Archive of Our Own

I

Naruto was three years old when he moved into his apartment.

If you could even call it that.

The woman from the orphanage had smiled when she told him. 

Really smiled— like it was something good, like it was something she wanted.

That made Naruto happy. 

Giddy, even.

“You’re such a lucky boy, Naruto-chan,” she’d said with a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Your very own place! Most kids don’t get that.”

She told him he was special. Said it was something he’d earned.

So Naruto had believed her.

He’d gripped his tiny bag with both hands and bounced with excitement all the way there, heart light, wondering what his new home would look like. 

He pictured colors. Curtains. A bed that didn’t squeak or smell like other kids. Maybe even a nightlight. Maybe someone waiting inside, who would say, “Welcome home.” To him.

But no one was waiting.

The building was dull and hunched, with cracks in strange places. Leaves had gathered in brittle drifts along the steps, windblown and half-rotted, like the place had already been long forgotten.

She didn’t take him inside. 

She didn’t even look at the building.

“This is it,” she said, voice flat. “Make sure to stay inside after dark.”

Then she handed him a threadbare blanket, a sagging plastic bag, and a single rusty key— and turned around without so much as a smile, or goodbye.

Naruto stood on the threshold for a long time, tiny fingers wrapped tight around the key, staring after her long after she vanished down the steps.

The place was small. 

Not cozy-small but empty-small. 

Quiet in the all the wrong ways. The kind of quiet that made your chest ache. 

The floors creaked like old bones with every step, the ceiling buzzed with a dying lightbulb that only worked half the time, and the air always smelled faintly of mildew and something sour he couldn’t name.

There was one window, but it was cracked. Someone had covered the break with old newspaper that let in no light, only shadows. The heater was broken and hissing like it was angry to be awake. The ceiling had stains in the corners like old bruises, and the buzzing light overhead stuttered until it finally gave up.

The only furniture was a thin mattress on the floor and a crooked dresser with two broken drawers. One had sharp nails sticking out.

The mattress sagged in the middle like someone had died on it.

The silence was the worst part. Loud and sharp, like a sound that wanted to eat him.

He tried to be brave.

He dropped the bag by the door and looked around like the woman had told him to. “Get familiar with your surroundings,” she had said. “You’ll feel better once you’ve unpacked.”

There was nothing to unpack.

Just a half-empty bag, two boxes of cup ramen, a cup with someone else’s name scratched off the bottom, and a torn pair of socks with holes in the toes.

Naruto stared at the ramen. Then at the tiny stove.

There was no kettle.

He didn’t know how to boil water anyway.

His stomach growled.

He tried to climb onto the mattress, but it was cold, stiff, and smelled faintly of mold. The blanket barely covered his legs when he curled up. He lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, pretending he was somewhere else.

Somewhere with other kids who looked at him like he was just a kid, not like something dirty.

Somewhere with warm food. And light. And maybe a person who would sit beside him, just once, and say his name like it mattered.

He didn’t cry until it got dark.

Not when the door closed. Not when the heater started coughing and then went quiet. Not even when the shadows under the dresser started to look like hands.

But when the wind outside picked up, howling through the crack in the window like it wanted to come inside— and when the hallway light went out and everything turned too quiet—

That’s when he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

He buried his face in the itchy blanket and sobbed until his throat hurt.

He didn’t feel lucky at all.

Naruto didn’t know how to ask for help.

At least not in a way that worked.

He tried, though. 

At first.

The day after he moved in, he’d gone outside holding one of the cup ramen boxes like a treasure. He didn’t know how to use the stove, but he thought maybe someone would show him.

Grown-ups were supposed to know things. 

Grown-ups were supposed to help.

The first woman he asked didn’t stop walking.

He’d tugged at her sleeve, soft and careful, like you would with something fragile. “Excuse me—” he said, but she pulled away so fast he nearly fell.

The second man scowled before he even opened his mouth. “Figure it out yourself,” he muttered, and kept walking.

Naruto stood there for a long time, fingers clenched around the cup of ramen until it indented.

The next day, he waited outside the market and tried again. This time, he asked an old man who was loading oranges into a basket. 

Naruto didn’t even touch him— just stood nearby and said, “Can you help me? I just moved into the building and—”

“Not my problem,” the man said, not looking up.

“But—”

“I said it’s not my problem.”

The worst time was when he reached for an apple that rolled off a stall and bumped into another kid— just a little one, like him. 

Naruto smiled without thinking. Maybe this one wouldn’t be scared. Maybe they could share.

But before he could say anything, the kid’s mother yanked her daughter back like Naruto was going to bite her.

“Stay away from her!” the woman snapped. Her voice was sharp, loud, mean. People turned to look.

Naruto flinched. The apple dropped from his hand and hit the ground with a dull thump.

“I wasn’t— I didn’t—!” he tried to explain. But the woman didn’t listen. She stared at him like he was something awful.

He hadn’t said anything wrong. He hadn’t done anything.

That time, he didn’t make it home before he started crying.

He ducked behind the big green crates near the back of the market and curled in on himself, arms around his knees, hiding his face in his coat.

He made the tears as small and quiet as he could. So no one would see. So no one would yell at him again.

He didn’t try again after that.

Not to ask. Not to smile. Not even to wave.

He stopped hoping someone might come help him.

It was better that way.

It hurt less when they ignored him if he pretended he didn’t want anything at all.

Winter came slowly.

Then all at once.

It began with skies that turned gray and refused to brighten, like the sun had forgotten how to rise. The air shifted next—sharp and dry, slipping beneath doors and windows no matter how tightly they were shut, carrying the sting of something meaner than mere cold.

Then came the snow.

At first, it was beautiful.

Naruto had never seen snow like that before. In the orphanage, there’d only ever been slush— gray, dirty, stepped on before you could touch it. But this was different. This was soft. New. 

