Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For a moment, there was only the wind and the silence of breathing nestled between the tide of waves and the thrum of two heartbeats struggling to fall back into sync—one strained and tight with watchfulness, the other fluttering beneath bruised ribs, trying to settle. 

Sasuke’s face remained buried at the base of Itachi’s neck, the weave of his brother’s shirt damp beneath his cheek while his ribs ached from crying. Not loudly. Not anymore... but still the kind that made his whole chest stutter. His good hand remained curled in a fist against Itachi’s side, and the other—though limp and twisted wrong at the shoulder—felt less unbearable somehow, with the way his brother's arm braced around it so carefully. 

Sasuke hated how badly he wanted to stay like this.

He hated the way he kept leaning, how his legs had slowly started folding beneath him, how the only reason he was still upright at all was because Itachi hadn’t let go.

He hated that it felt safer here than anywhere else, even though his mind couldn't stop screaming at him.

Even though it was Itachi.

Even curled against his brother’s chest, caped in the storm-deep hush of wind and heartbeat and breath, Sasuke felt the heat rising again—slow, bitter, and gut-born. It clawed its way up from somewhere behind his ribs, twisting through his lungs like smoke and a crackling fury that didn’t have a name or shape or reason beyond the hundred thousand things that had been taken from him. It burned—hot and mean in the hollow of his chest and with every second that passed—every heartbeat that pounded harder in his ears—the comfort of Itachi’s arms began to feel like a trick. Something undeserved. Something stolen from him.

Because it wasn’t enough.

Because it didn’t fix any of it.

Because Itachi had let it happen—

His brother's chest expanded slowly, a measured inhale that brushed warm air past his temple.

“…You're ok,” he murmured, the words barely cresting the quiet. “Just rest now... I'll take care of it...”

The hush in his voice carried something unguarded—gentler, almost—but the syllables faded too fast as his tone seemed to draw back, smoothing into the cooler cadence Sasuke knew too well. His breathing leveled, like a door closing softly on whatever had slipped through. Even now, after all the silence and pain and running and terror, his brother still hadn’t said what mattered.

He didn’t apologize. He didn’t explain or look at him the way he used to—still didn’t see him. Still just held him like a thing to be carried—to be managed—like something fragile, not someone rightly furious—

“Why didn’t you—?” Sasuke mumbled, so quiet he barely heard himself. “You didn’t… you didn’t say…”

A sway in weight where his body didn’t want to be held anymore. At first it was just a shift—his body squirming and twisting where Itachi’s grip had softened, and then a push against his brother’s shoulder, clumsy, but sudden and jarring. Itachi moved immediately to settle him, still gentle—fingertips brushing toward the base of his spine like a wordless hush—but Sasuke only shoved at him again, even harder this time. Still uncordinated, still wild, but urgent—

He didn’t want comfort. He didn’t want ridiculous soothing. He wanted answers. He wanted to scream. He wanted to break whatever spell had settled around Itachi to act like everything was okay, like this was normal, like he was supposed to accept this silence and this hold and this person like nothing was wrong anymore.

“I called for you—I was yelling and you didn’t—” His throat pinched shut, air hot in the hollow of Itachi’s collar. “I thought you were mad at me, You didn’t look… I thought—”

He didn’t even know anymore—only that this quiet made it worse.

“You are mad,” he rasped. “Aren’t you?  You’re angry... cause I—I—”

“No—just stay calm," Itachi’s voice barely rose above the wind. His brother's arms were still lock, weight leaned back only enough that Sasuke was only barely starting to notice Itachi might have been trying to pull him off his feet. Or get him off balance.

His stomach flipped.

“You didn’t listen to me,” he accused, louder now. “I tried—I said I was sorry—that I didn’t mean to get fall, I didn’t mean—”

Lightning forked against the sky behind his brother with a crackling silver glow across the lake. Sasuke flinched at the flash, but his fists kept moving—weak, small jabs this time against the edge of Itachi’s jaw, trying to gain distance and free up space from the stifling captivity of his brother's indifference. Not that it did him any good.

“You yelled at me… you—you grabbed me and I thought—”

“I shouldn't have,” Itachi said quietly, and there was something odd in his voice. Maybe he was finally done trying to be the best option. “I shouldn’t have sho—”

“Then why didn’t you talk to me?!”

He shoved again, punching Itachi’s shoulder this time around with as much force as he could muster which—wasn't much. 

“You ignored me! I thought—I thought Tobi was serious!”

“He wasn’t.”

His palm landed a dull thud against the gray armor on Itachi's chest. Then another, this time aiming to slap at his neck. Then a flurry of blows aiming almost everywhere that barely made sound—too weak—but Itachi didn't seem too concerned yet. He only reached, slow as the rising dawn behind the forest, fingers grazing at Sasuke's wrist like he meant to catch it—but not stop it. Like he wanted to slow the storm without snuffing it out and Sasuke just couldn't let that happen.

“Then why didn’t you come back for me?!” His voice splintered, rising in pitch, raw at the edges like torn fabric. “I was screaming! I was screaming for you and you didn’t help me!”

Itachi reached for his arm again—abandoning the hold across his back to keep him close—but Sasuke twisted away instead, fist striking at Itachi’s encroaching wrist over and over again in retaliation. His ribs were heaving. His face was hot again. Tears had started welling without permission—but he blinked them away hard and furious—because they made him feel small.

“You let Tobi try to take me away!”

“That wasn’t—” Itachi’s voice had a hitch this time, something so faint most wouldn’t catch it—but Sasuke did and it made him all the more wrathful. He slammed his fist against his brother again because it was all he felt like he could do.

“I was screaming for YOU—”  he croaked like a bird in pain, “but you didn't—you wanted him to—you wanted to get rid of me—!”  

“Enough, Sasuke,” Itachi commanded, voice barely above the sound of the wind. “You don’t— ”

“You let him hurt me and I—and you didn’t even CARE—!”

Lightning cracked again, splitting the clouds open beyond their reach. His voice cracked in tune with it—shrill and young and entirely breaking apart under the strain of everything held within. His entire body shook, ribs heaving, arm trembling as he reared back once more. He didn’t know what he meant to do. He only knew it had to hurt. Something had to—because nothing else made sense—

His right hand shot up, wild and desperate, and struck with the force of his entire body across his brother’s temple—aiming straight for his eyes—with a crack of force that startled even him.

Itachi’s head tipped just enough to mean the blow had landed. No grunt, no sharp sound, no fire in his eyes when they turned to meet Sasuke’s again—just that quiet dark and a flicker, a twitch of something unreadable before it smoothed away.

That stillness drove Sasuke mad—

So he aimed for his brother's eyes again.

And again.

And again…  

Each slap sharper, sloppier, and more off-center against his mark, palm stinging with every strike as if punishment could run both ways.

“You—” He lashed out again, pelting down on his brother's ear, swiftly winding for another blow. The edge of his palm skimmed Itachi’s jaw the next time, sliding to claw down his neck instead, “—don’t—” another rapid blow, bumbling and wide. “—CARE!—DO YOU!?”

Each word was barely a ragged gasp between blows and his whole arm burned from the effort, but it didn’t matter, it's not like he cared anymore either. He just wanted to hurt something—wanted to make his brother feel. Just wanted proof that Itachi was made of more than stone silence and lies.

Itachi reacted again this time—a hand lifting fast toward his arm with intent that Sasuke could barely call trying. His brother's fingers brushed his skin, almost catching hold, but Sasuke tore free with a sharp jerk of his arm and slammed his palm against the curve of Itachi’s nose before he could hesitate. The sting shot up his right arm, blooming a small nose-sized dot of heat into his palm as Itachi flinched, eyes pressed together and the faintest crease cutting near his brow as he tried again—faster now—to stop the next strike.

This time he caught Sasuke—steel-strong fingers locked around his wrist, halting him mid-swing. And for half a second, it worked.

Everything froze, held in that vise of silence.

Sasuke’s chest heaved, breath spilling ragged and shallow, his whole body thrumming with heat, hurt, and humiliation.

“Enough,” Itachi forced again, in that same dumb voice that he probably should have been scared of, but with something deeper under it—something that made Sasuke want to claw the sound right out of him. “You’re wasting—”

“NO!”

His scream ripped the air raw. He jerked his arm hard, twisting, pulling, until pain ripped through his shoulder and his trapped wrist slid slick from Itachi’s grip. The sudden freedom burned like a victory and he brought his hand down across Itachi’s nose again so hard it stung to the bone. 

His brother didn’t block that next one—or the following jab to the jaw. Or the one after that—almost close to clawing out his eyes again.

Every strike landed with a horrible rhythm, Sasuke panting through the ache in his muscles, the throbbing in his palm, his arm screaming under the weight of motion. He didn’t care. He didn’t care that Itachi wasn’t fighting him off now or that his brother’s hands hovered, like they had lost all purpose. 

He just kept hitting.

Because Itachi deserved this.

Because he had left him.

Because he let Tobi’s hand close like a trap and hadn’t turned around to help.

Because everything—EVERYTHING—was broken and Itachi couldn't fixed any of it!

The storm howled louder, clawing at the trees and leaves like a vicious creature, throwing water like knives across the lake, and still his palm kept slamming into the same unyielding cheek, the same guarded temple, the same lying jaw.

Until—

Until his wind-up dragged too wide and fire ripped through his left side instead of to his right like it was supposed to—a white-hot jolt that made him gasp and falter mid-motion in unbelievable pain. He shrieked in protest, nearly stumbling to his knees, and in that broken instant his eyes fell—

—to the same skin he had been striking at.

A flush of red bloomed all around—across his brother’s cheek, at the temple, claw marks just lingering above his brow where his headband hadn't protected him—faint at first, then stark with thin strings of welling blood against the stormy dawn with sharp edges of red where his small hands had already left their shape. He raggedly savored the return of color to his world. And Itachi—

Itachi was just standing there.

Letting—

The air punched out of his lungs as the heat in his chest snapped like an icepack, curling cold and mean in its wake and crawling up his throat until he couldn’t swallow past the weight.

Something sick twisted inside him, crawling fast through every nerve as he swung one last time—the worst of it yet... as if he could outrun the feeling—but the impact of harm split the storm in two, ringing sharp across the lake. Lightning answered it—blinding, brutal, turning the world white for a breath with a horrible strike that blazed out across the lake and cut through the growing wind like it didn’t belong in the world.

It didn’t feel like enough.

He didn't feel like enough.

And it still felt like too much.

And immediately—immediately—his whole body recoiled—the fury replaced by panic and horror rushing through every limb.

Enough to break the breath between them. Enough to freeze everything.

His hand dropped and eyes widened.

And the world—racing moments ago, heartbeat upon heartbeat of ragged momentum—stopped moving.

Sasuke finally stilled. His hand hung limp at his side, shaking with leftover rage—or maybe guilt, maybe both—his fingers burning from the force. He stared at Itachi’s face, at the flush of pain blooming against pale skin, sickly aware of the way his brother's head had snapped to the side to allow the blow… the way he had just... stopped... trying to prevent it.

And Sasuke’s stomach twisted so violently he thought he might vomit again.

He struck his own brother.

He barely even remembered deciding to start. He had meant to—but not like that—not really—not watching Itachi’s eyes as he—not like last times desperation had caught him—but it had happened—and now—

Now the image of that compliance was burned into his mind.

And it didn’t make anything better.

“I—”

His voice faltered, but no words came... A gasp caught in his throat, thick and shaking and too full of everything he didn’t know how to say—everything he wasn’t allowed to feel. He hadn't meant—Itachi wasn't supposed to—he wasn't Itachi—

His lip trembled.

And then the grief came.

A fresh wave, roaring up from the place where rage had lived only a moment ago. But this was heavier—messier. A cry that couldn't quite escape burned in his throat like swallowed magma, the kind of shame that made his shoulders curl in tight like he could fold himself small enough to disappear inside his own chest.

Because why did it hurt so much—?

Why did he feel so awful when he was the one who had been taken… and hurt… and—?

He hated himself for it. He hated his body for trembling, hated his voice for choking, hated that he still held on to Itachi even now—shakily reaching out to grip his brother's sleeve—even after everything. Itachi didn’t speak yet, whether from the shock of being brutally struck over and over or from the pathetic emotional turnaround... Sasuke didn't have a clue. All he could see was Itachi, knelt in the sand same as before, eyes unreadable and posture still as stone... but he not pulling away.

He didn’t leave. At least not yet.

And that—that was what probably shattered Sasuke's last defense.

The sob finally broke free and he collapsed forward, into his brother again, limb folding inward as if trying to protect the small, furious animal curled up inside his heart that didn’t know whether it wanted to scream or cry or sleep for a hundred years. 

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—” he whispered, voice cracking into salt and shuddering breath. “I didn’t mean to—It just—it just... I didn’t—I didn’t want—alone— ”

His words broke into nonsense after that, more sobs flooding in too fast for sentences to survive.

And still, even though Itachi remained absolutely silent, his arms drew slowly around him again, cradling the dying storm that was his little brother. He seemed fine to let the silence stretch a breath longer—long enough for the younger's sobs to falter into ragged hiccups—before his voice finally arrived again, still as soft as his touch.

“It's ok…you're ok... this isn’t the first time you’ve struck me, Sasuke,” he murmured, almost like it could stay as an observation and not a horrible reminder of everything Sasuke was trying desperately to forget from that night. At least in that instance, he hadn't had the awareness to feel... shameful about it... Now? Now he fell into another series of near gagging at the thought of how much Itachi must have hated him then. How much he probably wanted to get rid of him even then...

 His brother's chin pressed lightly against his ear, the words low enough to be stolen by the wind if they weren’t already pressed so close.

“And I don’t expect it to be the last...”

The hush hung between them again, broken only by the shallow rasp and wheeze of one of them not getting enough breath anymore. Sasuke squeezed his eyes shut, good hand curling in the fabric of Itachi’s cloak like he could root himself there and that grip could keep his ribs from splitting apart through sheer will.

The next words tumbled out unbidden, hot and hoarse, catching on his teeth with as much shame as he could only physically manage.

“I bit him...”

Itachi’s arms didn’t even flinch.

