um. this is a thing that I and capturedbynoodle's arose from the deep dark mud. now we're in it through this collab, which will later become a two-part series. i do first part, she does second via a hefty time-skip.

please heed that this contains shota. &is /not/ a pretty sort of story. Strict M for a reason.

all beta credit goes to my love whom I just love. ;-;

oOo

Midsummer goes, and half of autumn with it.

Now fall's end beckons winter aloft the River Aire.

Sasuke watches.

How it rains, how deluge mends against the canal's offing. He stands still for most of sunup's tide, overlooking from the highest awning of his estate.

He sets his palm upon the balustrade, the other at his pocket-watch, and waits.

oOo

The hour settles.

He steps inside, away from the balcony. And begins to dress.

Black cutaway, leather gloves. Form-fitting vest.

No light, just the open window.

His cock is hard by the time he's at the mirror. But morning dwindles and by dusk he's scheduled with a patient. Not to mention, the cross at Kirkstall's bridge takes time. Whyfor he will visit Wyther Lane, a waterfront district in which an apothecary has recently set up shop. There, he will restock on what he needs of pharmacons.

He tightens his collar, and stares at his face. He dandles the line of his jaw. His lips, his nose, the slope of his chin.

He takes a step back from the mirror.

Marmoreal.

oOo

On foot, he is there by the hour.

The thoroughfares are crowded, sidewalks clot with mud.

To his right, the drainage of the causeway. To his left, the stench of salmon being cut.

He rounds the sector's market. Paperboys holler with newspapers flailed in their hands, encompassing as mites amid the street-lamps. Peasant girls scutter with their heads down, hauling baskets while lechers vulture at the sidelines. Fat nobles with their canes. Orphans huddling in alleyways. Loose stones in the gravel, the gentle lave of Liverpool's intersecting beck.

It is grey. The city. Fog of northern storms cloud in.

He locates the apothecary on the opposite street. The vendor inside greets him warmly, but Sasuke gives no answer.

He inspects the aisles with both hands clasped behind his back, only touches what he needs to. He ganders the sideboards, the stamp of import on each of the opium phials. The flacons of laudanum, too. He pauses when he spots an array of thumb-sized bottles, and strides closer.

Genuine chloral. He uncorks one, brings it to his nose.

Odorless as it is see-through. And sometimes even sweet. An efficient sedative he'd learned of when still he trained in Kyoto. It's the first he's seen of it, inside of Leeds.

He takes the bottle with him, and approaches the counter. Still, he keeps a mindful distance from it.

"Noscapine," he says. "Do you have it?"

"Ah, yes," the vendor sputters. "The little thing came in jus' last morning. Right this way, milord."

It shuffles towards the back, gut held down with lard. Froggish throat, froggish eyes. Minutes later, it returns with the flask.

"Anything else?"

"Anise. Benzoic, unscented."

It looks to think. "The oil, you mean?"

"The oil."

It makes its way again, only slower. Sasuke's fingers curl, feels the steady clicking of his pocket-watch broiling his rib.

By the time it returns, it's breathing loudly. It bundles the items, wrapping all four products in with parchment and a sickly yellow string.

It starts to sweat.

Sasuke stares.

Fat fingers. Fat mouth. Fat arms. Fat face. Fatfatfatfat—

"—that be all?"

Sasuke swipes the bundle from the counter. The vendor takes a step back.

With one hand he quickly dispenses whatever coin is owed. Then he leaves the shop.

oOo

He does not know why he does it. But he does it.

He takes the outskirts towards the bridge instead of the main road, following the byway of the riverbank.

It begins to rain. He hasn't eaten, hasn't come since last day, but the husher of the river soothes him.

He is at the district's fringe, by the time he sees him.

Three ells of length between them. There, crouched between the narrow passage of two short buildings, flicking plastic marbles into the fractures of the flagstone.

Small. Giggling. Six orange buttons knit into the handmade yarning of his sweater.

Sasuke stops, flounders. He does not notice, but he takes a step forward, away from the general direction of the bridge. His footfall echoes through the empty slum. Or at least, it seems to him it does. And to the child, too, who now stands, noticing him through the umbra of the fog.

Something in him uproots. Violent, quiet.

"Hi," the child tells him.

But Sasuke cannot talk.

He stands there. And the child stands there, too.

Silence.

A woman's shout bellows from inside the leftmost building. Some few words in Russian.

The boy looks at him one last time.

Then, he runs inside.

oOo

Sasuke follows.

He has to.

The marbles lie by the heel of his boot, arranged by their colors. Purple, pink, purple.

He wants to touch one. To unglove his hand before he touched one. To feel what it might be like, to know.

He looks to his right. A single window, threadbare curtains slung aside. Rolling pins, amber light. The modest layout of a bakery.

He sees the child there. Eating, sitting, legs swinging as if wishing for a swing, instead.

Sasuke's inhale catches. Tightens, so low beneath his abdomen.

