Ren, the newest piece of their strange, stitched-together family, lay sleeping on his back, swaddled and stubborn. His tiny fists were clenched beside his flushed cheeks like he was ready to take on the world the moment he figured out how to roll over. He let out a soft noise—half sigh, half mewl—but didn’t wake. Just turned his head, lips parting, and breathed in that unguarded way only newborns could.
Sasuke’s chest ached.
Not in that sharp, tearing way it had for years, but in something slower. Something that burned low in his ribs and made his throat feel full. Like his body didn’t know what to do with the relief.
Naruto stood beside him in the hall. Not touching. Not quite. But close. So close that Sasuke could feel the heat of him, steady and real, like a fire that hadn’t gone out.
His presence didn’t feel like a ghost anymore.
Not fully.
It was still unfamiliar around the edges—like reaching for a shadow that used to mean something more. But it was here. And it was warm.
Naruto had his hands in his pockets, slouched slightly like he didn’t want to take up space. His eyes were on the children, but Sasuke could feel the weight of something deeper beneath the silence. Not observation. Not analysis.
Something closer to reverence.
“She twitches in her sleep like you,” Naruto said softly, nodding slightly toward Arashi. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Used to think I imagined that.”
Sasuke blinked. His grip on his arms tightened.
He didn’t trust himself to speak. The ache in his chest sharpened into something crystalline, then dulled again beneath the swell of guilt and longing. He kept his mouth shut.
Then—without asking, without rushing—Naruto leaned closer.
First, his shoulder bumped against Sasuke’s, light and tentative. Then his head followed. A slow, careful weight settled on Sasuke’s upper arm, brushing the edge of his collarbone. Naruto’s cheek, warm and close.
Sasuke froze.
His entire body locked up for a moment, caught between instinct and desire, fear and forgiveness. The contact was gentle, hesitant—but it cracked something open inside him, something he’d thought had long since turned to stone.
Naruto didn’t speak. Didn’t press. He just stayed.
And Sasuke, after a beat, after a breath, tilted his head just slightly. Enough for his temple to graze Naruto’s hair.
It wasn’t a lean.
It was a whisper of trust.
A soft permission.
The space between them filled with heat—not passion, but something quieter. Sadder. Older. It pulsed with everything unsaid, everything lost and nearly reclaimed. Sasuke blinked, hard, swallowing the burn at the corners of his eyes.
Not now.
Not when Naruto had finally stepped forward, without fanfare, and just… existed beside him.
They stood that way, shoulder to shoulder, in the dim hallway lit by gold, as the gentle breath of children and the distant echo of dreams carried through the night.
❦❧ ❀ ❧❦
The children’s room was quiet behind them.
Sasuke didn’t remember how long they stood there. The soft pressure of Naruto’s temple against his shoulder lingered like a phantom warmth even after they moved to the living room.
They didn’t speak. Words felt like they might dissolve whatever this delicate thread was between them.
Naruto sat beside him on the edge of the bed— their bed , though that word still felt precarious in Sasuke’s mouth. The mattress dipped under Naruto’s weight, and Sasuke shifted slightly, his loose knit sweater slipping off one shoulder. He hadn't noticed how cold the room was until the heat of Naruto beside him made it obvious.
Sasuke curled his fingers in his lap. The space between them was filled with static—unsaid things, half-buried wants, grief like marrow in the bones. But also something gentler, something uncertain and painfully tender.
Naruto let out a small breath. “You’ve… changed the sheets.”
Sasuke gave him a glance. “They smelled like dust.”
A faint smile tugged at Naruto’s lips. “Still obsessive.”
Sasuke’s lips parted to retort—but Naruto was suddenly looking at him, really looking. Like the way someone stares at the stars not because they expect answers, but because they’re just grateful the stars are still there.
Sasuke swallowed. “What?”
“I missed this face,” Naruto murmured.
Then he leaned in.
There was no warning—no tension, no buildup. Just the warmth of Naruto’s hand brushing Sasuke’s jaw and a kiss that met him with the softness of a secret.
Sasuke froze. For a heartbeat, his whole body stiffened like a wound recoiling from air. His lips barely moved. His fingers twitched against the comforter.
But Naruto didn’t pull away. He didn’t demand. His lips stayed where they were—gentle, familiar, searching.
And then—Sasuke gave in.
He melted into it. His breath hitched through his nose, and his hand found Naruto’s hoodie, gripping the soft fabric like an anchor. Their mouths moved slowly, a rhythm unpracticed but remembered, clumsy but electric. Sasuke felt the warmth bloom from his chest, spreading to his throat, his stomach, his face.