It turned the rooftops to frosting, the trees to crystal, the whole village to something quiet and strange and magical. The world hushed beneath it, like someone had thrown a thick blanket over everything and told it to go to sleep.

For a while, he liked it.

He stuck out his tongue to catch flakes, giggling when they melted on contact. He drew crooked snow-angels in the patches behind buildings where no one walked. 

He made trails with his tiny shoes in the street and traced frost on his bedroom window with the tip of his finger. The cold made his nose red, his breath came out in little clouds. It made everything feel different, like maybe this season belonged to everyone— like even he could be part of it.

But then the cold crept inside.

It came in through the cracks in the window frame, seeped up through the floorboards. His heater rattled and clanked like it was trying its best— like it wanted to help— but it never really got warm. His fingers stayed red and swollen. The tips of his ears stung every time he walked to the market. His only blanket, too thin and too short, did nothing to keep out the chill. 

At night, he curled up tight on the mattress and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to dream of warm places. Of soft beds. Of voices that didn’t whisper about him when they thought he couldn’t hear.

His dreams were cold too.

Then, one afternoon— cold enough that his breath fogged in the air— Naruto crouched behind the swings, knees pulled up to his chest, hiding the way he always did. The metal was too cold against his back, and the frost bit through the fabric of his pants, but he didn’t move. 

If he stayed really still, really quiet, the bigger kids might not notice him. They usually didn’t. 

Not unless they were looking for someone to shove.

His stomach was making that hollow ache again. He hadn’t eaten since the dry rice ball yesterday, and he was trying not to think about it. He picked at the torn knee of his pants, nails digging into the threads, trying to distract himself.

Then he heard voices.

Two older boys. Loud, laughing, careless. Close enough that their breath puffed white in the air like smoke.

“Mom says I’m getting a kunai this year,” one of them said proudly. “Like a real one! ‘Cause Santa knows I’ve been training all year!”

“No way,” the other scoffed. “You’re not even allowed to have kunai yet!”

“Yeah, but it’s Santa. He only brings stuff to good kids. And I’m definitely on the list.”

Naruto’s fingers froze.

Santa?

He’d heard that word before— once or twice, muttered in passing near the market, or on the lips of excited kids who never talked to him. He hadn’t known what it meant. Hadn’t thought it mattered.

But now he listened harder. The boys kept talking— about stockings and cookies and fireplaces, about writing letters and waking up to presents.

It was like a whole different world he didn’t know existed, layered right on top of the one he lived in.

A world for good kids.

Naruto didn’t understand everything. But he understood this: Someone came in the night, left gifts, saw kids and knew who was good. Who deserved things.

And for just a second, the idea curled itself around him like warmth.

Someone who saw them.

He hadn’t known that existed. He hadn’t known to hope for it. But now he couldn’t not hope.

He swallowed hard. His throat ached.

Maybe… maybe if he was good enough— really good, so good even the people at the market couldn’t ignore it— maybe Santa would see him, too.

That night, Naruto got to work.

His apartment was colder than usual, the heater rattling in the corner like it was trying to fight a losing battle. The windows fogged with ice, and Naruto’s breath came out in tight, shaky clouds.

He had no cookies. He wasn’t even sure what they looked like— round and brown, maybe? Or flat and white like mochi?

He wasn’t sure. But he wanted to leave something. Something that mattered.

He took the last of his milk from the tin pitcher beside the stove, poured it into his favorite cup— the one with the frog, even if the crack near the rim had gotten deeper. 

The milk had turned a little sour, so he dropped a tea bag in it, like he’d seen old man Kenji do at the food stand. It still smelled weird, but it looked fancy now. Important.

Then he grabbed one of the many cups of instant ramen from the cabinet— his backup food, the one he kept for when the store wouldn’t sell to him. He set it beside the milk, carefully so it wouldn’t fall.

Last, he added his drawing.

He didn’t have paper. Not real paper. Just a wrinkled receipt he’d found on the ground, soft with dirt. He flipped it over and dug out the dull red crayon from the bottom of his drawer. It was broken in half and peeled down to the nub, but it still worked.

He drew Santa the best he could— round face, big eyes, long arms, and a beard made of spirals and loops. He didn’t know what kind of clothes Santa wore, so he gave him a scarf. Naruto liked scarves.

He wrote, slowly, pressing each letter hard so they’d show up.

deer santa,

sory i dont got kookies but i have rawmen.

pls vesit.

love, naruto

He put everything on the table and stepped back. Looked at it. Adjusted the cup so the frog faced forward.

And then he sat. Cross-legged on the floor with his blanket wrapped tight, watching the window. Watching the door.

Waiting.

The minutes crawled. Then the hours. The heater hissed. The shadows shifted. Somewhere outside, a dog barked and kept barking. Naruto didn’t move.

His eyelids drooped. His legs ached. His fingers had gone numb a while ago. But he didn’t care. He was going to see him.

He was going to know.

He must’ve dozed off. Just for a second.

But he heard a sound.

Soft. Careful. Like a step where there shouldn’t be one.

Naruto’s eyes flew open.

There was someone standing in the middle of the room.

Not glowing. Not red. Not anything like what he’d imagined.

Just… tall.

Standing still, right there in the middle of the room, half-shadowed in moonlight, was a tall figure. Cloaked in black and slate-gray, draped in darkness like it was sewn onto him. His presence was quiet— but heavy. Like he could make the whole room fall still just by breathing.

He wore a mask.

Pale. Bone-white. Like an animal, maybe a dog, with sharp cheekbones and empty eyes. But it wasn’t the mask that held Naruto’s gaze— it was the hair.

Bright silver. Almost white. Messy and soft-looking, like it had never once been combed but still fell just right, catching the moonlight in strands like winter silk.

Just like snow.

He looked too young to be an old spirit. Too still to be a normal person.

