A/N: Just a oneshot, late at night, for one of my favorite pairings. They are so marvelously dysfunctional, and yet it just might work. Also, only in the NaruSasu fandom can relationships be developed through laundry. Damn I love odd imagery.
Abandoned garments are apparently synonymous with love. But, since that is impractical, if you enjoy this you can give me reviews instead.
There is a coat on the floor.
It is red; a blazing, ridiculous color in the pastel environment of his living room. It is ragged; there are a few holes in it, somewhat badly patched. It is incongruous.
Sasuke stares at it for a while, black eyes narrowed, lips slightly pursed. Then he picks it up with the air of a man disposing of a rotting corpse, and takes it to the closet. It can be returned to its owner later, when he has time.
There is a pair of sandals the doorstep.
They sit there like a reminder, like a piece of the sane, human world; like a flashed, exuberant grin. They are a well-worn brown beside the gray of his own shoes; their commonplace existence is almost a surprise.
Sasuke stoops to pick them up, a swift crouch; he is a graceful man, without wasted movement. He moves the sandals, but not far; only onto the lower step. They can stay there. It is a fitting hierarchy.
There is a pair of pants on the couch.
They sprawl across his cushions with the same uncaring slouch as their owner affects; preposterously blasé, and rather annoying, in a pleasing way. There are five shuriken in each pocket, Sasuke recalls. With a slight jolt, he realizes that he knows this slightly wrinkled blue garment as well as he knows any of his own possessions.
He moves to put them elsewhere, but as his fist closes over the fabric he stops. Naruto's voice from the doorway calls out, "Hey, bastard, have you seen my pants?" and that is enough. They can stay. It is not his job to move the idiot's discarded clothing, after all.
There is a sock on the dresser.
Sasuke sits up, rubbing a hand across his eyes, frowning a little with the usual morning disorientation, and fixes his ebony Uchiha gaze on the offending piece of knitwear.
Instead of moving to right this displaced bit of reality, as he usually would, Sasuke sorts through his mind, endeavoring to discover why on earth the sock is there.
Then he remembers. It had been removed from Naruto's foot last night, by his own hands. He groans a little, and pulls the blankets back over himself. The other young man will no doubt be here soon, with hastily prepared breakfast and an incorrigible grin.
He remembers why he removed the socks in the first place, and smiles. Not much; not in the way normal people smile, but with a strange fragility.
Sasuke refuses to be kissed by Naruto if the blonde boy has bright green feet. It would be ridiculous.
There is a shirt in the bed.
Sasuke falls on it with his old rival on top of him, Naruto's mouth on his neck, Naruto's clever, callused hands threaded through his hair like a restraint or a caress.
Between ragged breaths, he grumbles that the jinchuuriki should watch where he puts his stuff. But the sight of the shirt as he arches his dark head brings back the memory of Naruto taking it off; pulling the fabric over his chest like so much unwanted air, revealing the golden brown of warm skin.
Sasuke regains the upper hand at last and straddles Naruto on the narrow bed, trailing bite marks down the curling spirals of the Kyuubi's seal, aware that his hair is a mess and his house is being slowly overtaken and the cold place in his soul Itachi put there is finally fading, burned away, melted by a rasengan, by an orange shirt tangled in his blankets.
At one point, Naruto's voice husks out his name and Sasuke is inordinately pleased. He may be the most obsessive, undemonstrative bastard who ever lived, but he is good with his mouth; oh yes.
Naruto pulls him back upward at last, moaning something about not wanting to come that soon, and the shirt slips, ignored, onto the floor.
Sasuke can feel Naruto's insatiable grin against his lips, for a moment.
Oh well. The shirt can stay, he supposes.