When they finally pulled back—barely a few inches—Sasuke’s heart was beating so fast it felt like it might burst from his ribs.
Naruto blinked, surprised. “You kissed me back.”
“I…” Sasuke couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t lie. “…I didn’t mean to.”
Naruto huffed out a soft, breathless laugh. “But I’m glad you did.”
His hand didn’t leave Sasuke’s face. Instead, he moved closer, lips brushing Sasuke’s again, this time slower. His thumb traced the arch of Sasuke’s cheekbone, then down to the corner of his mouth.
“You’re warm,” Naruto whispered. “God, you’re still warm.”
Sasuke felt something inside him splinter—something brittle and exhausted and long-hollow. The kiss deepened, Naruto’s hand sliding into the dark strands of his hair, and Sasuke let himself be kissed, let himself be held. He felt hands on his waist, fingers trembling slightly as they curled under the hem of his sweater.
Naruto's palm grazed the skin of his lower back—Sasuke shivered.
When Naruto pulled him closer, Sasuke didn’t resist. He straddled Naruto’s lap without meaning to, thighs bracketing him, the sweater slipping further off his shoulder. His cheeks flushed; he could feel it, hot and raw.
“Don’t look,” Sasuke muttered.
Naruto blinked up at him. “Why not?”
“…I look stupid.”
“You look like Sasuke,” Naruto said, thumbing at his flushed cheek. “You’re beautiful.”
Sasuke’s heart stuttered. Then Naruto’s hand brushed higher, fingertips accidentally grazing one of Sasuke’s nipples through the soft knit.
Sasuke inhaled sharply and flinched.
Naruto pulled back immediately. “Shit—did I hurt you?”
“No,” Sasuke muttered, flustered. “They’re just… sensitive.”
Naruto blinked, realization dawning. He looked embarrassed for a second, then reached up again—slower this time. “Can I…?”
Sasuke gave a small nod.
Naruto’s fingers were warm, soft. He brushed over the tender skin gently, thumb grazing the peak through the fabric. Sasuke trembled—bit down a sound in his throat—but didn’t stop him. His body was flushed with heat, his pulse unsteady.
Naruto was watching him now—not with lust, not entirely, but with awe. With reverence.
“You’re shaking,” Naruto whispered.
“You’re holding me.”
“I’ve wanted to,” Naruto said. “Since I got back.”
Sasuke looked away, trying to hide how much those words meant. But Naruto leaned up and kissed his collarbone. Then his throat. Then the underside of his jaw.
Sasuke melted into it, knees pressed to Naruto’s hips, his hands curled in the hem of Naruto’s hoodie like he might fall apart without it.
Naruto held him for a long time. Quietly. Tenderly. And Sasuke let himself be held in a way he desired for, for the first time in a very long time.
❦❧ ❀ ❧❦
Sasuke knew it had started the moment he couldn’t bear the texture of his own shirt against his skin.
The fabric chafed at his nipples like sandpaper. His fingers trembled when he reached to adjust it, but the motion only dragged it further, made his back arch off the bed with a sharp breath. There was a burn in his bloodstream—quiet at first, then swelling into something molten and consuming.
Heat.
Not just a flush of embarrassment or a brief hormonal tug. This was biological warfare, a tidal pull that drenched his thighs with nothing but air between them. His breath caught as he shifted, trying and failing to ignore the sweet stickiness gathering beneath his waistband.
He didn’t want this.
He didn’t want to want anything.
But his body betrayed him.
The kids were gone—thank the gods. Naruto had taken them on a short trip to the outskirts of the village. Sasuke had claimed fatigue, a headache. Excuses. Anything to stay behind. Because he could feel it coming in waves: the hunger, the ache, the helplessness of it.
He stumbled into their bedroom, slammed the door shut behind him, and locked it. His hands trembled as he pressed his back to the wood, breath shaky and damp. Every nerve in his body screamed to be touched, filled, held.
But not by anyone. Only one.
Only Naruto .
His scent lingered—on the sheets, the pillow, the robe tossed over the chair in the corner. That old orange hoodie he loved, stretched at the cuffs and worn thin at the elbows. Sasuke fell on it like a man dying of thirst, burying his face into the folds of cotton that still smelled like him—clean sweat, a whisper of pine, something warm and wild and home.
“Fuck,” he gasped, clenching the hoodie in both fists, curling on the bed as the tears finally spilled over. “What the hell is wrong with me—?”
But he knew. His cycle had started early, triggered by stress or loneliness or maybe just how good Naruto had smelled last night when they sat on the sofa together, shoulders brushing, saying nothing while the kids slept nearby. Sasuke remembered every inch of that silence. He remembered Naruto’s thigh brushing his. His hand twitching beside him.
