Chapter 22
There’s a saying: home is where the heart is.
It’s a sentiment that got passed down through generations, simple and pedestrian. When he used to hear it in passing, when he walked alone through the indolent streets of Konoha’s emptying twilight markets, he would pointedly ignore it.
It was never easy for him to think of home, and less easy still to mitigate his own feelings and come to a conclusion beyond passionate confusion. It wasn’t until Iruka-sensei that Naruto started to think about it, to understand, to want to say it.
“Home is where the heart is, after all,” he’d say jauntily, smiling so wide his eyes creased shut as Sakura cocked her head at him in equal parts puzzlement and curiosity. He could remember Kakashi’s face, too the forced absence of a reaction. But he’d turned without any doubt or regret, spinning on his heel and heading for the apartment Iruka had purchased only a few weeks prior—one with two bedrooms, instead of one.
Over the years, Naruto learned a lot about home.
Konoha was as much a home to him as his place in Iruka-sensei’s—their—apartment had been until he’d grown old enough for his own, and his heart had always belonged there, hidden in the leaves. But he learned this, too: that his heart was a restless companion, yawning and stretching and ever hungry. It seemed at times so full it would burst, yet when dusk melted the sky into easy tones of lavender solemnity, he’d find his heart wanting.
An insatiable quest for love he couldn’t pinpoint. His heart wasn’t the kind to settle down, to grow complacent within the walls of his home village, or under the comforting palm that Iruka-sensei so fondly rested over his shoulders when they walked to Ichiraku to share a meal. It never settled no matter how many friends he made or how many villages opened their gates to him with documents fledged in silken ink curled around the words peace treaty.
When he was a young man just returned from war, his heart would beat so fast at night he’d think about taking himself to Sakura, because she was better than the hospital and less inclined to send him away than Tsunade would be, though by an admittedly faint margin.
He’d find himself sitting under the calm breeze of summer trees trickling under the moon, tickling his skin, and his heart would rage against his ribcage. He’d reach up and dig his fingertips into the skin of his chest and wonder why it would not settle, then or ever, and his hands shook.
Anxiety, Sakura would later tell him so quietly, so carefully, as though edging around feelings he didn’t even yet recognize in himself.
As it seemed, anxiety was the drug kick-starting his heart into a hummingbird’s flutter, a restive machine repeatedly jumped. In the moments under the light of the moon with the pane of his window stiff enough to give him small aches in his tailbone, Naruto began to understand the mechanics of anxiety.
The reason for it, however, evaded him for many years until his middle adulthood.
He never understood what had he to be anxious about. Even with missions and battles and occasional village disagreements, Konoha and his family and his friends were all as safe as a shinobi could be (which admittedly wasn’t very safe at all, though safer than it had once been), he was safe, and there was nothing in the world that seemed enough of an uncertainty to shake him. Sasuke was still out there in the world, sure, but Naruto had always known that he was going to find him. He wasn’t concerned about that anymore—Sasuke could take care of himself, and when the time was right, Naruto would bring him back home.
When he was just a boy and the village scorned and loathed him, Naruto had learned quickly how to make a home out of discomfort. Anxiety became nothing more than another gear in his system, tick, tick, ticking away with every tremor and sudden gasp of breath. He decided to live with it, to recognize the sharp turn of his heart rate when the world shifted on him and certainty became a fickle rejoinder he could barely remember. He allowed the world to close in on him, a cage he called home, and this was a different kind of battle.
And Naruto had never been one to back down from a challenge.
He would not let anxiety make a prison out of his world, his body, his mind. He would not let anxiety control him, in just the same way that he would not let the darkness inside of his mind overwhelm him. If he could talk it out and befriend Kurama, he could put anxiety in it’s place, too.
At least, usually; anxiety did not talk back, wasn’t receptive to persuasion or distraction. It remained and was relentless, and sometimes it won.
Naruto’s shoulders caved in, curling around him protectively as his hands moved to cover his face. He rested his knuckles on the backs of his bent knees, and tried to breathe through the constricting grip anxiety currently had on his throat, making him breathless.
The door to his apartment opened, and the breeze moved through his home like an old friend; it knew all of his hallways and rooms, the crack in the plaster near his bed frame and the small bit of soil that had spilled from the only plant he’d ever tried to take care of, sitting on the kitchen table. It found him easily enough, a familiar sight in the open window, and it moved over him with equal parts welcome and dismissal as he felt it rejoin the night sky.
“I’m home,” a voice called, soft and fleeting, and Naruto’s heart stumbled over its competitive pace.
Just like the breeze, Hinata moved through his apartment with familiarity. She settled her things by the door, toeing off her sandals and her Jonin vest. She moved through the place until he could hear her footsteps—faint as distant tides pressing up against distant shores. He looked up at last when he could almost feel the heat of her, unable to resist greeting her.
He smiled, and it was real enough to show her every exposed nerve he had been trying to tame for the past hour.
“Welcome home,” he said, and his heart tripped on the latter.
She nodded her head, accepting but not saying a word, and reached a hand out to him, beckoning. He took it instantly, without hesitation, unfolding from the window until he stood completely and Hinata had to tilt her head to meet his gaze.
This, he thought, was easy. He tugged gently on her hand, pulling her against his chest. His bandaged fingers came up instantly to thread through her hair, his free hand resting on her shoulder blade. He pressed his lips to her temple, eyes sliding shut, and nosed at her hair. He listened to her sigh against him, every tense line of her melting into him.
The tip of her nose pressed against the skin of his chest, and her right hand spread out over his heart. It was warm.
“Breathe,” she whispered, and Naruto nodded slowly against her, taking her quiet advice. He breathed against her, bending down further until his lips could press soft as butterfly wings against her throat.
He felt her pulse, tap, tap, tapping away from under her skin, and it was quick but not racing. He knew from experience that the quickness was nerves, that she was shy and no matter how long they spent together his embrace would always feel new to her. Unexpected. He made her heart race, one of his favorite things, and he found after many years of pulling her into the shelter of his arms, the open cavern of his chest, that he found comfort in the simple proof of her existence.
The sound of her heartbeat moved through him, and without any conscious change in either of them, his heartbeat began to slow. They stayed there, wrapped up in each other with no witness to their intimacy but the stars and the sky, and their shared love soothed and excited in just the right spots. He felt her pulse pushing against him, listened to the sound of her heartbeat gradually calming alongside his own.
And it was easy, in just the same way that it always was; in a body, mind, and world that loved so greatly the woman in his arms, Naruto had no room for anxiety.
She was his favorite place to come home, the only place his heart ever truly calmed.
I’m good when you’re around, he thought, and Hinata pressed forward just enough to kiss the skin of his chest, just under his collarbone.
“It feels good to be home,” she whispered, and allowed her arms to slide around him, tugging him into the unwavering protection of her loving embrace. She rested her head against his chest, listening to his heart.
And with Hinata there in his arms, his restless heart settled.