Naruto’s throat went dry. He blinked and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

“…Santa?” he whispered, voice cracking from sleep and cold.

The figure didn’t speak. He didn’t move closer. Just watched him.

For a long, still moment, Naruto felt like the man was really looking at him— not through him, not around him, not like the teachers did. Like he was seen.

Naruto blinked.

Then—

He was gone.

Melted into the dark corners of the room like he’d never been there.

The window was still closed.

The cup of milk was still steaming.

The ramen was untouched.

Had he imagined it?

Was that what Santa looked like?

Or… was it something else?

When Naruto woke, the world felt different.

The air in the apartment wasn’t sharp anymore. Light filtered through the blinds softly, like the morning had remembered to be gentle for once.

And on the table—

The milk was gone.

The ramen, eaten.

And beside the empty cup sat a thick blanket— soft, heavy, and blue, stitched with little white clouds along the seams.

Next to it was a small frog. Hand-carved from wood. Painted green with wide, happy eyes.

Beside it was a blue kettle. New. Clean. Waiting on the stove.

Naruto stared.

He didn’t know who Santa was supposed to be.

But maybe that didn’t matter.

Maybe the other kids had never seen the real Santa.

But Naruto had.

And he came for him, too.

And for the first time in his life, Naruto thought—

Maybe he wasn’t alone.

II

Naruto was six when he started at the Academy.

He’d been excited at first— so excited he couldn’t sleep the night before, buzzing with the thought that maybe, finally, this would be the start of something good. That he’d walk into class and find people waiting for him. Laughing with him. Sitting beside him.

But that hope died the moment he stepped through the door.

Everyone already knew each other. Little cliques, tight as fists, had already formed. There were whispered jokes and shared lunches and kids who saved seats without needing to ask. Naruto didn’t belong before he even said a word.

Not that it stopped him.

He talked anyway. Smiled anyway. Tried too hard, too fast, and it showed.

A girl shoved his tray off the table when his lunch touched hers.

An older student cornered him behind the schoolyard and threatened to break his nose if he ever spoke to her brother again.

But every time he tried to explain, it would only make them angrier.

One boy called him “It” for a full week. Made it a game. Got the others to join in.

The teachers noticed. Of course they did. But they didn’t care. Not really. When Naruto tried to explain, they told him not to lie. When he cried, they told him to stop causing problems.

After that, the other kids didn’t even wait until the teachers weren’t looking.

There was one man Naruto sometimes saw. A chūnin who drifted through the halls on observation days. He had a scar across his nose and looked like he might’ve been kind once— back before something had worn him down.

The kids liked him.

So Naruto stayed away.

He didn’t want to ruin that too.

So by the time the snow came again— soft and dirty against the corners of the village— Naruto had gone quieter. Not on purpose. Just from habit.

He stopped raising his hand in class. Sat by the window, where no one fought him for the seat. Walked home the long way around to avoid the bakery alley where the older kids sometimes waited to shove his face into the slush.

But, he still remembered..

That first night. That first winter. That first visit.

The blanket with the clouds. The frog carved from wood. The kettle.

A stranger had come.

Not through the front door, not with laughter or jingling bells—but through the silence. Through the dark. Like a secret.

Naruto hadn’t known what Santa was supposed to look like. He’d only heard the word on the playground— whispered by kids who still got tucked in at night and kissed on the forehead. Santa, they said, had a beard and a red suit. He brought toys to good kids. He flew on a sleigh.

Naruto didn’t have a chimney. Or a sleigh. Or a parent to kiss his forehead.

But someone had come anyway.

Someone who drank his milk, and ate his ramen, and left behind warmth.

He came back, too.

Not regularly— just when Naruto least expected it. A shadow on the fire escape. A flicker by the window. 

Once, Naruto saw something white and soft move past the glass while he was brushing his teeth and he’d nearly dropped his cup.

Every time winter returned, he brought something.

A scarf one year. Thick socks another. A windbreaker with hidden mesh lining. But his favorite was a plush frog with a wobbly eye; Naruto kept it hidden in his drawer where no one would see.

No one had ever brought him anything just because.

No one had ever come to his apartment, just to leave a gift.

No one but him.

This year, Naruto started early.

He found better paper— thick, not crumpled— and used three crayons instead of one.

Red for the marks on his mask, yellow for the hair, (It was the closest he had to white) and blue for the background. He didn’t draw a beard. 

He didn’t think Santa had one. 

Not his Santa.

He warmed the milk carefully— watching it on the stove until it just started to bubble— and poured it into the frog cup without spilling. He set out a fresh cup of miso ramen, and tucked a hard candy beside it, wrapped in red foil. He’d been saving it for weeks.

Then he taped the note to the window.

deer santa,

thank you for the gloves. i brought them to scool but the other kids ruind them in the mud. it wasn’t me. i’m sorry.

i tried to be good this year but its hard.

sometimes i mess up. sometimes people get mad anyway.

but i think you know that.

if you come back this year, can i see you again?

i promise i wont tell the elfs.

love, naruto

He didn’t fall asleep this time.

He curled up in the corner of his futon, blue blanket with clouds wrapped tight around him, and stared at the window until his eyes burned.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t dare.

Because if Santa came back, Naruto wanted to see him.

He didn’t want to miss him. 

Not this time. 

The blonde didn’t believe in the Santa the other kids talked about. The one with the reindeer and the chimney and the laugh. He didn’t care about that one.

He had his own Santa.

One who didn’t need chimneys or songs or sugar.

One who came in silence.

The hours crawled by.

The radiator clanged once. A dog barked somewhere far away.

Naruto’s eyes burned. His fingers ached from clutching the blanket.

There was a soft thump.

Like a step. Like weight pressing against old wood.

Naruto’s whole body went still.

His heart tripped once in his chest.

And there he was.

Santa.

The same as before.

Not jolly. Not round.

