These Masks We Wear
Title: These Masks We Wear
Fandom: Naruto
Pairing: SasuNaru
Rating: PG
It seems ironic, in a way, that in spite of the red-painted porcelain he uses to obscure his features, it is when the sculpted facade comes off that he truly wears the mask. The reverse would seem to be true, given his circumstances. On the street, his is a face they all recognize, a warm spot of sunshine on any day. He is one of their own, a shinobi of Konoha. He is Uzumaki Naruto, the self-proclaimed 'number one loudmouth ninja' . He is someone who has fought and risked his life for the village of Konoha, someone who has saved countless lives with his own stubborn, determined, and selfless nature.
He is the one who they all know will one day stand before them as their Hokage. But with his carefree smile and laughing blue eyes hidden behind emotionless ceramic, he is simply another faceless one among the many who wear the name of ANBU, another shadow moving through the underneath.
And in a way, he prefers it that way, in spite of all his dreams and wishes. Prefers it because when they wear the mask, he doesn't have to make believe, doesn't have to stand up to the weight of his own destiny while the world watches from the sidelines with judgmental eyes at what they don't understand.
He doesn't have to pretend it doesn't hurt.
When they are on mission, when things are harsh and quick and life or death is decided in a heartbeat's time, such things as rank and circumstance and propriety don't matter. And in those times, when the mission is over, and he finds himself with his back against the rough bark of a tree as Sasuke rips the mask from his face and plunders Naruto's mouth with his own, he can forget. Forget everything except the feel of Sasuke's hands, Sasuke's mouth, the warmth of Sasuke's body against his as the flames surge between them.
He can forget that he is not the one Sasuke goes home to.
On those nights spent in seedy motel rooms and rest-houses, holed up amidst the rats and the roaches while they wait for whatever scrap of intel or next set of orders comes their way, he can put aside the truth and lose himself in the fantasy. And somehow, amidst the scratchy, threadbare sheets, the oiled paper covering windows, things are different. It's another world, and he puts aside the shame he knows they are both supposed to feel in order to seek solace.
Sasuke tells Naruto he loves him, even if it's only in murmured whispers in the heat of passion or half-mumbled in sleep while the Uchiha lays at his side, one long arm slung across the Jinchuuriki's waist as he spoons behind the blonde. And on mission, where secrets abound and everything is hushed and furtive, he can forget that Sasuke also tells her those words at night.
When they are home in Konoha, and the mask is stored away in his closet, things are different.
He passes them on the street, watching as the crowds part and the citizens of Konoha exchange hushed whispers while the heir to the Uchiha clan passes. They have never truly forgiven him his betrayal, though Tsunade has long-since concluded where Sasuke's loyalty lies. Sasuke never looks at him as they pass, never more than a quick flash of black eyes meeting blue and a polite nod, and he grits his teeth against the rage and anger as he is forced to pretend.
He knows that Sasuke is pretending too, and perhaps in a way that makes the pain sharper.
Sasuke doesn't pretend because he wants to. He pretends because he has to. Naruto knows this, he knows because Sasuke has told him, and it is because of that that he pretends. For the sake of that one person. For Sasuke. Watching as they pass, he can't help but admit that she's pretty, with her black hair and blue eyes. And though it isn't her fault, neither can he help the jealousy. The feeling that it should be him walking beside Sasuke.
He knows Sasuke doesn't love her, in spite of what he tells the girl at nights, when she shares his bed. Naruto knows because he knows she doesn't understand the crimson-eyed man. She isn't a shinobi, isn't like the rest of them. She's simply a girl of good background, good breeding and blood. A civilian from a shinobi family. A pretty ornament on his arm, gazing up at Sasuke with a soft, adoring stare in her cornflower-pale eyes. She makes him sick, something that in turn makes him ashamed because she is as much a victim of the circumstance as they themselves are. A decorative flower in a garden of blood, kept from the reality of life by her purpose. She shares his name, and she will mother his heirs. Something that Naruto himself could never do.
It cuts deep, the knowledge, and not for any strange or twisted desire to somehow mother Sasuke's children. That idea is impossible as it is, and even though some introspective portion of his mind seems to enjoy pointing out how much time he used to spend transformed into a girl, that is all just illusion. Even if the idea itself held merit, it would be an impossibility. But that isn't what hurts. The source of his pain doesn't stem from the 'curse' of his gender. Rather, it has a deeper seat.
What hurts, is knowing that no matter what he may wish, he cannot help Sasuke achieve his dream.
They are two of a pair, joined by bonds stretching further than perhaps either of them ever would have suspected. They share smiles -- his, Sasuke generally doesn't smile -- as well as tears -- again, his. The Uchiha is revoltingly unemotional for the most part -- in those moments when the masks go on and the other masks go away. When he can escape from the duties he must face on his path to his dream, when Sasuke can escape the cage of his own creating. They exchange touches, words, glances, hot with suppressed emotion and desire as they reaffirm, even if only to each other, what both know lies beneath the masks.
He will not cry, not where Sasuke can see. Even in those weakest of moments, when he can feel those same arms wrap around him, shiver at the faint brush of Sasuke's lips against his ear as that deep, resonating voice whispers the same words.
"I'm sorry."
The tears threaten, but he pushes them back, crushing them behind a wry grin and a roll of blue eyes as he once more lies to himself and to the other, pulling on the only mask he ever wears when they are together. The mask of contentment.
"Shut up, teme. It's not like you could have married ME, you know. I'm ill-equipped for babies."
He doesn't know if Sasuke understands, though he suspects. All he knows is that his snark is met with a soft, exasperated sigh of 'dobe' before Sasuke drives his concerns away for another night. Another stolen moment in the dark. And he knows that come morning.... he will have to wear the mask again.