Sasuke swallowed hard, throat raw, voice breaking into their hollow space between heartbeats as he continued on—because what else did he really have left to lose if Itachi knew? His brother probably already did know—probably heard Tobi's shout about it from ahead... or should had at least known Sasuke would try...

“I—” Another breath delayed him, shaky and thin. “I bit Tobi... I thought he was gonna—” His lungs seized, the memory tearing through him like rusted wire. He couldn't do this— “I thought he was gonna—and I couldn’t—I couldn’t move and I saw you—and I bit him—like an animal, like Tobi SAID—” he wailed, “—and I—I tried—I tried to stab him—I had the kunai—I almost—” 

His words dissolved under another surge of sobs, his body folding in on itself, shuddering hard enough to rattle teeth. This was horrible—barely unable to finish even one sentence and he already regretted even bringing it up.

“I’m so—stupid—I’m so—”

The syllables warped into nonsense, drowned in a salt flood.

Itachi’s silence scratched against his fears like a blade on a whetstone—long enough for the sobs to falter back into ragged hiccups and that he almost wished Itachi would just start the scolding already... or curse… or say something. It certainly would have been easier than whatever sick mime game Itachi seemed to be caught in. But then—of all things—Itachi huffed, so faint it might’ve been the ghost of a laugh if amusement could sound tired and sharp at once. He paused—long enough that Sasuke could finally reel his own emotions in just a fraction more and feel the restraint in the noise, like a smile biting its own tongue.

“You tried to stab Tobi in the back of the head?” His tone was neutral on the surface, but there was something beneath—an edge of humor so dry it felt like ash. “That was… bold...”

Sasuke jerked back in shock, just enough to see him and for humiliation to claw through his ribs.

“Don’t—” his breath hitched, cracked, “don’t laugh!—He’s going to kill me—he’s going to—”

“Tobi isn’t going to lay a hand on you,” Itachi cut in, more reserved this time—already pulling Sasuke back in against him and glancing towards the tree line as he spoke, eyes always cutting back to the shadows like a man who knew what could come from them. His voice sharpened, the whisper rising above the hurl wind for the first time. “He can’t. Not unless he wishes to challenge me personally this time, so you'll be fine.”

This time? 

The words hung sharp, heavy, like something Sasuke wasn’t sure he wanted to know the shape of. 

“What—” his voice cracked—raw as the open wound on his sole—the weight of it finally beginning to collapse beneath him, forcing him into a half-hearted stumble in the shifting sand. His brother glanced down, seemingly taking notice of it too. “What do you—?”

But the question barely left his lips before his brother's gaze shifted again—subtle, but sudden—flicking over Sasuke’s head to something only he seemed to see. His hands moved fast—an effort to heft him up and seemingly spare him the weight of his blood-soaked foot. A sharp twist swept under his arms, hauling him up from the ground with a force that stole breath before thought could catch it. The world tilted violently as his stomach lurched hard against his ribs.

Pain lanced from his shoulder all the way down through his side where Itachi’s grip locked firm, a jolt tearing through bone and muscle so vicious it ripped sound from his lungs before sense could shape it. Sasuke bucked, a breathless scream flooding past his teeth as his hand scrabbled against Itachi’s arm, nails catching skin as his body tried to twist away—his own weight a burden so sick he couldn’t escape.

“It—achi— stop—!” The sound shredded, head pitching sideways as another wave of vertigo rolled through him. The trees blurred, the lake spun silver and black under the graying clouds, and suddenly he wasn’t sure which way was up. “Stop—my arm—it’s—”

The sound came out broken, hardly more than a crack of noise, like speech was something his body had forgotten how to do. He dragged a breath up through his chest and tried again—tried to shape the words into something that made sense. 

Something left his mouth… but he wasn’t sure what.

It barely left his lips before the fight drained out of him completely—shoulders sagging, strength slipping like sand through his fingers. His body tipped back, drawn immediately back into Itachi’s hold as if the spiral had never happened, as if everything in him had burned down to smoke in the space of a heartbeat. 

At first, he didn’t realize he was slipping. He thought he was only blinking, just trying to clear the blur from his eyes, but every time his lashes dragged shut, it took longer and longer to open them again. The sound of the waves felt like it was moving farther away. The wind, too... Even Itachi’s heartbeat under his cheek was beginning to lose its edge, muffled like it was sinking somewhere deep underwater.

He stayed quiet for a long time, face pressed to the damp fabric where his brother’s neck connected to his shoulder. Just breathing... Just listening... 

Just… not being alone.

But suddenly, instead of warmth—there was nothing... only the sudden absence and sway of being maneuvered. The movement startled something weak and useless in his chest, and a broken breath left him before he could stop it—it reminded him too much of the moments after he had thrown up… he barely knew how many hours—no, days?—ago it had been.

He wanted to fight it. Wanted to hold on to the feeling that he was standing on his own two feet—that he wasn’t a burden, wasn’t something to be dragged or cradled like a child. But he couldn’t even feel his left arm anymore, and the rest of him… the rest of him was barely holding it together.

His body tilted.

It might have been seconds. A few minutes at most. He couldn’t tell. 

But he must have held on just enough—because awareness returned, but it did so in pieces. Disjointed, like light blinking through a storm-shattered window. A weightless kind of float—his body too heavy to move, his limbs locked in the slow molasses of exhaustion and loss.

Everything ached again.

His head lolled slightly to the side, and the first thing he felt was warmth. A steady, solid warmth pressed against the front of him—his chest resting against something firm and cheek slumped low against fabric. Lashes fluttering, his eyes were still too sore to open fully, but the air was too thick and the pressure in his skull too loud. He felt wind tug roughly at his hair, but the rest of him didn’t move—he couldn’t move...

He was being held.

Arms around him, unmoving, cradling him high and close with his head tucked against a shoulder. A chin rested lightly against the side of his head—barely noticeable, but present. There was breathing too—slow, even, in and out against the roots of his hair.

Just beside him—faint and half-swallowed by the wind.

Two voices. 

One low and murmuring, like a fire curling too close. The other steadier, deeper—flat like a thinned-edge.

“…can’t keep him like this for…”

A beat of silence—voices swallowed and rising like a wave.

“...I don’t need….”

The words slid past Sasuke, curling into the dark between his thoughts, and left him colder than before.

For one heartbeat, his breath locked tight in his throat. Because the first thought that slammed through him—the one that scattered through his skull like glass—was that it was him. The mask. The undead void. That somehow, in the seconds he’d let his guard down, he’d been stolen again.

A sharp, shuddering inhale cut his ribs, and he jerked—or tried to... His muscles spasmed in a pathetic, uncoordinated twitch, his good arm caught awkwardly between the weight of his own chest and the body holding him. Panic lashed hot and wild before he even had words for it, and the broken animal part of his brain screamed run—run—run—

He tried to lift his head, tried to twist—but his limbs didn’t obey, one shoulder screaming in protest even at the hint of movement, and the other barely managed to fumble free from where it had been wedged. His hand pressed shakily to a shoulder, feeling the urge to spill his entire stomach then and there.

But a voice—low, quiet, unmistakable—slid right next to his ear.

“Stop…stop.”

Sasuke froze.

The voice dropped through the chaos like a stone. Calm, low, and so achingly familiar that it ripped the panic right out of him before it could detonate.

Itachi—

It was Itachi.

The sound of his brother’s voice shouldn’t have been enough—not after everything—but it was... It carved through the noise until only the thud of his brother's pulse remained, pounding out hard and uneven against his temples as his own breath stuttered into something jagged.

“Stay still,” Itachi repeated, angled just above his ear so only he could hear it. “Don’t waste your energy...”

Sasuke blinked hard, trying to swallow past the dryness in his throat. Words tangled, choking before they could crawl free until all he could manage was a breathy rasp of, Wha—what… happened— as he shifted, trying to wrench his pinned arm out from where it was stuck against Itachi’s chest.

Except the moment he moved, white-hot agony seared through his shoulder, stealing every scrap of air from his lungs. His left arm stayed dead weight, limp and useless, and the best he could do was bite down on the pain and pry his good arm free, slinging it shakily over his brother's shoulder for a desperate attempt at balance. The motion dragged his head until it once again tipped against the curve of his brother’s neck, the skin rested warm and faintly damp with sweat.

Sasuke hated how heavy his eyes felt. How easily his body wanted to give in to that steadiness, to let the weight fall somewhere that wasn’t his bones for once, but he needed to ask again. He didn't know how long he was out—needed to—

He never got the chance.

It was faint at first—a low hum, almost swallowed by the hiss of wind across the lake. Sasuke thought it was just the noise in his head, the deep pressure of exhaustion making everything murky—until it bubbled louder. Before the words could crawl past his lips, another voice slid through the air like oil.

“Ohh, wow... Wow.”

The voice slid through the air like a splash of black oil, bright and sticky against the silence, and every nerve in his body locked.

“Well, this is just…” another sigh—louder this time, thick with misery. “…this is heartbreaking, Itachi...”

It came closer—soft steps sinking against the wet sand, a rustle of cloth that prickled all the way down Sasuke’s neck.

“Because you know what?” Tobi’s voice tilted up, quivering with fake hurt. “He didn’t do this with me...”

The words slithered through the space between the thunder. Sasuke stiffened, fingers twitching against Itachi’s back, nails biting to the black fabric. His breath came fast and uneven because he remembered. “Itachi—”

Tobi leaned somewhere just ahead—he had to be, because Itachi’s frame stayed iron-straight against his cheek, facing forward, motionless. The voice dropped like something sticky and heavily depressed from the crying sky, and his spine locked up instantly.

“And now I’m stuck as chopped liver over here! Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?” He sniffled—an actual sniffle, wet and cartoonishly loud. “I thought we had something special... And now… now I’m just the bad guy, huh!? Is that it, Itachi? Is that what I am to you two?!”

Itachi didn’t answer. His breathing stayed even against the younger's hair, his frame iron-still in the sweep of wind.

“Oh sure, now he’s sweet and quiet and all comfy like some bloody blanket in your arms—just like yesterday when you hogged him—” A drawn-out whine cut through the air, petulant and wounded. “—and not, you know—screaming his lungs out while trying to rip my face off!”

Sasuke winced.

His throat burned too raw to respond, but his nails curled tighter in the fabric of Itachi’s cloak, the grip small but shaking. He remembered it too clearly—the dirt scraping his knees as he was dragged forward, the twist of his ribs when he’d lunged for Tobi’s mask, the crack of his own voice screaming let me go over and over until it broke apart in his chest.

"Itachi, please—"

“Oh, oh—and don’t forget the biting,” Tobi added accusingly, as if narrating a mournful campfire tale that had burned his hand, “I still have the teeth marks in my skin, see? And then—then—he waits till I’m not looking and tries to stab me with a kunai—right towards the brainstem! Can you believe that, Itachi!?”

“I heard…”

If Sasuke had the strength to vanish… he would’ve. 

His head drooped low against Itachi’s neck, breath dragging rough and uneven. He could still feel the cold metal in his hand. The loss of contact when the blade he’d planned didn’t land.

Tobi whined—actually whined—as if seemingly unimpressed by Itachi’s lack of concern, adding in a sarcastic, snotty wail, “Great job—two days in, you’re already not wasting any time teaching him to murder his best friend—”

His arms flew back to his mask as if to cover his pretend weeping eyes.

Sasuke twitched so hard it almost ripped through his bad shoulder, his breath catching on a sound halfway between a choke and a sob. He wanted to scream at him to shut up. To claw that stupid voice out of the air, but his throat locked, raw and useless, and all he could do was cling harder, every inch of him trembling.

“I mean, honestly, Itachi. Honestly… This whole thing felt so rigged against me!” Tobi sobbed, head tilting in that lopsided way like he was pouting behind the mask. “You’re not even doing anything special! You’re just holding him!”

Tobi sniffed quietly for half a beat—long enough for Sasuke to hear the shift of sand under a boot, closer, too close—before the voice broke open again, higher than before.

“How do you do it?” his voice turning sharp with petulance, dropping low like a conspirator whispering a secret across a classroom desk. “Hmm?  You have to have some kind of secret for it—I wanna know your trick!”

Itachi didn’t answer, he just tightened his grip a fraction around his back—the arm braced under the boy’s ruined shoulder going still as iron—anchoring him there without jostling.

Silence stretched.

Only the wind and low hum of thunder far over the water answered the masked man. 

“Awwww, come on.” Tobi’s voice dipped higher now, back to being as playful as a skipping stone. “You can tell meeee. It’s genjutsu, right? Has to be! No kid sits this still without something messing with their brain—this doesn’t just happen—not after what I went through today! I’ve got bruises, Itachi! Bruises! From your little brother’s tiny rage—so not cool!” 

Another hop-scotched laugh. 

“So what is it? Some sneaky sharingan mumbo-jumbo? That would be tough to imitate… Ooooh—wait-wait… wait—you drugged him?! Itachi, you wouldn’t!”

Sasuke twitched—full-body, like something struck his nerves raw—and the sound that broke from his throat was small and strangled, nothing he could stop. His grip spasmed against Itachi’s shirt, the trembling running sharp through his arm.

He wouldn't—

“No. ” Itachi’s voice landed like a blade—low, flat, and unwilling to bend. 

“Nooo?!” Tobi gasped loud enough for the lake to hear, pronunciating the word like it was a punchline. “Then what gives?!” 

A chuckle snapped out, delighted. 

“C’mon, you have to tell me or I'll just keep guessing~! I mean—look at him! Totally calm... with you! ” Another gasp, more dramatic than the first. “Ohhh nooo—don’t tell me he still trusts you. That would be… HILARIOUS!” 

Sasuke’s stomach pitched like a broken compass. He wanted to scream, wanted to claw the words right out of the air before they could stick, but his tongue stayed dead, and all he could do was shove his face harder into the curve of Itachi’s neck until the skin there burned under his lashes.

“You’re reaching,” Itachi said, still perfectly flat. “There is no trust here.”

“Ohhh?” Tobi perked up, delighted. “So it is genjutsu!”

“No.”

“A seal?”

“No.”

“Some kind of psychological conditioning—?”