He remembered the way Naruto had looked at him and didn’t say anything.
And now—now Sasuke was unraveling.
He stripped out of his pants first, unable to bear the wet cling of them. Then his shirt, peeled from his too-sensitive skin. The cool air kissed his flushed nipples, and he whimpered, hating the sound. Hating the vulnerability. Hating the want.
He was alone.
So why did it feel like his body had already made space for someone?
He crawled onto the bed, dragging Naruto’s clothes with him. The mattress still smelled like his skin. Sasuke rolled in it, nesting like an animal in heat, stuffing the hoodie between his thighs, rocking forward once, twice, like that might make it stop.
But it didn’t. It only made it worse.
Every nerve ending flared. His breath came in shallow pants, hips twitching forward, seeking pressure. The fabric was damp already, soaked with slick, and it disgusted him and comforted him in equal measure.
His own scent was buried beneath Naruto’s —and that was the only thing that kept him sane.
Sasuke pressed his face into the pillow Naruto used every night. His fingers dug into the sheets as he gasped, chest heaving. His nipples brushed the mattress, sensitive, aching, driving him mad. A sob escaped him before he could catch it.
“Just—just for a moment,” he whispered.
He didn’t want to come. He didn’t want to give in to it. But gods, he needed something to make the pressure stop.
He ground forward, slowly, desperately, body tight with tension. His stomach trembled. Sweat clung to his neck, and every soft pant made his lips stick together. He closed his eyes and let himself imagine—
A dream—
Naruto’s voice came, quiet and soft, like a whisper through the warmth of the morning light.
“Hey… you okay?”
Sasuke blinked awake. He was curled on their bed, the one with rumpled sheets and the faint scent of laundry detergent mixed with something faintly woodsy. Sunlight spilled through the half-open curtains, casting golden pools on the floor. The air was warm and still, untouched by the weight of the world.
From outside the window, laughter floated in—high-pitched and clear. Arashi’s baby giggle tinkled like wind chimes, chasing after a low, teasing voice.
“Careful, Menma! You’ll trip!”
The teenage edge was unmistakable—Menma’s tone was sharp, impatient, but undercut with an invisible thread of care. No one babied him here. He was thirteen
, almost grown, trying to keep the younger ones safe in his own way.
Ren cooed softly from the crib near the foot of the bed, his tiny fists curled against the thin blanket. The newborn’s delicate breathing was steady, a quiet pulse of life that softened the room.
Naruto was beside Sasuke, shirtless, hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed himself. His skin glowed in the sunlight, warm and real. He reached out, fingers gentle against Sasuke’s cheek.
“I missed you,” Sasuke whispered, the words tasting like both hope and sorrow.
Naruto’s hand lingered, thumb brushing the line of Sasuke’s jaw, grounding him.
They kissed—slow, tentative, but full of the quiet promise that time hadn’t erased. It was the kind of kiss that healed cracks, that spoke of forgiveness and longing without words. Like the past hadn’t shattered them, like love had stayed buried beneath the pain, waiting to bloom again.
Naruto’s arms slid around Sasuke, holding him steady—strong, steady, sure.
“I’ll never forget again,” Naruto murmured into his hair, voice low and unwavering.
Sasuke’s tears came then, warm and unashamed, soaking into Naruto’s chest. But this time, it wasn’t the bitter kind of crying—the kind that leaves your soul hollow and cracked.
It was the good kind.
The kind that whispered, You’re safe now. You’re home.
And for the first time in a long while, Sasuke believed it.
He woke up trembling.
His chest was soaked with sweat and tears. The pillow beneath his hips damp. His thighs ached. His whole body pulsed like a wound—but the tension had eased slightly. His brain was foggy, but quiet. And he was still alone.
Still clutching Naruto’s hoodie like it might vanish if he let go.
Sasuke curled into it and buried his face.
The scent had faded slightly—but it was still there.
He didn’t feel good. Not really.
But he felt held.
And that was enough to let him fall asleep again.
❦❧ ❀ ❧❦
Sasuke drifted in and out of sleep, trapped somewhere between dreaming and waking, barely aware of how many hours had passed. The room was dim, curtains drawn, and the muffled sounds from outside felt distant, like echoes underwater. The heat had softened since earlier, but not disappeared—it lingered in his limbs, a hazy hum beneath the skin, like the memory of a fever that hadn’t fully broken.
