Comfort Character

// 006 //

"Naruto?"

NARUTO'S spine straightened at the sound of his name being spoken from the other side of the thick, burgundy curtain. Turning as swiftly as he could inside the narrow space, the young warrior wiped the sweat from his brow with one tired hand.
The changing room he had been accommodating for the past hour or so had long since turned cramped and heated from the numerous clothing articles to litter the carpeted floor. 

Naruto sighed. To say that he felt overwhelmed would be an understatement.

After trying on so many clothes, the disheartened Uzumaki had no clue where his original pants resided. If he'd ever be able to retrieve them from the menacing pile of fabric to lay right next to his feet was an entirely new problem of its own.
Speaking of problems; he guessed that the absence of his pants was one y/n would most surely be content to hear about. And not in a way he wanted her to be.

"Hey," the girl in question called out again at his lack of reply, "You doin' okay in there?"

"No," Naruto drawled, voice flat.

Her reply was quick, "What's wrong?"

"I..." He paused and bit his lip in exasperation, looking at himself in the mirror. It took him a moment to gain enough willpower to shift his gaze towards the enormous pile of clothes on the floor. He searched for any sign of bright orange. Nada.

"What is it?" she uttered softly.

"It's nothing." God, this entire thing was so fucking stupid.

"You sure?" she insisted.

He loosed another sigh. 

"I can't find my pants," Naruto admitted finally.

"Oh."

The silence to resonate from the other side of the curtain was dreadful. And then; the most quiet snicker met his ears, making his blood boil.
"Isn't that a good thing, though?" she giggled, now. Giggled!

Naruto let out a curse under his breath. A particularly nasty one, that made the artist laugh even harder. Correcto-mundo.

For fuck's sake, he was a Shinobi. So what if his pants were orange? After all, how in the hell was a warrior supposed to know what colour pants suited his build best? Things like fashion had never been deemed important in his reality. Appearance had never been important.

He wore whatever was stretchy and comfortable enough to fight enemies in, and tucked the stubborn strands of blonde underneath his headband if a comb did not suffice enough to do the job properly.
When it came to missions; he didn't have to worry about unyielding denim in which he could barely stretch his legs in, nor about the numerous baseball caps that cluttered the floor of the small changing room, now.

But this wasn't a mission. It was plain life.

'A comfortable one, too.' Kurama mused. 'One you'd enjoy.'