Itachi turned his head, and finally looked at him, with the same unreadable stillness he had always worn—elegant as moonlight and cold as frost. “I’ve told you... He’s in pain, exhausted, and wounded in ways you can’t possibly understand.”

Tobi’s mask tilted as if it weren't such a foreign concept.

“Mm-hmm, I think I understand plenty... yet he still chooses you! Funny, that. You’d think he would’ve figured out it out by now!”

Sasuke made a sound again—strangled and sharp. Itachi’s hand shifted just slightly, palm steadying the back of his head, gently but firm.

“He doesn’t choose,” he said, tone like glass. “He reacts. And you know all about that now too... don’t you."

Tobi swayed to lean as if he was ready to hang on to every word like a lesson in hell. Itachi sighed, and Sasuke barely caught the downward tilt of a chin next to his head.

“The nervous system prioritizes survival,” he continued, each phrase clipped but clear. “In the absence of stability, it clings to a last known safe pattern—whether it’s currently safe or not is irrelevant in the split-second window of crisis.  It’s an ingrained response for him—neural pathways repeat an old script—”

“He should try improv—”

The silence cracked sharp.

Itachi’s eyes flicked to him in an almost imperceptible shift—the kind that suggested, if only for a breath—that patience had limits. Then he continued, voice dropping smoother.

“It’s predictable—unlike you… He’s not here because he trusts me…” A pause, soft but cutting, “he clung to me because every sensory marker—my appearance, my hands, the cadence of my breath—guarantees order, even through silence."

His gaze held, cold and unwavering.

“I was the constant. You—were an unknown variable. That’s why he won't accept you.”

A silence spread between them, slow and searing.

The words didn’t make sense.

Not at first.

They were too sharp, too clean—like glass laid out as dust he couldn’t see, slicing under his skin before he even knew where to bleed.

Itachi’s voice didn’t shake when he said it. It didn’t catch, didn’t falter, didn’t even pause like any of this hurt him at all. Like it was true. Like Sasuke was no more than some dumb, twitching animal that couldn’t tell which way to go on his own without some invisible leash in his head to pull him.

The phrases kept ringing in his ears, even as his heartbeat crashed louder over it. 

Because he had clung to Itachi’s shirt on purpose. He had moved. He had chosen—and Itachi had chosen him too... When his legs gave out, when the world fell sideways, when the smell of blood wouldn’t leave—it was Itachi who had reached for him. Not because it made sense—not because he thought about it. But because—

Because—

Because he was still his brother—that had to be it... Even now... Even after everything.

Even if he—

Even if—

Sasuke’s fingers spasmed against fabric, the pain of his grip running down his forearm like lightning. He didn’t know whether it was anger or shame boiling up under his skin—but it was hot, and it was rising, and it was making the back of his throat close tight again.

He kept his face pressed into the curve of Itachi’s neck, but it didn’t help. The smell there, the warmth, the shape of him—it all felt too close now. Too much like proof. Tobi had asked the question, and Itachi answered it, and now everything Sasuke knew he was doing—everything he believed about the shape of that almost comfort—had been gutted and held up for laughs.

A reaction.

A nervous script.

He was a reflex.

And somewhere under the shame, deeper down than even the fear, a seed of something colder took root.

“Any other guesses to waste my time?”

Tobi laughed—a high, delighted crack that split the air with a roll of thunder.

“You’re so boring, Itachi,” he sang, rocking back with a carefree shrug. “You always have to make everything sound like a report! No wonder no one listened to you!”

Another step closer—Sasuke stiffened.

“But I don’t know… Seems like something’s changed…” Tobi said, with another sniffling sigh. 

Sasuke flinched when he felt Tobi’s presence lean forward again—like a shadow creeping just beyond his shoulder—and the boy twisted instinctively, fingers fisting tight in Itachi’s collar. He buried his face deeper, the bridge of his nose pressing as far into skin as he could, trying to disappear before he remembered the humiliation of why he shouldn’t.

“Hey, Sasukeee~” Tobi sang, cheerful and unnerving. “Itachi, can you please just put him down one more time?? Just for a minute? Pleaseeee —it’s not like he can run away this time! I’ll keep an eye on him, cross my heart—!”

“No.” 

“One little rematch—or a friendly spar!"

"No."

"Right, Sasuke!? Wasn't it fun—!”

“Tobi.”

Itachi’s voice came like the drop of a blade. The masked man's voiced faded as seemingly he drew back in a petulant groan.

“Oh, come on—”

“No, he’s not a toy for you to entertain yourself with."

Itachi’s voice didn’t change, but his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly against his side. The edge returned, sharp and hollow. Tobi huffed dramatically, kicking at the gravel beneath his heel, like a child told he couldn’t play anymore. The scrape of rock and sand crackled against the growing storm of wind.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Be a buzzkill… No more games…” 

Something sharp coiled low in his chest—hot, twisting—and he couldn’t name it. Tobi, on the other hand, rebounded fast.

“Well,” he said, voice dripping mock regret. “Guess you’re stuck with Mr. Grumpy for now… I tried to make it fun, but clearly I'm unappreciated...”

Sasuke felt his body coil—instinct screaming—but before he could twist or jerk back, a gloved hand swooped in towards his head, jostling his hair from side to side like a plush with its pelt ruffled incorrectly. He jolted with a gasp, the motion yanking his neck back and making his entire frame sway and arm tightening instinctively around his brother's neck. Itachi shifted instantly to compensate, stabilizing him with a grounding press of muscle and fabric.

“There!” Tobi said brightly, “Apology accepted, right? No hard feelings?”

Sasuke’s face twisted.

His head snapped toward the retreating hand—his teeth bared before he even thought about it. He lunged his neck as far as Itachi’s hold allowed, jaws clamping for purchase on leather or skin.

But Tobi was already gone.

He danced two steps back, laughing breathlessly, fingers wiggling in the air like he’d just survived a lightning bolt. “Oohohohoho! Whoa there! That one had some malice behind it!” he cackled. “Oh, you’re killing me—don’t ever change!”

Itachi must’ve found it much less humorous, his voice cracking through the air almost immediately after.

“What did I just say?”

Sasuke flinched. He curled back inward, the motion involuntary, like an ember snapping closed under cold ash. Even Tobi blinked and properly stilled—even if just for a second. His cheerful expression darkened just a bit, the playful sparkle dimming to a mock-pout as he grumbled, “Always raining on my parade… right, Sasuke?... I still think you'd much rather go back to standing on your own instead of being stuck with this stick in the mud…”

His grip convulsed, twisting into the folds of Itachi’s cloak hard enough to strain his knuckles.

The masked man’s words curled again, oily and smug. 

Like it was a joke. Like Tobi knew exactly what he would’ve wanted had things been simpler—knew Sasuke hated the idea of being dragged around—but loved reminding him that the only other option was worse: Tobi’s hand on his wrist, yanking him like a dog, pretending that was freedom.

“Standing on his own?” Itachi’s voice slid in—quiet, level, but honed with an edge that almost scoffed. “You mean standing on a foot that’s bled out most of his strength? The same blood that decorates your own clothes...”

Tobi went still, just for a breath. Then he gave a low whistle, feigned sympathy curling like smoke. 

“Oooh, touché, but don't worry, it'd just a scratch—”

“It’s a wound,” Itachi corrected, tone clipping precise as a scalpel. “Deep enough that it needs to be cleaned and sutured before he bleeds out.”

A beat.

Tobi turned halfway, arms lifting, head tilting like an exaggerated puppet frozen in disbelief. “Now?! ” he groaned. “You want to sew him up now?”

The words stabbed through his chest like a senbon as he squirmed instinctively. 

Suture... sewing—? Like stitches? 

“If the laceration clots even further with grit in it, it will have to be reopened so it doesn’t infect him later. So yes—it needs to be cleaned now, since I won’t have time until after, no thanks to you and your poor time management.”

“Well—you're—welcome. ”Tobi groaned each word, the sound childishly loud. “Come onnnnn—Do it while we’re over the water! You’ll have enough time. It’ll be scenic! Symbolic! You can wash the blood like one of those old tragic poems—real drama.”

Sasuke flinched, immediately unfond of the idea—the memory of doing just that, flaring to haunt him.

“No.” his brother’s voice planted like a wall. “The lake is too disgusting for open wounds to soak, and it’s getting unstable with the storm coming in. It will be too violent for my hands to work properly with all the swaying. I won’t risk missing something in the tissue because you keep pestering me with questions, and wasting our time.”

“Ugh, you and your doom-speak,” Tobi groaned, spinning theatrically on his heel to walk away. "Come on! Time's wasting!"

Itachi moved immediately, following after him and squeezing just enough to shift Sasuke higher in his arms and haul more of the younger’s weight against him, but the adjustment dragged across nerves like razors. The change pinned his injured shoulder tighter against his brother’s body—sparking a streak of white-hot pain that ripped down his side and locked his lungs.

Forget the foot.

The foot was nothing compared to this—his arm felt like fire itself had personally stitched itself under his skin, and every step Itachi took sent it dragging molten across his skin. The wind thrashed harder through his hair, blowing the tufts of black away to expose his neck. His breath scraped harsh in his lungs, shallow and fast, until he thought his ribs would splinter from holding it all in. And still, Itachi walked on—angled slightly away from the midpoint between forest and lake, steps carving closer toward the waterline where foam broke against the shoreline rocks. 

No longer gentle laps as it had once been. This lake had turned angry between the memories of now and what had once been—it had become vengeance. 

The sound of waves grew heavier, folding over Tobi’s voice in fits and starts.

Not that Sasuke cared to hear him bicker through the welling of hot sickness. The words were nothing but glass skipping over the surface—bright, brittle, pointless. He caught pieces—schedule, pain, patience. Mocking and weightless sorts of syllables, tossed like stones for the fun of watching ripples spread.

Itachi’s answers came back low, sharp-edged and controlled, steel drawn in measured lines. Sasuke couldn’t hold onto those either. Not really. They lapped in and out with the hiss of wind and the pulse hammering in his ears.

All he could feel was the pain.

And the sway.

The steady lull of Itachi’s march, that rhythm of rise and dip. Almost like water rocking a boat if he let himself sink into it. Mayb if he pretended hard enough that every jolt didn’t send shards screaming through his shoulder, it wouldn't take so much effort to make his stomach curl tighter with the effort to stay quiet.

He could give in. Just… sag the rest of the way. Let his head drop, let his eyes shut... Let black steal the corners again and carry him under until everything stopped throbbing. 

Or he could say it...

It was right there, sitting on his tongue like a stone waiting for its ripple. That one little word… 

Help. 

That’s all it would take. If he said it… Itachi might.

If he believed hard enough, his brother might stop walking... he’d ease him down somewhere... he’d let Tobi and his schedule leave them behind—

Sasuke’s lips parted.

He started to turn his head, slow and clumsy as the world teetered sideways in his vision, enough to glance at his older brother from the corner of his eye.. He could feel his pulse pounding against his teeth, jaw aching with how long he had been holding it all in.

He was ready—almost ready—to just say it—

Itachi turned his body slightly, the movement smooth despite his curled weight. The boy gave a strangled grunt, jerking once more in resistance, but it was a slow-motion struggle now—sluggish, drained, like each flare of defiance cost him more than he had left.

Tobi followed Itachi’s gaze as he nodded toward the lake.

“Itachiii—” Tobi groaned louder, dragging both hands down his masked face. “—Ughhh, you’re impossible! We’re gonna be late, and they are not going to be happy—”

“Then you can explain to them exactly what caused the delay,” Itachi said, smooth as glass. “I’ll make sure you give all the details.”

Tobi didn’t answer at first. Just scratched the back of his head like he was trying to find where the last joke went, until finally, he let out a low sigh, raising his arms in a shrug. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll just say you got sentimental and insisted on one last picnic...” He paused. “... You should work on your sarcasm, by the way, before you embarrass us both. It’s the only part of the delivery you didn’t kill—”

Tobi wheezed a laugh for himself.

No one else did.

As if unable to resist one last jab, the man's voice shifted back into cheeky mischief, “But seriously, if I’m getting told off by our rainy parade—then he'll be too. Don’t forget I was brutally attacked—assault on anyone associated with the Akatsuki is no joke, y'know!”

The name landed like a flick to Sasuke’s skull—waking him instantly.

Akatsuki—

It didn’t sound like any village name he knew.

Not like any clan he’d heard his teachers mention, or a title whispered in the corridors late at night when his father and mother thought he was sleeping. 

It didn’t belong.

But the way Tobi said it—mocking and smug, the sound curling like smoke—made it feel heavy. Important—like a door creaking open into a room he wasn’t supposed to see.

Akatsuki—he had to remember it. 

“Quite the hefty punishment if the little tick doesn’t get it together—” Tobi sang, voice dipping into a playful hum. “Swing at the wrong person, and—” He sliced his teeth together in a sharp hiss—tsk—like a guillotine dropping. Sasuke flinched at the sound, shame twisting bitter under his ribs as the heat of Tobi’s teasing words soaked in.

“That won't be neccessary,” Itachi growled finally, low and even, a blade sliding back into its sheath. “I’ll see that it gets taken care of...”

“Ohhh, I bet you will,” Tobi crooned, head tilting, voice laced with poisonous amusement. “But hey—credit where it’s due—he’s got a mean right hand, doesn’t he? Nice to know our little biter’s not afraid to swing at his own brother!”

Sasuke’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt. The storm roared louder above, but it couldn’t drown the single truth beating under his skin like a second pulse.

Itachi’s eyes narrowed just slightly, that faint crease in his brow softening into a quiet, pointed calm as he shifted the weight of the younger in his arms steady and deliberate. He spoke with a voice so measured it might have been mistaken for casual—if not for the sharp undercurrent threading through a single word. 

“Our?”

Tobi’s posture faltered for just a fraction of a heartbeat—barely noticeable. The brightness in his voice dimmed, replaced by a twitch of discomfort and a flicker of hesitation as if Itachi’s gaze had pierced past the mask and found something he wasn’t ready to admit. 

His laugh came a beat too late—a little thinner than before.  

“Oh, come on, Itachi,” he said with a wave of his hand, “figure of speech, that’s all. Y’know, our as in… the collective we, the organization, the group project, the ‘teamwork’ thing—” 

He made a dramatic spinning gesture with both arms, like he was conjuring some grand excuse from thin air. 