Tall. Wrapped in black. White hair glowing in the moonlight like frost.

His face was hidden behind a dog mask, but it didn’t feel scary.

It felt… right.

Naruto didn’t speak.

Santa stepped further into the room. His movements were precise, controlled— like he could disappear at any second, but chose not to.

He crouched beside the window. Picked up the cup. Drank. Ate a few bites of ramen. Tucked the candy away like it mattered.

Naruto’s throat ached with words he didn’t dare speak.

Santa didn’t leave right away this time.

He lingered.

He looked at Naruto.

He remembers him.

Slowly, carefully, Santa pulled something from his pouch and set it on the windowsill.

Then he was gone— gone like he was never there at all. Just air and shadow and quiet.

Naruto waited five full seconds before he moved.

The gift was wrapped in paper that matched the blanket— blue with clouds.

His fingers trembled as he opened it.

Inside was a pair of gloves. Thicker than before. Better. Frog faces stitched onto the palms in bright green thread. Hidden inside one glove was a folded note.

He opened it slowly.

Good kids mess up

sometimes.

 

Naruto clutched the gloves to his chest.

He didn’t just believe anymore.

He knew.

Santa was real.

And Santa came back.

For him.

III

By eight, Naruto had stopped believing in a lot of things.

He didn’t believe people when they smiled at him.

Didn’t believe the teachers when they said they didn’t see the other kids trip him in the hallway.

Didn’t believe anyone when they said they “didn’t mean it.”

But he still believed in Santa.

Not the stupid, storybook one with the belly and the sleigh and the bag full of joy.

That was stupid. That was fake.

That was for people with parents and fireplaces and happy endings.

His Santa was real.

Naruto had seen him.

Black armor. Pale hair like starlight. A white mask with one soft eye that didn’t look through him—but at him.

Not like he was a mistake, or a stain, or a monster. But like he was real, too. Important. Seen.

His Santa was tall and silent. He moved like smoke and left behind warmth, even when he didn't speak. He brought things. Little things. Bandages. Heat packs.

Even a blanket that didn't smell like mildew.

He never said anything. Never stayed.

But Naruto knew.

He was real.

And he came just for Naruto.

No one else ever did that.

That made Naruto certain.

Santa wasn’t pretend. He was just different. And he belonged to Naruto.

But the world didn’t see it that way.

When Naruto tried to tell his class, they laughed. Loudly, cruelly.

“Santa doesn’t give presents to demons,” one boy snickered.

“Your Santa’s probably an escaped patient,” someone else jeered.

“Santa wouldn’t visit you.”

They called him “Santa’s mistake.” They stuffed dirt into his desk drawers and smashed the little frog he brought for show-and-tell.

The teachers looked the other way. One even muttered that “lies like that should be punished.”

Naruto didn’t cry. He stopped talking about Santa.

But he didn’t stop believing. And worse— he didn’t stop needing to.

That year, something in him twisted. Not like before— hopeful and soft— but tight and sharp.

He didn’t want to see Santa.

He wanted to keep him.

Just for a little while.

Because this year had been worse. The kids were crueler. The nights colder. And something inside Naruto had started to rot—slow and bitter, like the old meat he once ate because he hadn't known better.

No one would stay.

Not friends.

Not caretakers.

Not even the people who smiled.

But maybe Santa would.

If Naruto made him.

And maybe Santa would want to stay if he just saw how serious Naruto was.

So he made a plan.

Every night, after scraping instant rice into his mouth and triple-checking the locks, Naruto worked on the trap.

The trap was simple in theory. Pressure plates, wire, tension-loaded kunai sheathed in broken chair legs. A net soaked in oil. He rigged it from scraps and bruised ingenuity.

He tested it twenty-seven times.

Burned himself three.

Cut himself six.

Twisted his ankle once so badly he couldn't walk straight for a week.

But that didn’t matter.

This time it would work.

Because this time he was serious.

And it had to be perfect.

Santa was a shinobi. Fast. Strong. Silent.

But Naruto had been watching.

And he was going to win.

He set the bait with shaking hands. 

He laid out a cup of milk—real milk, not expired for once—and heated it until it almost curdled. A bowl of his last cup ramen. Stirred carefully and placed just right inside the trap zone.

And a drawing, scribbled in red crayon— Santa standing tall with snow-white hair and a ninja mask— and a note scrawled beneath in shaky handwriting.

deer santa,

pls stay this year. i made u ramen and its not burned.

im not bad. i swear. please dont go this time. 

you always leave. just stay with me a little while. 

we can eat ramen together. i won’t talk too much.

i’ll be good. i’ll be quiet. i promise.

just please stay.

love, naruto

He placed the note beneath the bowl with trembling hands, then crawled back onto the couch and curled up, staring at the trap zone.

His belly ached. Not from hunger. From something else.

Anticipation.

Or fear.

Or both.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t sleep.

Not like he ever did this time around.

The apartment was silent.

Naruto sat curled up on the couch, legs drawn to his chest, eyes fixed on the window. Just in case. He didn’t blink. Didn’t dare sleep.

This time, he is going to be ready.

Hours passed.

The moon climbed. The milk cooled. The ramen began to shrivel.

And then— softly— creak.

A footstep.

So light he might’ve imagined it, but Naruto knew.

He scrambled to his feet, heart hammering. A shape moved by the window. Tall. Familiar.

Santa.

He was here.

“Now!” Naruto whispered— and lunged forward, toward the trap, meaning to catch Santa in the act.

But his foot caught the wire.

Snap.

The trap triggered instantly.

Only not the way he planned.

The line whipped upward and coiled around his shin— tight, vicious, yanking his legs out from under him. He slammed to the floor hard, his head cracking against the edge of the table with a sickening thunk. 

The hot kettle he’d left on the stove earlier— forgotten— toppled nearby, and a splash of scalding water grazed his arm.