He grasps forward, fingers folding slow against the handle of the door. It clicks open. He steps in, lets it shut. The bells above him chime. He stands there. The woman spins on her heel from the opposite side of the room, regards him.

Red of hair. Length enough to drape the upper portion of her legs. She wears a cotton dress, homespun, layered beige with tattered apron.

She rounds the distance promptly, her hair abaft her, a blood-red banner, stationing herself behind the corner of the counter.

She welcomes him. But only with a wonted smile.

Sasuke smiles at her, too.

He hears the boy slide off his chair. Then watches as the child goes to hide behind the woman's skirts, chunk of cake crammed between the spaces of his little fingers. The woman reaches down, ruffles through the golden cluster of his hair. It seems to ease him.

His mother, Sasuke gathers.

Thereon, the child peeks. Curious, from behind the safety of his mother's shadow.

"What would you like?" she asks, sparing blunt the use of honorifics.

Sasuke swallows, saunters closer. He wants to look again, down there. To see him seeing him.

"Those," he says.

She looks to where he's looking, grasps a pair of tongs, and asks,

"How many?"

"Seven."

She peers at him, but he keeps his gaze upon the pastries, as if examining their quality. She begins to bag each muffin, the crinkle of the bag flitting midst the utter silence of the room.

"Anything else?"

Movement. Sasuke glances down, to where the boy has begun to tug at his mother's apron. She looks down, hushering him succor in their language. Sasuke takes the opportunity to drift in closer, hands now grappled upon the wood-rim of the counter. His fingers clench, the black leather of his gloves chirring in their tightness.

The woman's attention falls to him again. Untrust there. He holds his breath.

"Those," he repeats, gesturing sidelong with a single tilt of his chin. "Five of them."

She bends, as to reach the tarts he's requested. She piles all five into the bag, by size and neatly.

He points out two more things, several things. A parcel of scones, an assortment of éclairs. The bag is brimming by the end of it. She sets it on the counter. The boy burrows against her, observing. With his mouth he begins to nibble at the strawberry cake clutched in his hand. It melts custard, a rindle of syrup, all along the underpart of his arm. The milk of it travels into the tube of his sleeve, slow—sweet, sticky—nestling someplace beneath.

Sauske's jaw stiffens, thrill throbbing like a second heart at the core of his pelvis.

The woman stirs from the corner of his vision.

"Sir?"

He veers his gaze. Shuts his eyes for just one moment. Attempts to think. But the inward shudder of his breath derails him.

"This place," he says. "It's something that I should have noticed."

The woman smiles, but Sasuke knows full well it is evasive.

"Will that be all?"

It's more a statement.

The child finishes his treat, sucks what's left from each his fingertips. Sasuke can hear it. Can hear it like the ballast of his own heartbeat, can feel it like the blood swelling into the muscle of his prick, but he does not allow himself to see nor can he allow himself to have it.

No. He cannot have it yet.

"Yes," he says. He reaches down, pays her in shilling. "Thank you."

She nods and does not boggle. Even as he scopes her up and down, to her face and to the summits of her breasts. She watches thereon, as if waiting for him to unloosen his hands from the ledge of her counter and leave.

He does. Can hardly endure it, but knows that he must.

He takes the bag with him, cradling it into the ell-curve of his arm, and bows his head. He can feel the child's eyes on him as he goes, blasé, towards the exit. Can envision the glide on him, the flux of him, the traction of his girlish body—

He wants, no, Sasuke needs to go back.

He pauses a foot from the doorway, execrates the crux of his torment, and rounds on his boot, calmly returning to where he'd been.

"I've just recently arrived," he says, confides. The woman watches him closely. "And I've trouble with directions."

At first, she looks at him strangely. Then she tucks a tress of hair behind one ear, straightening her spine in the process.

"To which district?"

He's speaking before he can understand that he's speaking.

"Roundhay," he says, and it is one of his favorite places.

"Then I am of no help," she informs him simply. "I know little outside of Bramley."

It is a lie. But Sasuke nods at her reply. He makes to leave, bending his neck to her once more before turning.

"It is to the east of Aire," she calls, inflection thickening. "Near the Oakwood. Where the wellborns dally."

He sneers. He's won. He pivots, regains a single step in her direction. Her demeanor is different, mended soft with contrition. The child tugs at her dress again. She gives him more of the cake from the salver. Sasuke comes closer.

"I'm sorry," she says. "It's—"

"Fine." He eases his expression. "I understand. It is a mother and her son. And I have overstepped her patience."

The bag of bread crinkles as he talks. Her gaze falls to it, the generosity of his purchase ever palpable between them.

He wets his lips. "Do you think well of the town?"

Her cheeks pinken by a modicum. But not enough to quell him.

"Better when it isn't grey."

Her hands clasp in front of her. They're hidden from behind the counter, but Sasuke knows that they are fumbling. The boy peeks from behind her leg, chewing softly.