“You’ve got your brooding older-brother thing going, I’m the fun weird family-friend who dragged him all the way! We’ve both been part of his adorable little emotional breakdown this morning, haven’t we?”

Itachi said nothing.

His silence wasn’t cold, but it was exacting—tight as wire, still as the moment before a trap snapped shut. He didn’t blink—simply looking at Tobi like the mask couldn’t hide anything from him—and maybe it couldn’t.

And slowly—visibly—Tobi’s shoulders curled in, just slightly, a crooked laugh escaping as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, okay. You’ve made your point. He’s not mine.” He gestured loosely. “I don’t own him. I know that...”

Sasuke's head stirred, just slightly, lips parting in silent question as his heart twisted in something that wasn’t relief, exactly—but wasn’t fear, either. 

He didn’t understand. 

After everything, after being dragged through dirt and bark and gravel, after screaming himself nearly to exhaustion for Itachi and being met with silence… Why was Itachi standing there now—word by word—unweaving Tobi’s control like it never had roots to begin with?

Tobi sighed, theatrically now, shaking his head as he turned away from them with a swing of his arm like the world had wronged him. 

“Ugh, come on,” he huffed. “You act like I even want him anymore.”

And Sasuke froze again.

“I mean, have you actually met this kid?” Tobi went on breezily, half-laughing, half-complaining. “He’s loud, whiny brat that he bites you on the first chance you’re not looking, and doesn’t listen to a word anyone says—”

Sasuke flinched, breath catching.

“—and,” Tobi added with a pointed finger, “And he slapped you… You.”  A short, sharp laugh broke like glass in his throat. “I figured insanity ran in the family, but seriously—death wishes too?!”

His gut twisted violently, throat closing with each swallow. His hand twitched at Itachi’s collar, fingers spasming like they might pull away—but didn’t—not yet. 

“I don’t want anything to do with him,” Tobi finished flatly, arms crossed and masked tilted to the sky as if that were the final word. 

And Sasuke would’ve believed it— should’ve believed it, wanted to believe it—but... the words burned in his chest like acid.

Because even when the monster didn’t want you—

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to cut the thought before it could bite back. He would rather chew his own hand bloody than let himself be dragged back, or break every bone in his arm than go where that voice led again.

So why...

Why did it hurt so much to be spoken like something so—so—

Disposable...

“Seriously, Itachi—” he added, flicking his fingers toward Sasuke like the boy was just another point on a messy report card. “What could be so special to not just get it over with? It's a little cruel, don't you think? If you're really hoping he’ll become like you someday—” he let out a long, slippery sigh, “—you’re doomed for disappointment.”

Sasuke felt Itachi’s jaw shift just enough to clench once and release.

But Tobi was still talking.

“He’s not half of you. Hell, he’s barely keeping it together with one little cut!  You sure he’s going to last out here?” he clicked his tongue, pacing again, his voice laced with exaggerated pity. “Hmm… not too late to arrange~ pain could put him out of his misery for you—”

The air splintered.

A fork of white lightning split the clouds overhead, illuminating the sand and trees like a flashbulb. The thunder came a moment later, a deafening crack that shook the sandy gravel beneath their feet and yanked the world into silence—

Just long enough for Sasuke to snap.

There was no thought. No plan. Only heat and rage and the awful lurch of shame that finally tipped him over the edge. The scream tore itself from his throat, hoarse and jagged like something broken. He thrashed violently in Itachi’s arms—legs kicking, fist struggling, his weight wrenching hard to one side with blind, wild force.

“Sasuke—!” Itachi’s voice sharpened, caught between warning and shock.

But it was too late.

He tumbled from Itachi’s hold like a stone cast from a sling, body twisted sideways with the sharp, unnatural motion of limbs that weren’t meant to be moving that way. His bloodied foot hit the ground first—off-balance—followed by a lurching pivot as his shoulder nearly collapsed under the strain, but still—still—he pushed forward.

He didn’t care.

Didn’t care about the scream building in his tendons. Didn’t care about the lightning or the blood or the pain in his arm so loud it made his vision blur. He bolted—

Straight for him.

Tobi’s silhouette jerked into clarity—less than a meter ahead, weight shifted as one hand rose to meet him—

And Sasuke froze for just a second.

Because Tobi didn’t flinch or even look surprised.

He looked like he was waiting.

Like he knew Sasuke would come and was already reaching out to catch him—fingers curved in that same awful, casual way he’d used to grab him before. Like nothing had changed. Like it would all happen again—

His heart slammed against his ribs.

No.

No—

He skidded, pivoting sharply, his balance lurching from heel to toe as he tried to redirect—all instinct now, all survival.

But the moment he turned—

Arms, like vices.

He didn’t even have time to brace.

Itachi caught him—hard.

Rough hands clamped beneath both of his arms and yanked him up with swift, brutal strength. The sharp, blinding jolt that tore through his dead shoulder was immediate and total. It was like the world went white behind his eyes as his mouth opened in a soundless scream, chest seizing as the pain ripped through the socket and into his neck like wildfire.

His back arched, the broken shape of his body twisting in midair as Itachi lifted him, spine bending under the pain and legs kicking uselessly through air as he was hauled back like some wounded thing.

“Stop—STOP—” Sasuke gasped, voice cracking, twisting harder even as his shoulder screamed in protest. “—it hurts—!”

But Itachi didn’t let go.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t move gently.

His grip tightened—unforgiving, sharp—as he pivoted his body midair and pinned him flat against his own chest, arms clamped across his arms and ribs like iron bars—not in protection.

Punishment.

The pressure was heavy, deliberate—meant to hold and immobilize. He choked on a sobbing gag of nausea, every muscle in his body tensing against the burning weight in his shoulder. His legs dangled, his injured foot twitching uselessly as he writhed in the restraint, but he couldn’t get away. Tobi's cackle filled the beach.

He couldn’t get away from him.

And he couldn’t get away from Itachi either.

“You're done,” Itachi hissed at last, the sound barely more than breath to his ear, but laced with a fury so cold it iced over the air between them. "Back down."

Sasuke went still—not by choice—but only because it hurt too much to move.

The world was a blur of breath and shame again, and he couldn’t tell anymore who he was angrier at—Tobi, or himself, or Itachi—for catching him, for not defending him, for not being gentle even though he wasn’t supposed to hurt him.

A quiet, broken sob punched through his chest.

Then another.

“Oh, you almost had me for real this time! Do it again! The seventh time should be the charm.” The shine in the man's mask beamed, voice bubbling with manic delight. Tobi gave a theatrical sigh, as if his amusement was filling filled, arms flopping to his sides like a bouncy marionette. He rolled his neck with an exaggerated pop. 

“I almost fainted from fear,” his tone lifted like a blade dipped in teasing venom. “Golly, he must just loathe us to bits, doesn’t he?”

Sasuke’s breath caught, shoulders tensing with the weight of Tobi’s words, because yes—he did hate Tobi. Hate the way he twisted everything, hated the way his presence burned and coiled inside him.

But Itachi—

Itachi didn’t answer immediately.

He only adjusted his grip—firmer now, anchoring against him as he gave another weak, shuddering twist from the nausea of it all. His breath rasped in shallow bursts, the raw sound hitching each time he dared move his shoulder or brush his foot wrong against the rough material of his brother’s clothes.

“Interference won't be neccessary,” Itachi said at last, voice low and clipped. “It wouldn't be needed for others to become involved.”

Tobi stared for half a second longer—then broke into laughter, the sound bright and snapping like firecrackers under the storm’s growl.

“Ohhh, fine,” he said with a sudden flail of arms, his voice pitched loud enough to drown out the thunder. He spun on his heel like a stage performer, cloak sweeping the air with dramatic flair. “Because you know what? That is a nightmare I do not need to watch unfold. Nope! I am clocking out!”

He began to skip down the curve of the shoreline, boots crunching over gravel and wet sand, his voice lifting over the wind in a singsong cadence as he pointed northward, “There should be an overhang two minutes that-a-way for shelter when the rain drops! I’ll go get the boat readyyyy! Somebody has to make sure we don’t die out here, and clearly it’s me!”

His skipping stopped suddenly; he threw his arm out behind him, pointing with exaggerated emphasis.

“Don’t take too long, kids—twenty minutes, Itachi! And hey—” his voice tilted higher, playful and needling, “be ready to paddle because these—” he raised both arms and flexed dramatically, his sleeves dripping as he shook them—“are pure noodle, baby! Like, ramen-level useless!”

He mimed rowing with limp wrists before spinning away again with a cackle of laughter, his silhouette bobbing against the sand as he strode toward the edge of the shore, nearing a crooked, forked tree that jutted from the shoreline like an eyesore. The water boiled under the storm’s tantrum as he only now noticed a dark shape bobbing within its depths. Lightning cracked overhead—white teeth splitting the clouds—and for a heartbeat, everything was silver—the beach, the black smear of trees, the hard slash of water turning violent under the sky’s fury.

Then the heavy weight rushed back in.

Itachi exhaled once, slow through his nose. Without a word, he shifted Sasuke higher in his arms with practiced ease—hefting him in a movement so clean it almost seemed gentle, even though it jolted his frame and made his shoulder blaze.

Itachi pitched forwards—he was sprinting now, his steps churning through the soft give of the beach, each jolt driving up through his arm and rattling his sore frame. The sudden shift wrenched his stomach, the rolling bob of motion like being caught in a wave that wouldn’t let him down. Sand hissed underfoot, spraying behind them in short bursts.

His head lolled weakly against his brother’s shoulder as he dared one last glance over the slope of Itachi’s arm.

He found Tobi easily.

Even in the dim spill of light breaking through the heavy clouds, that mask was impossible to miss—orange and round, like some stupid festival toy bobbing where it didn’t belong. The waves shoved at his legs as he crouched near the shore, doing... what, exactly? 

He watched Tobi’s figure stagger down into the water, pitching forward suddenly—almost theatrical in his collapse—then splashed fully into the shallows. It looked like he was trying to wrestle something out of the water—a rope, maybe, or some broken scrap of one—but the current yanked it sideways, and the idiot nearly toppled further in after it. He flailed, windmilling his arms, one leg jerking up above the high tide and for a dizzy second, Sasuke thought he was drowning—almost hoped he was—before he seemingly caught his balance and straightened again, splashing around ridiculously and yanking something in.

A small rowboat, bobbing in the chaos.

Tobi lunged after it with all the gracelessness of a man diving after a chicken.

Sasuke blinked, but the image dissolved in a flash of light as the sandy gravel under Itachi’s boots slipped. The world heaved around him with every unbalanced step—his body rocking in his brother’s arms until his stomach churned hot and mean in his gut, mouth almost flooding with sour spit.

And under it all, beneath the sound of boots and breath and wind, Tobi’s words rotted through him.

He wanted to snap, to spit every word burning on his tongue, to make Itachi stop dragging him around like this. To stop running from him, looking for some quiet, perfect place to ignore him while everything inside was clawing itself bloody. He twisted weakly against it, breath stuttering through his teeth, but the hold didn’t falter. If anything, Itachi’s arm only anchored tighter for a fraction of a second—silent warning in the shape of muscle and restraint.

He tried to speak—to tell Itachi to stop, to breathe, to just let him rest—but all that came was a thin, useless croak. The air was thick with the charge of the coming storm, and his breathing felt too loud in his own ears, shaky and shallow.

Just end this.

End the waiting.

End him.

The sand gave way in patches to softer, wetter ground, where each footfall made the earth suck faintly at Itachi’s boots. His chest heaved with the attempt, but the rhythm of Itachi’s steps and the constant jar of motion scattered the rest of it into nothing. His head lolled back, his vision catching on the jagged split of the sky as thunder rumbled overhead—a long, low growl that seemed to pull the air tighter around them.

He felt it before he saw it—a single drop, cold as glass, striking the bridge of his nose.

The surprise of it made his eyes flick upward just in time for another to splatter across his cheek, and another—heavy, deliberate, each drop bursting on impact. Within seconds, the sky gave up restraint, and the rain came in hard, splattering against his face, his hair, soaking through his clothes in sharp, icy bursts. The rain hit like shrapnel—cold needles slicing into his scalp, plastering his bangs against his forehead, soaking through fabric until every thread weighed like lead against his skin. The cold was a shock, but not an unwelcome one... It slid over the fevered heat in his skin, dampening the burn until it felt like his body could breathe again.

The storm had split wide open now, vomiting sheets of water that blurred the horizon and churned the lake into a snarling beast of foam and black swell.

Itachi didn’t stop.

Didn’t falter again.

He tilted his head back as far as Itachi’s grip allowed, letting the drops hit his open mouth. It ran in rivulets down his jaw, filled the hollow of his throat and slicked his cracked lips with something that wasn’t his own spit or blood. The first sip was shock—icy, biting, sliding down his parched throat like molten glass reversed. He coughed once, breath tearing, then did it again even more greedy for it.

More.

He needed more—

The taste was raw, metallic where it cut past his split lips, but he didn’t care. He’d forgotten how good water could feel, how savage thirst could make a him crave something so simple it turned primal. His tongue curled, desperate to catch every drop before the next heartbeat—before Itachi noticed—

A hand—unyielding—sliding behind his skull, forcing his chin down with all the subtlety of a command.

Sasuke hissed through his teeth, his throat jerking against the block, rage knotting with need until his chest burned, but Itachi didn’t look at him or scold—just adjusted his hold to keep moving as quickly as he could through the downpour, as if his craving for one drink less than beneath his... care.

They cut across the curve of the shore, past a jagged tips of rock that jutted toward the lake like a broken fang. Then, finally, Itachi angled toward a low outcrop—a wedge of stone rising like a tilted slab from the sand, forming a narrow hollow where the rock met the tangled sprawl of roots in the cliff it was seated against. It wasn’t much... but it was shelter—a cramped lean-to carved by time and dry enough that the soil inside still smelled faintly of earth instead of brine.

Itachi ducked under without hesitation, the shadows swallowing his silhouette as the rain hissed against the stone above. He crouched low, twisting his body with precision to keep from slamming Sasuke into the rock as he eased them both down.