Pain exploded across his temple. His vision went white, then gray. He couldn’t breathe.

He gasped, fingers scrambling for the knot at his leg, but the wire only tightened, cutting into skin.

His knee twisted wrong. His side ached. Blood dripped down the back of his neck, warm and sticky.

Everything tilted.

“W-wait…” he croaked. “Please… don’t leave—!”

Santa was there. Standing in the doorway. Perfectly still.

That one dark eye stared at him, wide with— what was it?

Pity?

Sadness?

Naruto reached for him.

The shadows swallowed the figure whole.

And then—

He was gone.

Naruto didn’t remember falling asleep.

He only remembered crying. Quiet, bitter tears that leaked hot across his bruised face. His body throbbed in too many places to count. The trap had snapped. His head hurt. His leg burned.

He’d failed.

Even his Santa didn’t want to stay.

But when he woke the next morning, he was in bed.

Warm.

Wrapped in a new blanket— thick and blue, with stitched clouds along the edge. The pain was dull now, and his leg had been wrapped carefully with a bandage. Someone had cleaned the blood from his hair.

His room smelled like pine.

And on the windowsill sat a note.

Folded neatly. Tucked beside a small, wrapped bundle.

Naruto stared at it for a long time before he reached out.

The paper was crinkled, the ink slightly smudged. Like it had been written in a hurry.

Naruto,

I’m sorry you got hurt.

You’re braver than most people I know.

But you don’t have to trap me to be seen.

I already see you.

Every day.

Be careful. And be kind to yourself, too.

I’ll always come back.

The bundle held a pair of shinobi gloves. Real ones. His size. Stitched in navy blue, lined with warm fleece inside. A tiny frog charm dangled from the wrist cord— carved and painted by hand.

Naruto clutched them to his chest.

He didn’t cry.

Not this time.

But he wore the gloves every day after that.

Even to bed.

Because if Santa wouldn’t stay… at least Naruto knew he still came.

And that meant Naruto wasn’t forgotten.

Not completely.

IV

By nine, Naruto knew better than to talk about Santa.

The last time he’d tried— stood up in class, wide-eyed and breathless, practically shaking with excitement as he told everyone how he saw him, how he knew Santa was real, how Santa brought him gloves and ramen and even patched up his scraped knees— they’d laughed.

Not the kind of laughter you could laugh along with.

The kind that stung.

“When are you going to get it in you head that Santa doesn’t visit monsters,” one of the older boys sneered, right before he shoved Naruto face-first into the dirt outside the Academy.

Snow packed into his mouth and stung his eyes. One of them kicked slush into his face for good measure.

He’d learned by then to laugh it off.

He always did.

Even when his lip split and blood hit the back of his teeth. Even when they tripped him during recess and blamed him for falling. Even when the teachers turned away, and the others called him things he wasn’t supposed to understand yet.

Even when Iruka— one of the teacher’s assistants in their class— helped him up without saying anything at all.

He didn’t yell at Naruto like the others. Didn’t flinch away when Naruto flinched first. He just gently touched Naruto’s chin, turned his face, and dabbed at the blood on his lip with a clean cloth. Silent. Patient.

Kind.

Naruto wasn’t used to kind.

It almost made it worse.

Because it made him want to cry.

But he didn’t.

He laughed.

Because if he didn’t—

If he stopped pretending for even a second—

He didn’t know if he’d stop crying.

That winter, he didn’t make a trap.

Didn’t set out old milk or stale cookies or crayon drawings.

Didn’t write a note begging Santa to stay.

He told himself it didn’t matter anymore.

He was ten. Too old for baby stories. Too old for hope. Too old to believe in maybe-somedays or warm arms or someone choosing to stay.

Too old to want someone who only came once a year.

He didn’t even look toward the window.

Didn’t flinch when the cold bled in through the broken seals. Didn’t whimper when the little wall heater gave its last rattling breath and died sometime after midnight.

Didn’t cry when he saw his breath fogging the air.

He just sat there.

On the floor.

In the dark.

Back pressed to the wall, arms wrapped tight around his knees.

And stared at the empty table.

Outside, the wind howled.

A real storm this time. Ice-slick and hungry. The kind that made the walls shudder and the pipes scream. The kind that got into your bones and made you feel hollow from the inside out.

Naruto sat still as a ghost.

He hated that he kept glancing at the window.

He’s not coming this year, he told himself.

He ruined it.

Last year, he’d built a trap— cobbled together from string and wire and broken dreams— and it had worked, sort of. But not the way he wanted. He’d ended up tangled, bleeding, humiliated. Left a mess Santa had to clean up.

Maybe he’d gone too far. Maybe Santa changed his mind.

Maybe he scared him away…

Maybe he’d realized Naruto wasn’t worth the trouble.

Naruto tucked his face down, pressing his forehead into his knees.

He tried to breathe around the scent of stale instant ramen from the day before.

Maybe it was better this way.

If you didn’t hope, it couldn’t hurt.

Right?

He must’ve fallen asleep like that.

Because when he woke, the storm had softened into something quieter. The air had that strange, breathless stillness that only came after fresh snow.

And the room—

Smelled like pine.

Not just the ghost of it.

Real.

Warm, resinous. Familiar in a way that made Naruto’s chest ache.

And beneath it—

Steel. Oil. Cold wind. Shinobi leather and steel-tipped boots.

Naruto’s head jerked up.

The window was cracked open.

No footprints in the snow. No creaking floorboards. No sign of anyone coming or going.

But the chill had changed. It wasn’t empty anymore.

It felt like someone had been here.

And next to him—carefully nestled on top of his threadbare blanket—sat a frog wallet.

At first, Naruto didn’t understand what he was looking at.

It was lumpy and uneven, the green fabric bunched in places it probably wasn’t supposed to be, one of the button-eyes just a little too high, the stitching around the zipper crooked like whoever made it had kept poking their fingers and swearing under their breath—but tried anyway.