His sheets were a tangled mess around his legs, damp with sweat and other fluids, clinging in the folds behind his knees and under his thighs. His hips ached in that telltale, hollow way, his skin slick and flushed. But it wasn’t the same kind of heat anymore—it wasn’t burning. It was quieter now. Ache layered on exhaustion, layered on something else. Something he couldn’t name.
A soft breath escaped him, almost a sigh. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks as he stirred, too tired to move, too restless to stay still.
And then he felt it.
A strange, wet warmth—not between his legs this time, but higher. Unexpected. Foreign and familiar all at once. At first, it was faint. Dampness slowly seeping through the fabric of his clothes, spreading in two small circles beneath his chest. He shifted instinctively, and the fabric clung. The soft tug of pressure bloomed into something sharper—a dull, persistent ache that throbbed low and steady.
He frowned, sluggish, and struggled to push himself upright.
His limbs felt heavy, and his vision swam for a moment as he blinked against the haze. When he finally looked down, his breath caught.
Naruto’s hoodie—too big on him, warm and worn at the edges—was darkened across the front. Two spreading stains bloomed like watermarks around each nipple, soaking slowly through the cotton. A soft gasp broke from his throat, sharp and involuntary.
His chest ached.
His breath hitched, and he stared in disbelief, numb fingers reaching up.
The milk had returned.
He pressed a shaking hand to his chest—light, uncertain, not even sure what he was trying to feel—and the warmth met him instantly. His nipple was swollen, sensitive, the skin flushed and tight. As his palm brushed it, he felt a tiny spurt escape, dampening the inside of the hoodie further. Another droplet followed, then another.
His heart pounded in his ears.
“It’s back…” he murmured, not quite believing it. “Why now?”
Nearly a year had passed since the last time. The hormones had tapered off. His body had quieted. That part of himself had gone dormant, like a field left fallow. He’d told himself it was over. That even if his body remembered, even if the ache still echoed in his bones some nights—it didn’t mean anything. Couldn’t mean anything.
But now… his chest was full again. Tender. Aching. Alive in a way it hadn’t been in months.
A tremor moved through him.
He lay back slowly, chest heaving beneath the soaked cotton, the hoodie clinging to his skin. His hands hovered at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. Everything was too much—too fast. Too real.
But even through the overwhelm, a quiet, impossible thought crept in.
I could feed again.
His throat tightened.
“I can… I could hold them again…”
Images flickered behind his eyes—memories that didn’t feel like memories, more like longing distilled into shapes and sound.
Ren, curled into his arms, tiny fists against Sasuke’s chest, mouth latching instinctively. The soft, snuffling breath of a sleeping infant. Arashi, toddling on unsteady legs, reaching up with chubby arms and whispering “Mama…” with that breathless, reverent wonder.
He bit down hard on his lower lip, but the tremble still escaped.
His body had remembered before his mind had.
The warmth of that thought wrapped around him like another blanket. Fragile, but anchoring. And yet—there was no peace in it. Not entirely. His body ached, but it wasn’t just hormonal. His hands trembled, restless, unsure. His chest throbbed with every breath, nipples stiff and slick. He needed to relieve the pressure, even if just a little. But he couldn’t help the shame that rose in his throat like bile.
He didn’t want this to be mistaken.
It wasn’t about desire. It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t even comfort, not fully.
It was need . Biological. Primal. Hormonal. A parent’s body, caught mid-shift, caught remembering what it was for.
He hesitated, then cupped his chest with both hands. The fabric of the hoodie pressed damply against his palms, sticky with fresh milk. He pushed it up, baring one nipple, swollen and glistening. His thumb moved in slow, careful circles—not to tease, just to coax relief.
Milk beaded again. His body responded with a deep, aching pull.
He gasped.
Not from pain—but from how alive it made him feel. How real.
The ache dulled slightly, the pressure easing bit by bit under his fingers. His shoulders sagged with the release.
But the tears came too.
Hot, stinging. A different kind of overflow.
He buried his face in Naruto’s hoodie, breathing in the scent—sun, sweat, warmth. Familiar. Anchoring. And let himself cry.
He cried not just from exhaustion, but from the sharp grief of memory, and the tentative joy of possibility . His chest ached, but it was a living ache. A hopeful ache. His arms felt empty, but maybe—maybe—they didn’t have to stay that way.
Under the weight of the blankets, curled into himself like a shell, Sasuke held onto that tiny thread of hope. Let it wrap around the hollowness in his chest like a soft tether.
He didn’t stop the tears this time.
Because this—this ache, this warmth, this body that had been so quiet for so long—was whispering something he had almost forgotten:
You are still capable of care.
And that mattered.
More than anything.