The descent wasn’t slow, but it wasn’t brutal either—just controlled, careful in a way that still scraped dignity raw. Sasuke felt his knees skim the grit first, then his hips, then the hollow thud of his spine meeting the flattest patch of stone Itachi could find. The impact still jarred his shoulder viciously, and his breath hissed sharp between his teeth, the sound cutting like torn paper in the close, echoing hush of the hollow.

His head sagged back against cold rock. Water dripped from his hair, sliding down his temples and jaw in thin rivulets that pooled beneath his chin before soaking into his collar. His entire body felt like a splintered frame barely holding shape, and still—all he could think was water.

His tongue rasped against the roof of his mouth, hunting for the ghost of rain that had quenched it seconds ago. His head shifted on instinct, tilting toward the edge of on side of the overhang where droplets streamed past the stone like threads of molten silver. 

They gleamed. 

But Itachi was there.

The weight of his presence dropped over him like a second roof, silent and unyielding, shadow swallowing the frail stretch of space that thirst had carved in his mind.

As the weight of arms lifted—in the same fluid motion—he swung the black pack from his shoulder and set it on the ground with a muffled thump. The buckle clacked open under his fingers, sharp and deliberate over the muted percussion of rain hammering the stone roof. Supplies emerged fast—bandages, gauze, a small vial of something transparent, and the silver glint of needles still tucked inside a plastic sleeve.

Sasuke turned his face away. His skin felt too tight, his breath unsteady.

He didn’t want this.

Didn’t want to be here—

Didn’t want to watch his brother pull tools from a pack like he had every right to tend to him—like this was normal. He didn’t even want to wonder how Itachi seemed to have magically been prepared for everything. Didn't want to think about how… planned it all started to feel. 

As soon as Itachi’s eyes dropped searching for another item—only for a second—Sasuke moved.

It wasn’t much. Just a slow turn and shuffle, barely perceptible at first—his good heel nudging against the gravel and weight shifting forward into a one-handed crawl. Not even to flee, not to escape, just—away. Just enough distance to breathe, to reach the droplets of water, to not feel his brother’s shadow on every inch of his skin.

Just a taste of freedom.

But Itachi noticed.

Because of course he noticed...

The reaction was swift as a single hand shot out and caught him by the back of his shirt, drawing him in one sharp motion right back to the stone slab he’d been placed on. His injured shoulder struck first, and a raw, sharp jolt of pain burst down his spine, knocking the breath from him. He hissed through his teeth, curling in on the ache, but the grip on his shirt only released to shift—flattening into a palm over his sternum. The weight pressed him down, not crushing but undeniable, each finger anchored in deliberate measure.

“Stay down,” Itachi said lowly. A warning... not a suggestion. 

Sasuke's eyes narrowed. Weak though he was, he still pressed his good palm against his brother’s wrist, trying to lever himself up anyway. The muscles in his forearm trembled with the effort, but the only thing that moved was the rise and fall of his chest under that unshakable hand.

“You don’t want to listen?” Itachi asked, voice flat enough to be mistaken for boredom.

Sasuke shook his head again, wet hair flicking droplets, eyes narrowed in a glare that dared his brother to push the point.

“Understood.”

The calm was somehow worse than any outburst could’ve been. Before Sasuke could even guess at the next move, Itachi’s fingers closed around his ankle in a single, unbroken motion. His brother’s weight shifted and turned, pulling him off balance as he pivoted smoothly, settling down with his back to the rest of the younger's body and side pressing firmly against the captive leg. The crook of his elbow hooked under his ankle and drew it snug against his ribs, locking it in place. 

But before adjusting his position further, Itachi’s opposite hand moved in a small, deliberate motion—reaching behind his hip. Sasuke caught the shift in the corner of his eye and froze for a breath, thinking maybe he’d finally reached for a weapon. But instead, Itachi unclipped his tool pouch from his belt and, without looking, set it on his far knee—opposite the trapped leg—well out of Sasuke’s reach. The move was quiet, efficient… and familiar in a way that made his stomach twist.

Tobi had made the mistake once, letting his guard drop in the wrong way, and he had paid him back for it in steel. Itachi, apparently, had no intention of making that mistake himself.

Sasuke’s eyes widened.

“Wait—hey—HEY!” He snapped his leg back sharply, trying to kick free before Itachi could get a better grip, but the hold only adjusted, catching the movement like a net around a fish.

The strain in his thigh burned after a few jerks, and he gave up the kicking battle, resorting to twisting instead. He barely managed to get himself upright, leaning forward with his good arm—grabbing at Itachi’s elbow—but the awkward angle bent his injured side unpleasantly, fingers reaching to the edge of his brother's sleeve to pull himself closer to the offending arm. 

Itachi didn’t flinch. 

The only sign he’d even noticed the struggle was the faint hitch of a sigh through his nose—the sound of someone who had seemed to have been through this too many times before.

“You’re hurting me!” his voice scraped across his throat, pummeling his hand arm toward his brother’s side—when the sleeve seemed to be a failed exploit—but Itachi ignored him with the impenetrable focus of someone rearranging chess pieces mid-game.

 “I gave you a preferable option,” he murmured at last—tired, not even glancing back at Sasuke. “You always chose poorly.”

His free arm reached lazily toward the lip of the rock overhang. 

Sasuke could see those pale fingers stretching just far enough to slip a folded cloth into the torrential rain beyond their little pocket of shelter. The downpour attacked the fabric instantly, soaking it to heavy limpness in seconds as thunder boomed somewhere distant. Water streamed off Itachi’s knuckles and ran down his wrist as he drew the cloth back inside, giving it one brisk squeeze so droplets spattered his toes.

“Cold—don’t you da—!”

Too late.

The wet cloth pressed squarely against the mess of grit and blood that was the flat of his foot. The shock was instant—ice shooting up his leg, every nerve firing at once.

“GHHHHH—! Stop it! Stop—Itachi—!”

He kicked reflexively, slamming his free foot squarely into his brother's back, but Itachi barely noticed, continuing to pin his leg with the quiet efficiency of holding a restless cat for a vet exam.

“It's cold!—ow! OW! I’m serious—let me go!”

Itachi didn’t answer. His face stayed maddeningly neutral, eyes lowered in mild concentration as he wiped in slow, deliberate swipes, methodically lifting away mud and diluted blood. Sasuke jerked again, trying to twist his hips enough to wrench the leg free, but every shift only found Itachi adjusting in counterbalance—an immovable anchor. His knees, braced and set to keep himself elevated, kept Sasuke too far stretched froto fold forward far enough to grab him directly.

“Stop ignoring me!” Sasuke barked, voice cracking halfway through. “You’re not helping—you’re not even a medic nin—you’re just a—you’re—ugh!”

The only reply was the soft rasp of cloth against skin and the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of water still falling from the sodden fabric. His brother’s eyes stayed focused on the work, his face unreadable, as though his protests were nothing but background noise to the task at hand—which at this point he probably was.

Sasuke’s breath finally gave out like a candle burning to the wick—short, ragged, and tasting faintly of copper where the air scraped against the rawness in his throat. 

His chest heaved, ribs expanding until they ached, only to collapse with a shudder as his abdomen buckled beneath him. The fight in his leg also faltered, a tremor running through him from calf to hip, and his bad shoulder gave a slow, traitorous pull toward the ground until the weight of it demanded surrender.

He half-fell, half-sank, his one good arm slapping against the gritty stone to keep from sprawling completely. 

Stars burst behind his eyes in a sharp, dizzy spray, and for a moment the whole world was reduced to a ringing, muffled haze—the rain’s drumbeat outside distant, distorted, like it had been shoved behind glass.

He clenched his jaw, forcing the black spots to recede, but his chest still rose and fell in uneven bursts. The limp in his left arm had become more than a limp; it was dead weight now, every nerve buzzing with the stubborn ache of something wrenched too far and too long ago and beneath all that—sitting in him like a second pulse, pounding slowly and molten behind his sternum—was the anger.

It was Tobi’s voice—the way the man had peeled him open without touching him, stripping every layer down until the raw underneath was showing. It was the way those words were still in his head now, replaying over and over and over, like they belonged there.

What made it worse—infinitely worse—had been the shadow standing beside Tobi’s voice.

Because Itachi hadn’t said anything—

Not one word in defense. Not one interruption to shut Tobi down. Just silence.

That same, thick, suffocating silence that always left Sasuke guessing as to what his brother was thinking.

What he wanted.

The promise echoed in his head—I won’t let him lay a hand on you.

Liar—

He wanted to believe it still meant something—but what did it matter if Tobi couldn’t drag him away physically when he could put his hands on his mind and squeeze?

The anger flickered, dimmed, then rose again when he realized it still wasn’t even clear what Itachi was supposed to be. A handler? Medic, now? Some… cold, unmovable shadow that just happened to keep him alive for reasons he wasn’t telling?  And if Sasuke stayed close, it apparently wasn’t even because he had chosen to. It was because some stubborn, automatic part of his brain he couldn't control—the part that still remembered how things had been when he was littler—when he couldn’t let go.

He didn’t want that part anymore—but he couldn't fight it.

His chest felt tight and shuddering, and the words for it weren’t coming, so he just shut his eyes and dragged his good arm up over his face, palm to his mouth, and skin hot and damp against his lips. He pressed it there, hard, and for a second it felt like that might be enough—just holding it all in.

Then it wasn’t—

And he screamed.

It ripped up through him raw, hot, and dampened against his hand until his throat ached with the force of it. Frustration, burning pain, never-ending ache, anger, sadness—none of it fit into one sound, but he forced it there anyway, pouring until the edges of his lungs felt scraped hollow. It filled the small space between skin and stone, hot and wet against his fingers—the kind of sound that didn’t want to be muffled.

The world cracked before the echo died.

Fingers locked like iron around his other ankle—the uninjured one—and yanked. The scrape of grit under his back was sudden, dragging him toward the center of the shelter before he could even register the pull. 

His eyes flew open—

Itachi was twisted toward him, one arm still trapping both legs tight against his side, the other hand holding two kunai in a grip meant for throwing, blades catching the dim light and glinting clean. His gaze wasn’t on Sasuke anymore—it was past him… beyond the overhang, every line of his body sharp with the kind of readiness that didn't think—just moved.

For half a breath Sasuke froze, pinned by the feral focus in his brother’s face.

“What... what are you doing?!” 

The words came out higher than he meant, thinned by the sudden memory that Itachi wasn’t just older, wasn’t just stronger—he was armed... always had been, and not hesitant about proving it anymore.

Itachi didn’t answer at first.

His eyes swept the rain-veiled mist behind Sasuke one last time before the wild edge in them ebbed, the lines in his shoulders loosening without softening. The kunai in his hand lowered, but not by much.

“What are you doing?” 

The returned tone was too tight to hold, clipped in a way that told Sasuke it wasn’t an actual question up for discussion—just another lecture waiting—probably over doing yet another thing wrong. Sasuke narrowed his eyes over the edge of his lashes. He didn’t bother answering, just let out a sharp, deliberate huff and tipped his head back against the packed ground—

—too hard.

The crack jarred the back of his skull, sending a throb through his head and a soft tch—of pain as his face scrunched. His arm curled backwards to rub the sore spot for a few moments before slowly stretching to rest across his forehead. Before he even could care about what his brother would think, he tilted his chin just enough for breath—

—and screamed again.

Not from pain or even from surprise.

Just because he wanted to.

Because he could and it was the only thing he had left to throw.

It was much louder this time, stripped of the muffling, and bouncing off the stone as it came back at them twice as big.

Through the thin gap of his arm, he made sure Itachi was watching him. His brother’s mouth was a hard line, his brows a fraction closer than before, the tiniest twitch pulsing near his temple. The kunai were still in his hand, but the sharpness in his stare wasn’t aimed past Sasuke now. 

It was all for him.

Good.

Sasuke held the last ragged note until his lungs burned again and his throat threatened to give out, before dropping back into silence like he’d just proved something.

Itachi’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer, the kind of still, unreadable look that made Sasuke want to scream again just to break it. Instead, his brother gave a slow blink, set the kunai aside—somewhere too far for Sasuke’s grubby hands to reach—and, without a word, shifted the grip on both his legs.

Both ankles stayed firmly caught under one arm, shins braced against the solid line of his ribs and heels elevated so there was no escape or kicking. Itachi didn’t bother saying a word. He adjusted his seat instead, settling in like he planned to keep him there indefinitely … Sasuke felt the small shift in weight when his brother dug for whatever he needed next, then a faint clink of metal and the quick, wet slide of cloth.

The first pass was harsher—more pressure for more grit. It didn’t feel careless.

If anything, it felt calculated, like he was driving the sting deeper just enough to remind Sasuke of his own pettiness without saying so aloud.

Sasuke sucked a sharp breath between his teeth but swallowed the sound before it could turn into anything bigger. If he complained now, he might as well hand his brother every scrap of proof that he was exactly what Itachi already thought—that he just a little kid who couldn’t keep from falling apart the second things got uncomfortable or hurt.

He bit the inside of his cheek and turned his eyes upward instead, locking them on the low stone ceiling. 

The rock overhang was rough and uneven—shades of brown and gray streaked with mineral veins that crawled across the space almost like a fossil—if he pretended hard enough he could almost picture the fish-like creatures that had become trapped within the faint lines. A cluster of tiny pits marked one section like someone had taken a blade to it decades ago; another was beginning to point where water must’ve dripped from it for years. He started cataloguing each flaw, each notch and ridge, forcing himself to see them instead of the way the cloth scraped deeper along the length of his foot.

It worked for a while.

Or at least, it almost did—until something sharp pressed right into the tenderest part of the wound.

Sasuke tensed instantly, his whole foot jolting before he could stop it. “Ow—! ” He cut himself off with a hiss, then glared down at him. “You didn’t warn me you were starting the stitches!”

Itachi didn’t turn his head. 

“I didn’t.” 

The correction was quick, matter-of-fact, like pointing out the time of day.

Sasuke’s frown deepened. He dropped his gaze toward his own leg, just past the slope of Itachi’s shoulder—and froze. The filthy, blood-streaked cloth lay discarded on the ground nearly within arm's reach.