His breath caught.

It was homemade.

Not store-bought. Not stolen. Not something dropped or broken or half-used like the things he usually found.

Handmade. For him.

His knees wobbled, and he sat down hard, legs folding under him as he reached out with numb fingers and brushed them across the fabric. It was warm. Not from the sun. From someone’s hands.

Someone had made this.

The zipper opened with a soft shnk, and inside was a crumpled piece of paper. Folded once, then again. Familiar.

The same handwriting as last year.

And the year before that.

Neat, but a little too careful. Like the writer kept second-guessing what to say. Like they wanted to get it right.

The ink was smudged in the corner. Like maybe the pen had leaked. Or maybe they’d touched it too soon after writing.

Naruto unfolded it slowly. His fingers shook.

The note was short.

You don’t have to pretend, Naruto.

It’s okay to want someone to care.

It’s okay to feel lonely.

You haven’t done anything wrong.

You’ve always been good.

I see you.

Naruto stared at the words until his vision blurred.

He knew that handwriting now. Knew the careful slant of the letters. The way the “s” curled too wide. The way the “k” always tilted a little left.

He’d told himself a thousand times it was just Santa. Just some kind of magic. Just a story someone left behind.

But this wasn’t magic.

This was Santa.

His Santa.

He curled his fingers tight around the note and bowed his head, his hair falling forward, his shoulders shaking.

The frog wallet pressed soft and awkward against his chest as he held it close, like it might fall apart if he didn’t hold it just right.

And for the first time in months—

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t pretend.

He just cried.

Quiet, broken tears into his hands and the wallet and the rough weave of the blanket beneath him. Not loud. Not attention-seeking. Just… tired.

Tired and aching and so, so relieved.

Because someone out there had looked at him—messy, clumsy, loud, lonely him—and decided he was good.

That he deserved something made just for him.

Something stitched with shaking hands and uneven seams.

Something with love in every awkward corner.

He carried the wallet everywhere after that.

Tucked it into his jacket pocket. Slipped it under his pillow when he slept. Took it out just to hold it sometimes, when the village was especially cruel, when the teachers turned away, when the other kids laughed too loud and looked too long and said things they didn’t understand.

Even when the corners frayed. Even when the zipper stuck. Even when Kiba laughed and asked why it looked like a dying toad.

Even when spring came and he had nothing left to keep in it except a crayon drawing and a single wrapper from the rice ball Iruka had once shared with him.

Even when it started to fray at the corners.

Because it wasn’t just a wallet.

It was proof.

That he mattered.

That someone had chosen him, quietly, again and again, even when the rest of the world didn’t.

Even when no one else looked.

Even when it felt like he might disappear if he stopped shouting long enough.

Someone had looked at him—and seen him.

Someone who believed he was good.

V

Everything changed when Naruto was eleven.

He didn’t remember what the sky looked like that night.

Just the color of the snow where he landed— grey, like ash water and old bones.

It wasn’t even that late. Not really. The sun had only just gone down, and the lanterns hadn’t all flickered on yet. Most people were home already, behind sealed doors and closed windows, bowls of soup in their hands and laughter bouncing off walls.

He wasn’t supposed to be out after dark. He knew that.

But he hadn't eaten since yesterday. The last pack of noodles had a hole chewed through the bottom, the powder slick with roach droppings and mildew. His stomach hurt. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. So he went out. Just for a little. Just to the corner market.

He knew which vendor looked the other way if you moved fast enough.

He didn't even get the chance.

The bar was across the street. He'd passed it a hundred times. He knew the sound of it— roaring, clattering, thick with bitter chakra and laughter that didn't sound right. That kind of laughter scraped down your spine and stuck to the inside of your ears.

He wasn't even looking at it.

He didn’t think anyone would come out. Not that fast.

The door burst open before he could step back.

The man who stumbled out reeked of piss and sweat and something worse-like rusted kunai and spoiled meat. His vest was open, headband hanging sideways off the edge of his temple. His skin glowed wrong under the dim lantern light-grey-pale and stretched too tight, bloodshot eyes glassy and yellowed.

Shinobi.

A real one.

Naruto froze.

The man blinked at him.

And then—

His expression shifted.

He squinted, like he’d seen a ghost.

Or a curse.

“You.”

Naruto swallowed.

He didn’t like the way the man was swaying. Didn’t like the way his hand twitched toward his hip pouch and stopped.

“I—I didn’t do anything,” Naruto said quickly, voice hitching as he stepped backward, bumping into the corner of a rain barrel. “Just walking. That’s all. I didn’t mean to—”

“You think just apologizing is enough?!” The drunken man yelled. 

Then the man moved.

The blow wasn't elegant. It wasn't trained.

It was clumsy. Brutal.

Fueled by rotgut and hate.

His hand slammed into Naruto's chest with a dull, wet crack-too hard, too fast. Not a push. A hit. Naruto's ribs lit up with white-hot fire. He flew backward, heels skidding through dirty slush, body folding around the impact.

His heel caught a slush puddle.

The street spun.

The snow turned red.

He heard it before he felt it—crunch.

His skull bounced off the stone gutter with a noise like an egg cracking.

Everything went fuzzy.

And then sharp.

And then so, so wet.

Naruto couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.

There was a sound in his ears-high and keening and constant-and he only realized after several seconds that it was him.

The man stood over him, swaying.

"You little piece of shit," he spat. "Should've drowned you in the cradle."

Naruto didn't know what that meant.

He didn't ask.

Couldn't.

His tongue was heavy. His mouth filled with metal and salt. His vision blinked like a broken projector—light and dark and too much color. Too much red.

The man stumbled away, muttering, laughing under his breath.

No one came out to check.

No one asked what had happened.

No one looked.