Fandom: Naruto
Pairing: SasuNaru
Rating: PG
It seems ironic, in a way, that in spite of the red-painted porcelain he uses to obscure his features, it is when the sculpted facade comes off that he truly wears the mask. The reverse would seem to be true, given his circumstances. On the street, his is a face they all recognize, a warm spot of sunshine on any day. He is one of their own, a shinobi of Konoha. He is Uzumaki Naruto, the self-proclaimed 'number one loudmouth ninja' . He is someone who has fought and risked his life for the village of Konoha, someone who has saved countless lives with his own stubborn, determined, and selfless nature.
He is the one who they all know will one day stand before them as their Hokage. But with his carefree smile and laughing blue eyes hidden behind emotionless ceramic, he is simply another faceless one among the many who wear the name of ANBU, another shadow moving through the underneath.
And in a way, he prefers it that way, in spite of all his dreams and wishes. Prefers it because when they wear the mask, he doesn't have to make believe, doesn't have to stand up to the weight of his own destiny while the world watches from the sidelines with judgmental eyes at what they don't understand.
He doesn't have to pretend it doesn't hurt.
When they are on mission, when things are harsh and quick and life or death is decided in a heartbeat's time, such things as rank and circumstance and propriety don't matter. And in those times, when the mission is over, and he finds himself with his back against the rough bark of a tree as Sasuke rips the mask from his face and plunders Naruto's mouth with his own, he can forget. Forget everything except the feel of Sasuke's hands, Sasuke's mouth, the warmth of Sasuke's body against his as the flames surge between them.
He can forget that he is not the one Sasuke goes home to.
On those nights spent in seedy motel rooms and rest-houses, holed up amidst the rats and the roaches while they wait for whatever scrap of intel or next set of orders comes their way, he can put aside the truth and lose himself in the fantasy. And somehow, amidst the scratchy, threadbare sheets, the oiled paper covering windows, things are different. It's another world, and he puts aside the shame he knows they are both supposed to feel in order to seek solace.
Sasuke tells Naruto he loves him, even if it's only in murmured whispers in the heat of passion or half-mumbled in sleep while the Uchiha lays at his side, one long arm slung across the Jinchuuriki's waist as he spoons behind the blonde. And on mission, where secrets abound and everything is hushed and furtive, he can forget that Sasuke also tells her those words at night.
When they are home in Konoha, and the mask is stored away in his closet, things are different.
He passes them on the street, watching as the crowds part and the citizens of Konoha exchange hushed whispers while the heir to the Uchiha clan passes. They have never truly forgiven him his betrayal, though Tsunade has long-since concluded where Sasuke's loyalty lies. Sasuke never looks at him as they pass, never more than a quick flash of black eyes meeting blue and a polite nod, and he grits his teeth against the rage and anger as he is forced to pretend.
He knows that Sasuke is pretending too, and perhaps in a way that makes the pain sharper.
Sasuke doesn't pretend because he wants to. He pretends because he has to. Naruto knows this, he knows because Sasuke has told him, and it is because of that that he pretends. For the sake of that one person. For Sasuke. Watching as they pass, he can't help but admit that she's pretty, with her black hair and blue eyes. And though it isn't her fault, neither can he help the jealousy. The feeling that it should be him walking beside Sasuke.
He knows Sasuke doesn't love her, in spite of what he tells the girl at nights, when she shares his bed. Naruto knows because he knows she doesn't understand the crimson-eyed man. She isn't a shinobi, isn't like the rest of them. She's simply a girl of good background, good breeding and blood. A civilian from a shinobi family. A pretty ornament on his arm, gazing up at Sasuke with a soft, adoring stare in her cornflower-pale eyes. She makes him sick, something that in turn makes him ashamed because she is as much a victim of the circumstance as they themselves are. A decorative flower in a garden of blood, kept from the reality of life by her purpose. She shares his name, and she will mother his heirs. Something that Naruto himself could never do.
It cuts deep, the knowledge, and not for any strange or twisted desire to somehow mother Sasuke's children. That idea is impossible as it is, and even though some introspective portion of his mind seems to enjoy pointing out how much time he used to spend transformed into a girl, that is all just illusion. Even if the idea itself held merit, it would be an impossibility. But that isn't what hurts. The source of his pain doesn't stem from the 'curse' of his gender. Rather, it has a deeper seat.
What hurts, is knowing that no matter what he may wish, he cannot help Sasuke achieve his dream.
They are two of a pair, joined by bonds stretching further than perhaps either of them ever would have suspected. They share smiles -- his, Sasuke generally doesn't smile -- as well as tears -- again, his. The Uchiha is revoltingly unemotional for the most part -- in those moments when the masks go on and the other masks go away. When he can escape from the duties he must face on his path to his dream, when Sasuke can escape the cage of his own creating. They exchange touches, words, glances, hot with suppressed emotion and desire as they reaffirm, even if only to each other, what both know lies beneath the masks.
He will not cry, not where Sasuke can see. Even in those weakest of moments, when he can feel those same arms wrap around him, shiver at the faint brush of Sasuke's lips against his ear as that deep, resonating voice whispers the same words.
"I'm sorry."
The tears threaten, but he pushes them back, crushing them behind a wry grin and a roll of blue eyes as he once more lies to himself and to the other, pulling on the only mask he ever wears when they are together. The mask of contentment.
"Shut up, teme. It's not like you could have married ME, you know. I'm ill-equipped for babies."
He doesn't know if Sasuke understands, though he suspects. All he knows is that his snark is met with a soft, exasperated sigh of 'dobe' before Sasuke drives his concerns away for another night. Another stolen moment in the dark. And he knows that come morning.... he will have to wear the mask again.