It wasn’t in Itachi’s hand anymore.

And Itachi’s hand—

—wasn’t in sight past the curve of the teen's shoulder.

“What—what are you—” The words tangled in his throat, cutting off as his pulse gave an uneven kick.

Panic pricked along his skin in tiny, hot bursts. He tried to push himself upright, but the second he bore weight into his ribs, the ache detonated under his sternum. His shoulder protested too, the bad one flaring with a deep pull of gravity that made his other arm shake and falter halfway. Without a foot to brace against the ground, the motion ended up nothing more than a useless flail that jarred every sore spot in his body.

He winced, chest heaving with the effort, and sank back again—half from the pain, half because Itachi’s head hadn’t moved an inch. Whatever his brother was doing, was precise, deliberate, and completely hidden from his view.

And that was the problem.

Sasuke could feel something—slight pressure, the barest prickling scrape, not quite pain but edging close enough to trigger the part of his mind that hated not knowing. The same part that remembered too clearly all the times something started small, then hurt.

“What are you doing?” His voice climbed in pitch without his permission, irritation and unease tangling until it sounded almost like a plea.

Itachi’s hands stilled—just enough to make Sasuke feel the pause—but his head didn’t turn. Instead, his right hand came up slowly into view, fingers pinching something so small between them that, at first, it looked like nothing at all. Sasuke squinted, angling his chin forward to see a faint glint caught in a stray lightning strike’s flash. It wasn’t until Itachi rotated his fingers, just slightly, that the shape emerged—thin, silver, and wickedly fine.

“You are doing the stitches already!” Sasuke accused, pointing with his good hand as if the sheer gesture would catch his brother guilty in the act.

Itachi's voice didn’t even waver. “Look closer.”

Sasuke glared harder, his brow knotting. “I am looking—”

“Then answer me.” he shifted the needle just enough for the bare steel to flash again. “Do you see thread?”

The question was so plain that his retort stumbled before it started. His gaze darted along the length of the thing—tip to eye—and paused. The loop of thread he’d half-expected… didn’t seem to be there.

“No…” He dragged the word out, wary. “What are you doing with a plain needle?”

Itachi’s only answer was a quick, deliberate change in posture, until he twisted to sit directly facing him now. His legs shifted, knees drawing upward until the injured foot was caught neatly between them—completely trapped—and the good foot dropped free before Sasuke could blink.

The release of one ankle was useless. He couldn’t scramble anywhere with the bad foot locked in that vice of bone and pressure. His stomach sank a little at the way Itachi had cut off every possible route without making it a rush, he didn't even look like he’d tried. His brother's left hand—cool and steady—braced the arch of his foot, thumb pressing just enough for the skin along the wound to draw taut. The faint stretch stung against his nerves.

“I’m using it,” Itachi said, his tone level in that infuriating way that always made Sasuke feel smaller, “to dislodge the bits of debris still embedded in the wound. They’re too small for cloth to pull free, but large enough to fester if they’re not removed.”

The words were clean, precise, and clinical—just this side of detached—but Sasuke could still picture it: tiny flecks of dirt or stone, pressed into raw flesh, teased out by the slow, careful prod of steel.

He angled the foot slightly upwards, just enough that Sasuke could almost see the top—

But from his vantage, not much was visible—the top facing side with his nails—but even that looked different. Much less blood now, the rawness of its appearance dulled by the harsh cleaning, but Itachi’s hands and knees shielded the rest completely, keeping the worst flat of his foot completely out of sight.

But Itachi wasn’t done.

“When you cut this deep—and don't care what you walk on—anything can get caught in the deeper tissue. If I don't get it, it might rot it from—"

“Ugh! —Stop!—Don’t say that—it’s gross—” He interrupted mid-sentence, twisting his shoulders away as if it would help shut out the image.

Itachi, of course, didn’t seem bothered.

“It’s not gross, it’s necessary… And you will stay still,” he ordered, low and firm, the words lined with a warning that had nothing to do with volume. “If you move or kick me while I’m doing this, it will hurt more than you can imagine.”

“I get it,” Sasuke snapped back, more out of defense than defiance.

Itachi’s gaze didn’t lift from his work, but his voice cooled another degree. “Do you?”

The faint shift in the needle’s angle made his toes curl involuntarily.

“Because,” he continued, unhurried, “I said ‘stay still’ and ‘don’t waste energy’ when Tobi was with us—and yet, somehow, you found room to misunderstand.”

Heat flared in Sasuke’s face—anger, embarrassment, the sharp scrape of being called out for something that shouldn’t have even counted as his fault. “That’s not—”

The tip of the needle slid, light as a breath, against the edge of his wound. The sensation cut his protest short, jaw clenching tight enough to ache as his hand clenched against the ground below.

“So enlighten me… which parts were too complicated for you to understand? Or worse… that you ignored.”

Sasuke didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Itachi adjusted the angle of his foot, turning it slightly so the light from morning caught the edges of the wound. The cloth returned for a moment, now pressed a little firmer to coax out any lingering dirt, and Sasuke could feel every slow, careful movement as if Itachi were testing how far he could push the needle before he got a reaction.

Sasuke stared at the ground, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow jerks. His shoulder dragged heavily from the pull of gravity, his ribs ached, and something sharp and brittle was forming in his throat again, curling like a sob that didn’t want to be heard. He couldn’t even bother with the energy to lift his head anymore. 

“I gave you a direct order.” Itachi’s voice was even, but his eyes stayed down as he spoke, steadying the needle with a measured precision that made the younger's pulse climb. “And you went against it. Again.”

Sasuke’s fingers twitched at his sides. He didn’t dare look up.

“And this time,” his brother pressed on, voice rising just enough to flinch the air, “you didn’t just ignore me—” his grip shifted to hold the ankle steady, thumb braced against the arch of his foot—“you ran toward someone who was baiting you.”

Sasuke’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t care—”

“You should,” Itachi cut in, sharp enough to silence him, “if a thoughtless charge straight into Tobi's arms was your idea of grand revenge.”

The words landed like judgment—quiet, final, cracking something already frayed in his chest.

The needle stung even more this time, pricking into tender flesh without ceremony. Sasuke’s throat bobbed, but he bit down on the instinct to flinch apart from the involuntary tensing of his toes. Itachi’s knees pressed a steadying weight around his foot, firm enough to remind him that moving wasn’t an option.

The thread drew through slowly, the faint drag of it in the skin accompanied by the sour tang of blood in the air. At some point Itachi traded out the needle for the cloth again—cool against the heat of the injury—soaking up a welling of red and spindles of something green—before the next extraction came about dislodging something that landed on the ground with a plink.

His gaze drifted upward again, trying to fix on the uneven rock ceiling above them once more. The shadows thrown by the rise of covered sunlight made some of the cracks look deeper, some shallower, as if the stone itself were shifting. He followed the lines with his eyes, tracing one until it forked and split again—anything to keep from focusing on the push of the needle—but it wasn't doing as good of a job anymore.

The truth sat like a rock in his gut—that he had been stupid... He’d rushed in without thinking, chasing something that had never been in reach, and now he was paying for it—twice. 

First, in the pain of almost passing out as he was dragged away. 

And second, in listening to Itachi’s voice and hands threading through the same wound with as much care as a macaque.

His brother didn’t understand. 

Sasuke turned his head sharply, refusing to meet his brother’s face, voice trembling with fury. “Do you think I wanted that to happen?  I wasn’t trying to be clever with how I did it—I just wanted him to shut up.”

The needle dipped, prodding carefully around as he bit back another hiss, slamming his palm into the dirt. Itachi angled the point toward a stubbornly deep portion in the gash, the slow precision in his movements belying a faint undercurrent of tension in his jaw. His tone stayed level, but his words cut clean

“No. Instead you threw yourself at him like you wanted to be snatched up. You let your emotions run wild, again, and you acted before thinking, again... When all you had to do was hold on and wait for me to—”

“YOU?” Sasuke snapped, his foot twitching involuntarily against the sharp sting. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You stood there and let him talk about me like I was trash!”

“Tobi is not worth your reaction—”

“He—!” Sasuke broke off, chest heaving. “He said he didn’t want me—like I was something to toss away! That I should be… should be—”

He couldn’t finish, the weight of those few words buried beneath his skin like a coffin.

The needle paused mid-motion, suspended over skin.

“Are you something to toss away?” Itachi asked quietly, his voice devoid of mockery, but frighteningly cold. “Do you want to go with him? To be discarded when he tires of watching you break apart over and over again?”

Sasuke froze.

For a moment that felt longer than it was, the first answer swelled in his throat before retreating, choking him.

“I don’t want to go with him… but he said… he kept saying…”

His breath hitched sharp after, and his heart thudded so hard it hurt. He wanted to take it back—wanted to shove the words down deep where no one could hear them—but it was too late. They were out, and Itachi was starting to look at him now, really looking, and that was worse than he imagined.

For a second, he almost tried again—to explain, to make it sound less… weak... but everything tangled in his chest, knotted tight around his heart until it hurt to breathe.

Itachi’s gaze held him for a long, flat moment before he looked away again. Without a word, he turned his attention back to the wound, angling Sasuke's leg higher between his knees as the needle resumed its careful work, but something in his handling had changed—slower... more deliberate, though still pressed with enough pressure to make his jaw clench.

The tip scraped faintly against the edges of the gash, seeking the stubborn piece lodged inside. Itachi’s focus seemed split—half on extracting the debris, half on keeping the silence heavy between them. Now and then, his fingers flexed slightly at the back of his ankle, grounding the younger boy against the inevitable sting. He shifted the angle minutely, exhaling through his nose, his hands steady even as his movements gained a subtle sharpness.

Sasuke tried not to flinch. 

The urge to jerk his foot away rose with each precise, digging motion, but he did his best to force his muscles to stay locked. His nails bit half-moons into his palms, heat building under his skin from both the pain and the simmering anger still twisting in his gut.

The needle drew away. Sasuke’s calf tensed involuntarily, but before he could prepare, Itachi’s grip adjusted—no longer holding the leg upright, but shifting, drawing his knees down and in, crossing them to guide his leg down so it rested just above his crossed ankles instead. The new position anchored him differently—more comfortable, and less heavy on his calf— but didn’t feel like a relief—not when Itachi’s hands never left him, shifting instead to cup and steady his foot.

The slightly newer cloth returned, drawn between long fingers before being folded over the arch. Both hands closed around it—thumbs pressing along the top, the rest bracing the heel. The pressure was steady and patient, but it was impossible not to notice how much of him the hold encompassed.

When Itachi finally spoke, the words were so calm they almost slipped under the rain.

“Do you think you should believe anything he says?”

The question dropped like a tree, soft but heavy, cutting through the storm-slick air.

Sasuke blinked. His breath snagged in his throat, like he’d been bracing for another reprimand and got this instead.

“…What?”

Itachi didn’t look up. The cloth shifted minutely under his hands, the press adjusting before settling again.

“Should you believe Tobi?”

Sasuke stared, mouth opening, then shutting. The answer should have been obvious. He knew what Tobi was—a liar, a parasite that sipped on poison like it was tea, a shadow crawling where it didn’t belong... He’d told himself variations meaning the same things more than he could count.

So why was his throat tight and the words stall like they didn’t want to come out?

“…No.”

Itachi nodded slightly, like that was expected. Rain ticked harder above the stone like a reminder they weren't really alone.

“Is he someone you want to believe?” he continued, tone just as even as before.

Sasuke hesitated longer this time.

His stomach lurched with a sick little twist, because the question... wasn’t the same—not at all—and he hated how fast his chest started to hurt again.

He looked sideways—toward the open direction of the lake where that stupid orange mask would have been tumbling through the surf like a kicked rock. His chest still buzzed with too much heat, like a flame too small to burn, but already too big to douse. He thought about the voice in the dark, curling under his skin. The way those words had felt—sharp and hot and too familiar—threading through every crack in his mind.

His jaw locked.

“…No,” he mumbled, slower and more wary.

Itachi didn’t nod this time. He just tilted his head, watching.

“So why,” he asked with as much tact as an elephant in dango shop, “do you care so much about what he says?”

The questions slid in cold and clean as Sasuke’s fingers curled against his right side. He stared up at the overhang, the blackish mineral veined stone blurring against the rain dripping at the edges. His pulse thudded heavy in his ears.

Why?

Because it did. 

Because every word had sunk deep and curled tight in his chest like roots he couldn’t rip out. Because part of him wanted—wanted... what?  

For Tobi to be wrong? 

For someone to say he was wrong? 

For someone to care enough to—

He swallowed hard, tongue heavy in his mouth.

“I just…” His voice cracked and faded, and he hated it. “I don’t know….”

The silence that followed burned worse than any scolding could have. He could feel Itachi’s eyes on him now, the weight of them almost as tangible as the hands still bracketing his foot, and the shame crawled hot across his skin until he couldn’t stand it. His shoulder curled tighter, small as he could make himself on the ground, like that could shield him from the weight pressing down. But the pressure on his foot didn’t change… If anything, the hold seemed steadier, unyielding in its gentleness.

“I just do,” he whispered finally.

Not because knowing wasn’t the same as feeling.

He knew that logic well.

The weight in his stomach said he cared… even if he didn’t want to.

It told him Itachi was still his brother, even if…

For a long time, there was nothing. Just the storm pounding on the cover above and the far-off crash of the roaring lake against rocks. Then—slow, so faint it almost blended with the wind—came the sound of a breath slipping in and out through Itachi’s nose. Something long and quiet, and close to disappointment—or maybe just exhaustion...

But he didn’t say it. 

Whatever it was… he didn’t give it words...

“Ok… then I don’t want to talk about Tobi anymore,” he muttered instead, voice low, frayed at the edges. 

And for once, Sasuke didn’t want to talk about him either—didn’t want to even think about Tobi’s voice, about the stupid mask, or the dumb evil laugh he did when Sasuke would fall over, or the things it had cracked open inside him, or about why Itachi even seemed to care what he believed in when he hadn’t done a damn thing to stop any of it.  

He stared at the curve of rock above them and continued watching the rain streak in silver threads just past the lip of shelter, and hated how small he felt. How thirsty he was for relief. 