Naruto curled in on himself slowly. He lifted a hand—slowly, unsteadily—and touched the side of his head.

He stared at his fingers.

Black-red blood clung to his nails, thick and shiny like syrup. It dripped onto the snow and sank straight through, steam curling up in tiny threads.

He didn't cry.

He couldn't afford to.

He waited until the street emptied again.

Then—on all fours—he crawled to his feet.

Every step made his ears ring.

His left arm didn't work right. There was something wrong with the angle of his elbow. The bone felt... wrong. Rubbery. Off-center. He cradled it to his chest.

The walk home took forever.

He remembered the sound of his own breath more than anything-wet and rasping, with a catch every third inhale. He remembered the way his slippers filled with blood, the flap of one sole half-detached from the fall. The way the world tilted when he blinked.

He left red smears on the stairwell. One on the knob of the apartment door.

He locked it behind him. On instinct.

No one was coming.

Not for him.

Not now. Not ever.

He already knew that.

His apartment was freezing.

The heater hadn’t worked right in days. He couldn’t feel his toes. His fingers kept shaking.

He didn’t cry.

He was too tired.

He made soup. 

Or tried to. 

Mostly he just boiled water and stared at the cup.

He wrapped a dish towel around his head and used medical tape to keep it there. He remembered doing that before. After the last time someone threw a bottle at him.

The soup cooled on the table, untouched.

He laid down on the floor, because the bed was too far and his legs didn’t want to listen.

He didn’t expect to wake up.

The first thing he registered was chakra.

Familiar.

Careful.

Soft.

Naruto cracked one eye open, slowly.

The room was dim. Quiet.

Someone was here.

He tried to sit up, but the world swam again.

“Don’t move,” someone said gently. “It’s okay.”

The voice wasn’t harsh or too loud. It didn’t sound like the angry bark of the shinobi from the bar, or the disappointed murmur of a teacher, or the muttering contempt of villagers behind glass.

It was soft.

So soft he almost didn’t hear it.

There was pressure against his temple.

Cool hands. Clean.

Bandages, not tape.

Naruto blinked again.

There was a shadow crouched beside him. A figure in black and gray. Pale hair, masked face, eyes watching him with something almost like—

Anger?

No. 

Not of him.

For him.

He blinked.

“…Santa?” he whispered.

The figure stilled.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t vanish either.

Naruto let his eyes fall shut again.

The second time he woke, the room was warmer.

The bandage on his head had been changed. There was soup waiting for him. Fresh. Hot. And he had a blanket across his chest.

Iruka sat on the floor beside him, eyes red-rimmed and hands clenched in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“You didn’t come to school,” Iruka said softly.

Naruto didn’t answer.

“You didn’t even leave the apartment.”

He didn't dare look at his teacher.

“It’s not the first time, is it?”

That made Naruto flinch. But, Iruka didn’t push.

He just sat there. Quiet. Still. Present.

The blonde picked at the soup. Ate three bites. Not saying a word.

He stared at Iruka for a long time.

The man's mouth was open slightly, his brow furrowed even in sleep like he was still worried. Like he’d never stopped.

Naruto got up. His knees hurt and his head still throbbed.

But he crept over and curled up beside Iruka anyway, carefully resting his head on Iruka’s arm.

It was warm.

Iruka didn’t even twitch.

Naruto let himself press closer.

It didn’t matter if it was just for tonight.

It still felt safe.

Later, when the apartment was silent and Iruka hadn’t stirred once, Naruto slipped out of the blanket and tiptoed to the little kitchen table.

He found a clean ramen cup and scrubbed it shiny. Poured half a glass of milk from Iruka’s own fridge, biting his lip the whole time like he expected to be yelled at.

But Iruka kept sleeping.

He pulled out a marker and one of the pages from his sketchpad.

This time, he drew all of them.

Santa— still masked, still tall, still with the white hair that never looked quite real.

Naruto, holding onto one gloved hand.

And Iruka beside them, smiling, eyes closed.

He stared at the picture for a long time.

Then he added the note.

Dear Santa,

I know you saw me.

Thank you for staying.

You don’t have to come anymore, if you’re busy.

I think I’m okay now.

But if you do… I won’t be mad.

Thank you for giving me Iruka.

I think he’s magic too.

Love, Naruto

He placed the note beside the ramen cup and milk, aligned everything carefully on the table like a shrine.

Then he went back to Iruka, curled beside him again, and wrapped the blanket around them both.

Iruka shifted slightly in his sleep. He mumbled something, and his arm slid around Naruto.

Naruto closed his eyes and breathed in the quiet.

Maybe Santa would stop coming.

Maybe he wouldn’t.

But Iruka was here.

That had to count for something.

+ I

Naruto didn’t believe in Santa anymore.

Not really.

He was twelve now. Practically a teenager. Practically a shinobi.

And anyway, Santa didn’t wear red or ride a sleigh. He didn’t come with jingling bells or ho-ho-hos or squeeze down chimneys in the middle of the night.

He wore soft leather gloves and smelled like steel and wind and sage-scented laundry detergent. He moved in flickers of shadow and warmth. He crouched beside Naruto when he thought he was sleeping, tucked blankets tighter around his shoulders, and disappeared without a word.

Naruto had known for a while.

He just didn’t say it out loud.

Didn’t want to break the spell.

He hadn’t meant to start living with Iruka.

Not at first.

After the drunk shinobi slammed him into a crate, after he’d limped home with blood crusted in his hair and soup spilled cold beside him on the floor, things… changed.

Iruka showed up the next evening, pale and furious and scared beneath it. He’d looked at Naruto like he didn’t know what to do— then knelt down, gentle as anything, and cleaned the dried blood from his scalp with shaking hands.

He didn’t leave that night.

Or the next.

He brought groceries. He made tea. He started walking home with Naruto from school more often— not every day, but enough that people noticed. Enough that the looks didn’t sting quite as badly.

