FicWad

The thing about the trenchcoat, Sasuke discovered, was that it was so versatile. The high collar was perfect for avoiding the attention his face inevitably drew from females (which, in his opinion, was ridiculous). It allowed him to smirk without being accused of smiling, whilst still permitting the use of his eyebrows for communication. The generous length of fabric could conceal many extra weapons, and the long sleeves allowed secret kunai to drop into his hands without enemy notice. It was warm enough that he wouldn't need to carry a sleeping roll on extended missions, and the colour blended fairly well as camouflage, especially in open land.

...It still smelt of Shino.

It wasn't an unpleasant scent, exactly. Dry and dusty, subtly rich with the musk of kikkai bugs and deepened by the faintest overtone of blood, carried inevitably by any shinobi worth their scars. Even those who didn't kill directly carried a tinge, a combination of old wounds and the mental miasma of bloodshed.

It was comforting, in a way. Sasuke was sure that, if he asked Kiba, the precise distinctions could paint a detailed picture of the bug-user, but he didn't want analysis. It was enough that wrapped in off-white fabric he felt protected, warmed in a way his countless groupies could never achieve.

Shino had never cared about strength, family name, or destined vengeance. He treated Sasuke like he did everyone, like no one else did to the sacred heir; with complete dispassion. Theatrics and glowers didn't affect him, and silence wasn't found offensive. After a while, Sasuke's bluster had crept away, shamefaced at its glinted reflection in cool black glass, leaving only an orphaned boy behind. Sasuke didn't know how twisted it was, that it had taken years before he could grieve, and then only in the presence of a smooth-faced boy who hadn't said a word. Uchihas always had been focused, tunnel vision warping reality around their desire. But with Shino, 'Uchiha' was just a label to be stripped from his skin by a distant look and a white-clad arm around his shoulders. The branding of tiny feet on the back of Sasuke's hand felt like the freedom of choice, in comparison.

So the caress of worn fabric against his bare arms felt like coming home, and the familiar scent was a promise of support. Leaves whispered against his hair as he darted on, his foot-falls the only ones failing to disturb the tree-tops in the night. Eyes glinted red in vengeance, despite (or perhaps because of) the memory of passionate arguments pierced easily by logic. Promises can't always be kept, after all.

The stain on the collar never would wash out, completely.