Work Text:
Los Angeles. International Art Gallery. 13:37 PM.
Footsteps echoed against the white marble floors, slipping through shadows and golden light. The scent of wine, aged varnish, and expensive perfume hung in the air, thick and slow like incense in a holy temple.
But none of it mattered.
Because the centerpiece of the evening—what made the crowd murmur, pause, and lower their glasses in awe—was the sculpture titled Sun.
Towering at nearly two meters, the statue was of a young man. Naked. Unapologetically. He stood tall with shoulders wide, his jaw sharp, cheekbones cut like glass. Three lines were etched on either cheek—not scars, not painted—but real, as if nature itself had kissed his skin with something ancient and primal.
People whispered around it:
“He looks… alive.”
“That face. It's not peace. It's defiance.”
“European? Asian? God? Man?”
In the shadows, Uchiha Sasuke watched. Quiet. Unmoving.
He never stood too close to Sun. Not when others were watching. The piece was too intimate—too raw. It wasn't a sculpture. It was a confession. A sin, carved from marble and madness.
They called him a prodigy. A genius with his hands. A sculptor who could breathe life into stone. But they didn’t know the truth.
Sun didn’t come from inspiration.
It came from a dream.
More accurately, from one recurring dream that haunted Sasuke since he was fourteen.
The dream was always the same: warm golden skin, the taste of salt and sweat, a rough moan in the darkness. Fingers clutching his back. A mouth gasping his name. A voice begging, trembling, breaking beneath him. And in every dream, Sasuke would—without shame, without fear—bury himself inside that body. Fill him. Mark him. Claim him.
It was always the same man. Golden blond. Tanned skin. Blue eyes—when they stayed open. Three lines across his cheeks, like a fox caught in human skin.
And every time Sasuke woke, his hands would tremble. And he would sculpt. He had to. It was the only way to stop the fire from consuming him.
Year after year, the statue became more defined. More real. Until finally, the world saw it and named it a masterpiece. But Sasuke knew better.
Sun was not his creation.
It was a memory.
And tonight, at the 37th anniversary of the Metropolitan Global Sculpture Exhibition, Sun stood under the spotlight once more—nude, proud, and powerful.
Sasuke felt the familiar ache.
Someone tapped his shoulder.
“Uchiha-san,” said the gallery director from Tokyo. “There are people eager to meet you—a French collector, and a film director from Milan. They’re interested in acquiring a limited edition cast of Sun.”
Sasuke nodded, politely, but just as he turned to follow—
He heard it.
A laugh.
Not the refined chuckles of gallery guests sipping wine, but something young. Wild. Unfiltered. Like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds.
“Look, Mom! Dad! Look at that statue! It looks like me, doesn’t it? See the whisker marks? I have those too!”
Sasuke froze.
Slowly, he turned toward the voice.
And the world shattered.
A boy—maybe sixteen or seventeen—stood before Sun. Blonde hair, tousled. Sun-kissed skin. Three unmistakable whisker marks carved naturally on each cheek.
He was pointing at the statue and grinning.
“I bet I’ll look just like that when I’m older! Right, Dad?”
The boy’s parents chuckled, amused, unaware that across the room, a man was unraveling.
Sasuke’s heart slammed against his ribs.
His limbs moved on instinct, each step toward the boy echoing louder than the last. A hum roared in his ears. A fever bloomed in his chest.
He’s real.
The boy from his dreams—flesh and blood. Younger, but unmistakable.
The boy was taking a photo with the statue. His father adjusted the camera. His mother beamed with pride.
And Sasuke, like a man approaching a relic or a ghost, stepped forward.
He stopped beside Sun. His voice, when it finally came, was smooth. Gentle.
“You like the sculpture?”
The boy turned to him with bright eyes. “Yeah! It’s amazing. It feels… alive, y’know?”
Sasuke swallowed.
“What’s your name?”
“Namikaze Naruto,” the boy said with a grin. “And you?”
Sasuke extended his hand.
“Uchiha Sasuke. I made this statue.”
Naruto gasped. “No way! Seriously?! It’s incredible. I’ve never seen a face carved like that. He’s like—he’s thinking something. Not just posing. Like he’s challenging you.”
Sasuke didn’t smile. He just stared. Memorized.
This boy had no idea.
No idea that Sasuke had already seen him—in countless dreams. Had touched him. Loved him. Claimed him. Broken him and been broken by him.
And now, here he was. Innocent. Smiling. Young.
Too young.
Sasuke felt sick with emotion. Lust. Awe. Fear.
Naruto tilted his head, confused. “You okay, mister?”
Sasuke exhaled. “It’s just… strange.”
“What is?”
“That the face I saw in my dreams is now standing in front of me.”
Naruto blinked. “Huh?”
Sasuke shook his head quickly. “Ignore that. Just the ramblings of an artist.”
Naruto laughed. “Well, I think your dream-self’s pretty hot.”
Sasuke nearly choked.
“Can I take a picture with you too?” Naruto added, oblivious.
“Of course.”
The photo was taken. The handshake returned. Warm skin. Firm grip.
And Sasuke knew—this wasn’t a coincidence.
This was a thread pulling them together.
Naruto would grow. His features would sharpen. His voice would deepen. The boy would become the man in the dreams.
And Sasuke would be waiting.
Still sculpting.
Still longing.
Still possessed.
And so, before walking away, Sasuke held Naruto’s hand just a little longer than necessary.
Looked into his eyes.
And with a voice that trembled just beneath the surface, he said:
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Namikaze Naruto.”
And in the back of his mind, something whispered—
“This time… you’re real.”