Eventually, he gave Naruto a key to his apartment. Said it was “just in case.” Said he could stop by if the heat wasn’t working. If the neighbors were loud again. If he just wanted a place to study where no one pounded on the walls.

Naruto tried not to overuse it.

But sometimes, “just studying” turned into dinner. Which then turned into helping Iruka fold laundry. And then turned into falling asleep on the couch with a blanket tucked over his chest and Iruka’s soft voice murmuring that it was alright, just this once.

And… he was there. Not every night, but most. 

His things migrated over one at a time— shirts, then ninja gear, then the frog plush. His toothbrush in the bathroom. His drawings on the wall. A second bowl on the table when ramen was ready.

No one said it out loud.

But Naruto had stopped going back.

And Iruka hadn’t asked him to.

Kakashi came over a lot.

He didn’t knock anymore. Just strolled in with his hands in his pockets and his mask soft at the corners like he’d been smiling the whole way there. 

Iruka always greeted him the same way— with a fake scowl and a real warmth, calling him things like “ridiculous” and “late again,” while Kakashi bumped their shoulders together and asked what was for dinner.

They were weird. Kind of embarrassing, if Naruto was being honest.

They bickered while washing dishes, but they always stood close. Iruka made Kakashi tea even when he was mad at him. Kakashi left dog hair on the couch and smuggled in library books he said were “too mature” for Naruto but left them out in the open anyway.

They looked at each other like they knew the other would always be there.

Sometimes Naruto caught them standing in the kitchen, barely touching, just murmuring to each other while the kettle steamed. Kakashi’s hand on Iruka’s back. Iruka’s thumb hooked on Kakashi’s sleeve. Quiet things. Soft things.

Naruto rolled his eyes.

It was annoying.

And kind of comforting.

And— if Naruto was being honest— it made the apartment feel even warmer.

That year, he said he didn’t believe in Santa.

Said it casually, like it didn’t matter. Like he was too old for it.

“Santa’s for babies,” he told Chōji and Shikamaru at the Academy. “I stopped believing a long time ago.”

Now he was older. Twelve, almost thirteen. He had responsibilities. Chūnin exams looming, mission scrolls piling up, calluses blooming on his palms from too many training sessions in the cold.

He didn’t have time to believe in Santa anymore.

But he still fell asleep on the couch waiting for him.

“I’m not a baby,” he grumbled earlier that evening when Iruka set out hot cocoa and kissed his forehead.

“Of course not,” Iruka had said with a smile, tugging a blanket around Naruto’s shoulders.

“You don’t believe in Santa anymore,” Kakashi added lazily from the doorway, one arm draped around Iruka’s waist. “Right?”

“Obviously not,” Naruto huffed, too quickly.

But later— when the house was quiet, and the lights were low— he slid his frog wallet onto the coffee table. Right next to the plate of dango.

Not cookies.

His Santa always liked dango better.

He added a note, folded twice, edges wrinkled from being held too long.

Dear Santa,

I know you’re not real. But just in case… thanks for always showing up.

I’m okay now. But I still miss you a little. Even if you were never really there.

Love, Naruto

Then he curled up under the blanket and pretended not to care.

He didn’t notice when he drifted off, face pressed into the couch cushions, frog wallet clutched tight in one hand.

Sometime after midnight, Naruto stirred.

Groggy. Thirsty.

He padded barefoot into the hallway, rubbing his eyes and muttering about the cold, intending to use the bathroom and maybe sneak another cup of cocoa.

But halfway there— he stopped.

There was a shadow in the living room.

Tall. Lean. Crouched near the little plant stand Iruka had decorated with silver string and clipped paper stars and declared their ‘tree’ because they didn’t own a real one.

The shadow moved.

Naruto’s breath caught.

He ducked behind the hallway wall, heart hammering in his chest, just enough to peek.

The moonlight from the window caught on familiar silver hair. A long-sleeved pajama top. Slippers.

Kakashi?

Kakashi crouched low in front of the tree-stand, slipping a small, neatly wrapped box under the lowest branch. His movements were slow and careful. He adjusted the position of the dango plate with a quiet little huff, then glanced toward the couch.

Right where Naruto had been sleeping.

He didn’t see him now.

Kakashi looked… different in the dark. Gentle. Stiller. The curve of his back softened, the scar at his jaw more visible in the silver light. The edge of something tender ghosted across his face.

Like this mattered.

Like he wanted it to.

And suddenly, Naruto couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.

His throat tightened, and he didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry or just sink to the floor and stay there.

Because he knew.

Kakashi had always known.

The next morning, Naruto found the plate empty.

The frog wallet was still there— its little strap carefully mended with thread.

And a package tucked under the plant-stand, wrapped in paper that looked suspiciously like the mission reports Kakashi always claimed to misplace.

Inside was a scroll case.

Not a mission scroll— but a hand-drawn certificate, scrawled in Kakashi’s tidy script.

Official Record of Stealth Supremacy:

To Naruto Uzumaki, for Catching Santa Twice

 

There was another note folded inside—

Next year, try hiding behind the fridge.

You’re getting better.

Naruto clutched it to his chest.

Then padded into the kitchen where Iruka was already brewing tea, sleep-mussed and warm in his robe, and Kakashi leaned back against the counter, sipping from his cup with one eye squinted shut.

Naruto didn’t say anything.

He just hugged Iruka from behind and tugged on the sleeve of Kakashi’s pajama top until he sighed and leaned over, letting Naruto bump his forehead against his shoulder.

“I don’t believe in Santa,” Naruto mumbled into Iruka’s back.

“Of course not,” Iruka said, smiling into his tea.

“But I do believe in stealth missions,” Naruto added. “And you both suck at them.”

Kakashi choked on his tea.

Iruka burst out laughing.

And Naruto— Naruto felt warm all the way through.