The pressure at his foot eased. The cloth that had been warm beneath both of Itachi’s hands was lifted away, peeling gently from skin as cool air slid into the space it left behind, and his toes curled against the sudden absence.

Itachi didn’t reach for the next thing immediately. Sasuke noticed immediately, mouth tightening and the back of his neck prickling under the weight of the pause.

His older brother stared at it longer than Sasuke frankly thought was necessary. His eyes narrowed—not in disgust exactly, but in that quiet, measuring way that always made Sasuke feel like he was about to be told he had somehow messed up something just by sitting there. 

The silence between them stretched, the sound of rain above seeming louder for it.

Without comment, Itachi reached for the small vial beside him. The cap gave a soft pop and hiss before he pressed the mouth of the bottle to a folded, bloodless corner of the cloth and a sharp scent—biting and cold—lifted into the air, threading past the wet dirt smell. Sasuke’s nose wrinkled.

Itachi’s grip was immediate and firm, steadying the flinch with one palm braced over the arch of his foot. 

“Hold still,” he said, quiet but with no room for argument. 

And when the soaked cloth pressed into the raw edge of the cut, the reaction was instant—

Sasuke’s entire leg jerked as he gave a startled screech.

He hissed, teeth clamping down hard on the inside of his cheek as the sting dug deep, hot and unrelenting. The smell was even stronger now, mixing with the metallic scent of blood. Itachi’s other hand worked with deliberate, patient strokes, dabbing and sweeping until the sharp sting spread hot and clean along the length of the gash. Sasuke gritted his teeth, staring at a dark patch on the stone just past Itachi’s shoulder, willing himself not to pull back again. Every brush seemed to seek out the rawest part of the wound. His calf trembled despite himself.

When the last trace of the wound seemed to be worked over, Sasuke expected to hear the faint rattle of a needle being drawn from its case—the soft sound that meant stitches were coming next—arguably the worst part. Instead, he heard the crease of gauze being unrolled.

His eyes flicked down, confusion breaking through the tension in his jaw. “You’re… not stitching it?”

“No.” The answer came without pause, without explanation.

Sasuke frowned. “Why not?”

Itachi wound the first layer of gauze over the top of the foot, angling it low so it hugged the curve of the arch before drawing it back across the gash. His fingers were careful, never letting the soft fabric catch. “There’s too much in that I can’t get out with a flimsy needle…” he responded at last, his voice measuring the words before he gave them. “Not without proper anesthetics or actual forceps."

He blinked. “Ana… what?”

Something shifted in Itachi’s expression—just faintly, like he’d remembered halfway through Sasuke was barely just half his age. “They’re… medicines. Ones that let me work deeper without you feeling it… Forceps are like tweezers, but some are more precise and smaller.”

Sasuke's stomach dipped. 

“I know what forceps are," he lied, stomach turning. "… I thought you said it was bad to leave stuff in! You told Tobi—”

“It is, but it won’t be left for long and we're running out of time,” Itachi admitted, cinching the gauze with a firm but not painful pull before smoothing it flat with his palm. “... And what I tell Tobi concerning you is not something for you to worry about—so don't.”

The way he said it—measured, quiet, final—made it hard to tell if it was a reassurance or another order. But Itachi’s gaze flicked up just long enough for Sasuke to feel the weight of it settle in his chest. He swallowed hard and dropped his eyes to the roll of bandages being stretched by his brother’s fingers.

It won’t be left for long…

The words should have been reassuring, but they only made his mind drift—sliding, unbidden, to his shoulder. He watched the rest of the bandages span in neat, overlapping layers, each one guided into place—wrapping his whole foot, minus the toes—with a precision that felt almost impersonal, but not unkind. Sasuke kept his eyes on the movements, unable to shake the feeling that every wrap and tuck was saying something his brother wouldn’t put into words.

But his mind had already drifted elsewhere.

He thought of his shoulder.

The way it still twinged every time he tried to lift his arm even an inch. The strange, constant ache deep in the joint, worse in the cold, the way it never seemed to get better no matter how much he wished it would. 

He still hadn’t told Itachi—hadn’t said a word about it. 

Not yet.

And Itachi… still didn’t explain anything about his silence either.

The thought pressed in heavier than the bandage, and the words eventually spilled out before he could stop them, rough and low, like they scraped their way up his throat.

“Why… why didn’t you say something… to Tobi?”

Itachi didn’t look up. The roll in his hands unwound in slow, even passes, each loop drawn snug as if the act needed all his focus.

Sasuke swallowed hard, the burn in his throat spreading, curling tight around something he didn’t want to name. “You just… stood there. While he—while he said all that—” His voice hitched, and he bit down on it hard, biting until he tasted copper.

He didn’t want it to sound like begging.

Didn’t want it to sound like it mattered this much, but it did.

And the silence hurt worse than anything Tobi had said.

“… Makes it seem like you agree,” he mumbled finally, so soft he almost hoped Itachi wouldn’t hear. Because that thought—cold and sharp—had been digging into him long before they left the clearing, and saying it out loud made it real...

That Itachi might think Tobi was in the right with everything he said.

That maybe he welcomed it.

Itachi’s hands stilled for a beat, the bandaging paused for just a breath—but Sasuke caught it, feeling that tiny shift in the air like a tremor under pressure.

“Do you understand why he says those things to you?” Itachi asked evenly, resuming the wrap. The roll circled high over his ankle, overlapping with precise tension. He blinked up at him, confused. The question landed strange in his head, like a step onto uneven ground.

“…Because he’s a freak,” he rasped, his voice tight and cracking. “Because he—he knows I’m an easy target… and I can’t do anything… That’s why...”

He expected agreement—maybe even silence. But Itachi’s reply was swift, gazing lifting just enough to find his own, dark and unreadable. “He taunted me as well.”

Sasuke’s eyes jerked wide. 

“No he didn’t.”

Itachi’s head tilted slightly, gaze calm but unflinching. He anchored the last loop, bracing it with his thumb before tearing the bandage strip free.

“Yes, he did… Does it make me an easy target for him too?”

Sasuke stared, shaking his head. “No… No, hold on, wait—He only said stuff about me. He was—he was going after me the whole time! He didn’t even talk about you—”

“He talks about you the most, more than necessary for a man of his authority,” Itachi agreed, tucking the frayed end neatly under the ankle wraps, “but he ridicules my judgment concerning you… So why didn’t you recognize it until now?”

Sasuke felt his breath falter, just a little. He didn’t get it, not really. His brain tried to turn the words over, but they felt like the wrong shape, the wrong order.

The final touch pressed lightly against his skin before Itachi’s hands left his foot with a small pat. Almost without thinking, Sasuke scrambled to draw it toward himself, managing weakly to sit himself up as his fingertips brushed over the neat layers—feeling for edges. The weight and pressure of it grounded him for a second before his next words stumbled out of him.

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

“You do,” Itachi replied easily, and that quiet emphasis made something in his stomach twist.

He stared, breath stalling in his throat and mind scrambling to try making sense of what felt like a trick question… or a trap. He turned his face away, eyes squeezing shut as if he could shut out the question instead. 

“I don’t know what you think anymore,” he sniped, temper just barely slipping beneath the cracks of a door Itachi had barricaded what already felt like an eternity ago. “You don’t—you barely say anything. You never do—unless it's to tell me off—you don’t make it obvious for me—”

“Exactly.”

Sasuke’s eyes opened again, slowly, throat working around a lump he didn’t want to name.

“Words only work if you show them they do. Tobi wants a reaction. He pesters because wants to see which parts hurts and it's how he learns more about you and which parts he can push.” The words didn’t come out like a lesson—not sharp or lecturing—but like truth, laid bare and cold. Sasuke swallowed, blinking fast as the sound of his heartbeat crowded out the storm for a moment. “And screaming… biting… charging headfirst into any insult makes your blood boil?” Itachi said, quieter now, his tone sharper under the calm, “Is exactly what allows him to erode your mind from the inside out. And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t do that—and why we stop talking about Tobi as if his opinion about you matters...”

Sasuke flinched, heat burning in his face—not from shame… not entirely, but something knotted between that and anger and a hurt too deep to name. His mouth opened, but closed again. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t even know what he truly felt—only that Itachi’s words slid in deep, curling like hooks in a place that still throbbed raw.

Itachi twisted to draw the travel pack back between them, already pulling out the first thing blocking the cramped space inside—the folded, bloody black cloak... and setting it carefully on the ground alongside him, as if it were nothing more than fabric. His stomach turned so sharply he almost swayed to lay back down, the sight of it cracking open something sick in his nose. He remembered the tacky pull of dried blood against his skin, the thick, metallic smell pressed into every thread, the way he had clung to it like glue for hours. He had thought it was gone—left behind at the big tree—forgotten...

But here it was like the worst kind of surprise, folded neat as if it had never been anything more than clothing.

His stared moved to the ground, eyes wide and glassy, chest rising too fast. Itachi didn’t glance at him, didn’t notice the way his little brother's jaw had locked in displeasure. He only reached for the next thing—the two bloody cloth rags—and began folding them together in his palm, the cleanest sides facing most outward.

Sasuke didn’t understand—

And the worst part—the part that made the whole thing burn behind his ribs—was that Itachi didn’t seem to care that he didn’t.

“But you still didn’t stop him…earlier…” Sasuke pressed again, tighter now, more desperate than before. His voice shook at the edges, half from the cold, half from whatever had been choking him from the moment everything wormed under his skin. 

The only answer was another sigh from Itachi—long, soft, worn out as he slid both rags into the bag, then the tin of salve, then the casing of needles—and somehow that cut deeper than a scolding would have. That little exhale said enough. Said we’re done.  

Said stop asking—

His hands curled into fists, knuckles white.

“I don’t get it,” he said, sharper now, teeth tight. “Why you’re doing this and not wanting to talk about Tobi when that’s what matters… You act like what I said is wrong, when the whole time—every time—you don’t even—”

His throat closed. His shoulder ached—still dead weight at his side—but he couldn’t shift. Didn’t dare. The pain stayed buried under the worse kind—the ache in his chest, the one that never let up.

“You always do this,” he muttered, eyes squeezing shut for a heartbeat. “You always ignore me—or act like I don’t get it—but I do. I do.”

Itachi didn’t interrupt. His hands kept moving, rolling the bandages and gauze back into a tight coil, quickly forcing it within the confines of the pack and tacking the buckle shut. His expression didn’t change, but the silence—it wasn't calm anymore. It was heavy and stretched too thin. 

Ready to snap.

“You’re doing it right now!” His voice cracked. 

Still nothing.

“You think I need to learn a lesson, right? That I’m too stupid to know what’s really going on?” He turned his face, voice breaking through the rising heat behind his eyes. “But I know what hurts. I know what he said! I know he said you didn’t want to deal with me—I know he said I don’t have a future unless I got put down like a dog!—I HEARD IT! ”

The words rang louder than he meant them to. The storm outside hushed beneath them as the rhythm of the lake dropped into the silence between his gasps.

“And I know you didn’t say a word, you didn’t wait for me—you never stop—” Sasuke rasped, his hands shaking now. “And you just let him walk away—!”

He didn’t care if that made him sound like a child. 

He was a child. 

And he didn’t care if his brother thought he was weak—Itachi already knew it. 

He had already said it to his face somewhere in the swirl of pain after the fall—and it didn’t matter anymore—because right now, he was weak… And no amount of lectures about composure could fix the way he kept hurting.

“Why won’t you just say it’s not true?” His voice pitched again, thin and broken. “That he was lying—that you aren’t going to leave me as soon as we go back—that you didn’t do it all for nothing—that you took me because there’s something left—! That I still matter to someone!”

His breath hitched, vision swimming, and he hunched in harder on himself, pressing his good arm across his stomach like he could physically hold the rest of himself in place. His left shoulder throbbed without mercy, and his foot stung sharp and constant, the skin pulling every time his toes clenched beneath the bandages, but even that pain felt small now.

Compared to the thought that maybe—

Maybe there was no good reason Itachi had taken him from home.

That Itachi had—

That Tobi was right…

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do anymore...” he said, voice gone hoarse, almost too soft to hear. “I can’t go home... You won’t let me go… I ruined my life—and I slowed you down and—and—” 

He choked, biting the inside of his cheek again, hard enough to bleed.

“I shouldn’t even be alive, ” he whispered.

The words sat in the air like something rotten.

But, at last, Itachi budged.

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t dramatc... just a shift—slow and quiet, as he leaned forward from where he sat, just enough that the cold space between them finally shrank. His arm reached across the gap—not to grab or scold or force—but just to be there, the warmth of him finally within reach.

“That’s not true. You have to block it out,” Itachi said, voice forceful, but steady. “Don’t let his words settle in—that’s what he wants—he wants to control what you believe.”

But Sasuke didn’t care about that. It wasn't Tobi that had changed his thoughts—not right now. But he couldn't tell Itachi that—not when everything inside him felt like it was already unraveling. 

His jaw clenched.

“What if I don’t know how?” he snapped, voice shaking into rushed sobs. “What if I can’t block it out because you won’t talk to me, and no one tells me what’s true and what’s not and you just—leave—every time I need you—and I can’t trust you—I can’t believe in you!”

“Sasuke.”

“You say not to listen to him—but you don’t say anything else! ” His voice cracked and surged. “And maybe I want to listen to him sometimes, okay?! I want to—because at least he TALKS TO ME—!”

He stopped.

His breath caught hard in his throat.

The words had gotten ahead of him, but it was too late now.

It hit the air like a slap.

Itachi went still.

Even his breath seemed to catch for a second—so fast, so quiet that no one but Sasuke would have noticed… but it was real.

His throat burned, eyes wide and furious and wet. “He still talks to me... even if it hurts… You don’t—you just ignore me... You won’t even talk about our clan... You just make me sit here and wait for something that never happens and make guesses—and then I guess wrong or do something wrong and you get mad and—”

“I’m not mad at you—”

The words came fast—fierce and almost sharp—and it was finally Itachi’s voice carrying something close to a feeling that wasn’t just anger or frustration.