"Where did you dock from?" she asks. "I mean, if you docked from—"

"Kyoto," he tells her. "From Japan."

Her eyes widen. "So far?"

"So far."

She hooks another tuft of hair behind her ear, looks elsewhere.

"Is it so obvious?" he asks, reining her attention.

She struggles with her answer. He ungloves his right hand, offers her obeisance.

"Sasuke," he tells her.

She takes it, her pale fingers shatterable inside his own.

"Kushina."

She slides her hand away. Their skin grazes. He makes certain his own hand lingers for a longer second, just enough for her to see it.

Now, he looks down, this time openly, anent the chary figure of her son. She notices. And reflexively she places her hand deep into his hair, combing back and forth gently.

Sasuke moves sideward, tentative, just before the corner of the counter, and sinks down to one knee. There, where Kushina may inspect his every action. Where she may have him near, so close to the inmost of her hips.

The boy stares at him, unflinching. Blue, blue eyes. Round cheeks, flocculent complexion.

Sasuke's vision focals, sounds disappear. He wants to pick him up, dangle him. In his arms. On his lap. Wants to touch him. So he does.

"Hello," he says, and offers him his palm.

The boy looks up at his mother. For admission, for reluctance. Then, the child takes it. Small, soft, perfect. Sasuke's breath tempers in his lungs, the curl of thrill unfurling. He feels it in his cock.

"And you are?"

"Naruto!"

Catharsis.

oOo

He keeps the lilt of his name like a secret.

Sasuke gets to his feet, the imbalance in he and Kushina's heights unreservedly flagrant.

He looms over her, and in his shadow, she is as tame as her child.

He looks at her. She looks at him, too.

"He has your eyes," he tells her.

For the first time since meeting her, the steel of her carapace sunders. She lessens, deflates, the nervous teething of her unpainted lip. A sliver of excitement runs down Sasuke's spine. It settles there. On a maddening brink.

"My...husband," she utters. "He always said Naru's eyes were a lot like his."

"Said?"

She looks to the side. Sasuke dares to advance, inches between them. The child watches from below, his gaze an innocent back-and-forth between Sasuke and Kushina.

"Minato, he…"

She brings the rim of her hand to her mouth, covers it. She shuts her eyes for just one second, breathes in pointedly. Sasuke knows then, the father will not be of nuisance.

"Hey mister!" the child beams. He unlatches himself from his mother's skirts, places himself in front of her decidedly. "Do you wanna be my momma's husbin? Then you could make a love and be my papa!"

Before Sasuke can answer, Kushina is heaving in outrage, face flushed enough to match her hair.

"Naruto!" she scolds, one finger forward. "Kak ty voobŝe takoe mog skazat!"

The boy shouts something back at her. She's about to do the same but then she stops herself, grabbing him instead by the scruff of his neck and leashing him back to where he'd been behind her. For a moment, her gaze keeps towards the ground, regaining her composure.

Sasuke tilts his head to the side, coaxing her to look at him.

She looks at him. But her expression is no fragile thing to milk from. Her brows furrow, wet-eyed, and without curtsy she straightens her back to the full of her height.

"I think," she starts, "I think you should leave, sir."

He nods, and adheres to her wish without her farewell.

oOo

It is dark now. The streets are empty.

The pastries Sasuke disposes of by the prong of the bridge. Over the stone-ramp, where they may soil in river-water and granulate quickly.

Conniption thrums bruise-like at the side of his throat, but also the tongue of adrenaline wrests him. He is at his estate by way of carriage, an hour before the scheduled arrival of his patient.

His hair is drenched, framing his face, and his teeth are grit by the time his back meets with the wall of the foyer's entrance. He stares ahead, at the grand vacancy of his home, and sees only him. Standing there, little legs pretty face, toying with pink plastic marbles along the tips of his berry-stained fingers.

And his name, his name—

Sasuke's breath grows heavy, his brow pinches higher. He ungloves his hands, tossing the suede before steadying his fingers enough to unbuckle the clamp of his belt. He unbuttons himself, allows the fabric to sag just enough for his cock to jut free.

It's damp already, sore enough to flinch from the air of his breath. Precome glisters down from the slit. He feels it, and loves it, like syrup worshiping the base of his prick. He grasps it by the shaft, caresses the underside with his palm so that he may fondle the tip. His mouth parts, head bracing back. He strokes the skin of his bollocks, tugs, pumps once at his cock and then twice till his wrist is a vicious flutter between him.

He thinks of him. There, knelt so sweet beneath him. Waiting.

His cock hitches, heartbeat drumming in his ears. He exhales unsteady. Then curses, hushering the child's name, the phantasm of his cake-speckled mouth against his.

Sasuke spends, and he spends thoroughly, come dripping slow from the clasp of his fist.

He looks down, unhands himself, and brings a cord of it to taste at his lips.

Marmoreal.

oOo

feedback is the gas to my rev c;