Sasuke stopped. His breath stilled at the force in Itachi’s tone—his gaze snapping up, startled by the crack in the mask his brother always wore. That wasn’t yelling. He didn’t raise his voice, but something in it—tight, threaded through with something sharp and vulnerable—hit harder than a scream ever could.

His brother looked at him—really looked at him—and the quiet weight of it was unbearable. That unreadable face hadn’t changed much, but the edges of it had softened. A single line had formed between his brows and his eyes, glass-flat a moment ago, had shifted to something quieter, more human. 

More there.

But only for a second.

Because before his thoughts could catch up—before Itachi could reassert himself and drag himself back behind walls and silence—Sasuke surged forward.

It wasn’t graceful. It was definitely not thought through. It wasn’t anything but raw impulse, and the desperate, aching need to test if it was really true—that Itachi wouldn’t push him away.

His feet scuffed the rock floor, balance nearly giving out from the pull in his ribs and the dead weight of his left side, but he still lurched the short distance and threw his right arm around Itachi’s middle. His other barely lifted—shoulder flaring white-hot for even the attempt—but Sasuke didn’t care. He just needed something—contact, proof, another heartbeat that wasn’t his own, the solid warmth of his brother not retreating. He buried his face in the fabric of his brother’s collar and didn’t breathe.

And Itachi… didn’t move.

Not at first.

But he didn’t sigh and untangle Sasuke like he was something troublesome. He stayed still, hands half-lifted, as if stunned—until one of them settled carefully at the back of his head, gentle, if not a little firm. 

But, there.

A breath slipped from his nose, too fast to steady. His chest hitched once as he clung tighter. He could feel the tension in Itachi’s body—not gone, not relaxed—but yielding. Like he was finally letting himself be held. His heart was pounding, eyes burning. The fear that Itachi might still push him away hadn’t faded, but it hadn’t come true either…

That had to count for something.

The rain whispered against the rock above them as his breath came a little slower again, like the silence had cut his lungs in half. His throat ached with unshed heat. He didn’t even realize he was trembling until he tried to wipe his face and the top of his sleeve came away slick with something salty. He looked away through his lashes, jaw trembling, fists clenched so tight the skin stretched white across his knuckles.

“Why did you leave me?” he whispered, so quiet it barely counted as speech. “I didn’t... I didn't mean to be so…”

The rest stuck in his throat. 

Because if he said it—if he really said how useless he’d felt when he couldn’t walk right, when his shoulder wouldn’t work, when all he did was cry and flinch and fall behind—then it would make it real.

And he knew he couldn’t survive. 

For a long moment, Itachi didn’t answer. The silence stretched between them, taut and thin as silk thread, catching every shallow, uneven breath Sasuke took. Then—so softly it almost seemed like he shouldn't say it—his voice broke through.

“You didn’t do anything wrong…”

It wasn’t the clipped half-baked assurance Sasuke was used to. Or a dismissal or the kind of vague, empty thing Itachi kept using to try ending the conversation. This was quieter, slower, careful in a way that made it feel… real.

His hand shifted against the back of his head, not pushing him closer but anchoring him there, as if to keep him steady. The words sank in, and Sasuke wanted to believe them. Wanted to grab hold of them and never let go—but they didn’t quite fit against the raw ache inside his chest. There was a pause—he could feel it in the way Itachi’s breathing slowed against him, like his brother was weighing whether to keep speaking at all.

And then, his voice came again, softer still, almost reluctant.

“I was the one who made a mistake.”

His head shifted just enough to look up, startled—not by the words themselves, but by the fact that Itachi had said them at all.

“I shouldn’t have left you to him without warning,” he continued, his gaze drifting past Sasuke to the lean of the wall as if the admission would be less sharp if he didn’t look him in the eye. “I thought—” 

He cut himself off, the words stalling for a beat. 

“... It’s not something he can use against you again,” Itachi said instead, the edge of something reassuring—if almost forceful—threaded into the words. “I told you I wouldn’t let it happen and I’ll make sure of that.”

His breath stilled. The strange, fragile honesty in his brother’s voice felt dangerous, like if he moved too fast, it would snap shut again.

“What he tried… Tobi wants you to burn out before you even begin.” Itachi went on, “But I don’t need you to keep up with me, Sasuke... I know you won’t want to… But… you just need to outlast him— outlast what he’s putting in your head—not by proving something stupid, or by shouting the loudest, or breaking yourself to claw towards something I won't let you reach... You just have to outlast him.”

Sasuke’s throat clenched.

It was starting again—that drift into calm logic, that wall of instruction that always felt like a fancy way to say nothing.

But—

But Itachi was still here.

Still close.

Still not pulling away.

And something in Sasuke faltered.

He blinked again, faster this time. His face twisted, breath shaking. His bad arm throbbed—so deep and hot and punishing now that it made the whole side of his chest feel like it was dragging dead weight behind it.

He didn’t want to say anything. He wanted to stay mad. To bite his lip and bear it and never admit the truth.

But he was tired.

Tired in a way his body didn’t have words for.

And Itachi was still looking at him—not annoyed, not disappointed, just… still—

There.

So his mouth opened—slowly.

“I…” he murmured, barely audible. “... I need help...” 

The words were small and faint like he wasn’t sure if saying them out loud would make them worse…. But they were out, and he couldn’t reverse time.

He felt Itachi pause again.

It made his stomach twist even worse.

“I didn’t tell you before,” Sasuke added quickly, suddenly afraid Itachi would get mad now, “because I thought you’d think I was being stupid—or that I wasn’t strong enough or… I don’t know—but it really hurts… and I can’t move it, and I didn’t mean to fall last night—but it—”

He stopped, catching himself in the ramble and pressed his lips tight. He couldn’t do it—

His breath fluttered out in a trembling puff, and he finally, slowly lifted his face to peek up at his brother. Itachi was still watching him, eyes sharp—but not with judgment—with focus. Alertness. 

Worry, maybe.

Sasuke quickly glanced away again, ashamed of the way his own voice was cracking under the pressure.

Itachi moved again—his whole frame shifting beneath Sasuke. The arm around his back firmed, the other sliding carefully under his knees. Without rushing, without jolting him, Itachi gathered the rest of his damp, shivering body off the ground until he was seated fully on his brother’s crossed legs, facing him. Sasuke’s right arm stayed wrapped against Itachi, but his left hand... 

His brother’s palm came up, slow and precise, settling lightly just behind the curve of his head, simply pulling him in until Sasuke found his resting place against him once more, steady and cool—but not quite cradling.

Just… anchoring.

And finally— finally—Itachi interrupted.

“You can show me now...” His voice soft—and this time, meaning something. And Sasuke—shaking, breathless, heart still thudding wildly in his chest—finally dared to lift his head.

He looked up.

And Itachi looked back.

His eyes were heavy beneath the dripping fringe of his bangs, the damp soaking of raindrops still slicked the corners of his eyes like tears—but they didn’t flick away.

Not this time.

They stayed fixed—steady—watching Sasuke in that unreadable, quiet way of his as he noticed his reflection shine behind his brother’s eyes.

His throat bobbed.

He peeled away from Itachi slowly, reluctant fingers detaching from his chest like they were afraid the contact wouldn’t be allowed again... but he needed to show him. He couldn’t explain it in words—not well enough—and something in him screamed that he had to prove it before Itachi thought less of him, before the window of safety closed.

His fingers fumbled at the edge of his sleeve.

It clung to his skin, feverishly hot and damp with sweat and rain, and stuck awkwardly with the swell of his ruined arm. It took a few tries—Itachi eventually ghosting along his fingers to assist in scrunching the fabric into Sasuke's hand—before he managed to hook it and begin rolling it up with his good hand. He winced with each tug—not because the fabric hurt, but because every little movement jarred the weight of his shoulder again, reminding him just how painful it all was.

He hadn’t really meant to cause this much alarm, but now, with Itachi watching so intently—too intently—his fingers started to shake.

Then the first sign of bruising came into view.

And it stopped him cold.

Itachi’s hands instantly took over, rapid as he managed to ease the burning red skin into the light.

They blinked down at it—stunned.

Deep, pooling shadows of blood-red maroon and burgundy stretched across the top of his shoulder and trailed into the socket, discoloring the muscles around the joint in angry, swollen patches. The skin was distended in places, ballooning the shape beneath so uncannily wrong—he barely believed himself.

Sasuke hadn’t realized it looked this bad.

“I didn’t—” he started, voice cracking high in his throat. “I didn’t know—”

He didn’t even get the chance to finish.

Itachi acted—

He was already gathering Sasuke back in, adjusting his grip—one hand bracing the small of his back, the other sweeping under the injured arm before the shift in weight could jostle it again. The gentleness was still there, but barely. It buzzed beneath tension, with an urgency that cut through the usual silence like a knife.

“I got it,” he seemed to murmured, in a hush. “I…”

I’ve got you…

Sasuke tried to believe it. 

His breath was quivering, his legs cold, and all he could feel was the fire of that ache—ripping through his side now that it had been touched. His body spasmed again, then went limp against Itachi’s chest, his right shoulder landing to brace himself sideways. He looked up, wide-eyed, and saw his brother’s face crease—actually crease—with alarm.

“How long has it been this bruised?” Itachi asked, and though his voice stayed level, there was no masking the strain in it.

“I—I don’t know,” Sasuke whispered, barely remembering what day it was. “I couldn’t check—I just—I couldn’t move it. And Tobi made me fall on it again—maybe it was—” His breath hitched again, the nausea crawled back up his throat, thick and hot and words tumbling out over each other. “I can’t lift it—it feels so bad, and I didn’t—Itachi, I didn’t know—please don’t be mad, I didn’t mean to hide it, I just—I think I tore it— ”

The words felt too small—too flat for what was happening inside his body, but saying them only made it worse—made the panic rise up again, fresh and sharp. His breath hitched.

“I ripped all the muscles,” he cried, voice breaking into pieces. “I ripped it from the fall—I can’t feel it anymore—What if I… what if I broke it so bad it’s—it’s— ”

“You didn’t,” Itachi responded, too fast and clean. No hesitation. No doubt. Only a single note of finality in his voice, as if there was no room left for panic.

Sasuke blinked, breath caught in his chest as a hand came closer. His gaze darted toward it instinctively—watched as long fingers reached forward, slow and measured, then hovered just above the damaged arm. Itachi didn’t touch it right away, didn’t even press. He just moved deliberately nearer, gliding over the outer line of his shoulder and avoiding the worst of the swelling and discoloration—even the obvious deformity in the shape of the joint.

His touch was clinical in a way that made his skin crawl with dread.

Then—quietly, without warning—Itachi pressed his thumb into a spot just below the joint and a hot jolt of pain shot straight through his body. He gasped—sharp—and flinched back though it didn’t matter—his brother had already trapped him and Itachi didn’t stop. He didn’t push deeper any deeper than that, but his hand held position, thumb and fingers massaging both sides of his shoulder like he was mapping a pressure point just beneath the surface.

“Your fall wrenched it,” he said frustratingly even in a soft exhale, “you just pulled the bone from the glenoid cavity. It's out of the socket.”

Sasuke just stared up at him in horror.

None of that meant anything to him—but it sounded bad.

His breath was already shaking, but now his whole body had gone cold. His mind spun too—caught in a rising wave of fear that made everything harder to hear, harder to process. He tried to blink the sting out of his eyes, but his vision still swam with a punctuated sob.

Itachi’s hand relaxed just slightly as if he realized his mistake yet again. Then, in a quieter voice, he added, “You dislocated your shoulder.”

Sasuke’s stomach still plummeted.

He jerked his gaze downward—back to the arm, back to the crooked, unnaturally bruised slope of it. It didn’t matter if it was dislocated—or whatever Itachi apparently meant—the shoulder still looked horrible.

“Then why—” his voice caught. He swallowed hard. “Why can’t I move it? Why can’t I feel it?”

Itachi’s hand stayed where it was—light, firm, unwavering.

“Because it’s not in place,” he said, low and matter-of-fact. “The joint isn’t seated where it’s supposed to be. Without that, the muscles can’t move it properly anymore... and the numbness might be the nerves getting pinched...”

The words sank in slowly.

Not in place.

His muscles can't move it?!

His head reeled at the simplicity. He turned back to the arm again, eyes scanning it frantically. Even with all the pain—even with the numbness and heat and strange, watery ache—he had still hoped it wasn’t this. He had still wanted to believe it would just fade. That if he could endure it long enough, if he just tried harder, it would’ve just fixed itself.

“So it’s not…” he started, and then faltered. “It’s not torn? It's just...”

He didn't even know anymore. Itachi’s gaze flicked up for a fraction of a second, the mist of the storm catching in his lashes and making his eyes look more strained and watery.

“I won’t know for sure until it can be reset and the swelling depresses,” he said, tone still even. “But it’s unlikely… If the tendons were completely torn, you would probably be more than half delirious by now...”

He looked again at the arm—shivering, sickly bruised, and dangling like it wasn’t part of him anymore. The sleeve still clung to the top of it in heavy folds, soaked through with his own sweat and the rain. It felt like something had broken inside him, something deeper than bone.

And the worst part—the part that twisted deep into his gut—was that he couldn’t even tell how much of it was physical.

The rest was just… fear.

Fear that it wouldn’t heal. Fear that it would heal, but slowly… Fear that he was still holding Itachi back. That he’d still be left behind. That next time, no one would come for him at all.

His fingers twitched uselessly at his side, trying to move, trying to do something—but nothing happened, nor did anything change. And so he sat there, sweat pooling in his collar, skin buzzing with pain and helplessness, and tried not to let his face crumple.

Tried not to let Itachi see just how scared he really was.

“Has it hurt the entire time?” Itachi asked.

Sasuke hesitated.

He looked down again—at the arm, at the place where his shoulder sloped wrong and the sleeve clung damply to his skin. The ache there hadn’t stopped once. Not since the fall. Not since the sickening pop and the white-hot bolt that shot through him like lightning when Tobi dropped him...

He nodded quietly, voice barely above a whisper, “A lot... I passed out like—” he mentally counted, but he wasn’t really sure, “twice? I think…”

Itachi didn’t respond right away.

"I might be delirious too..." he added, unsure if it might help his case.

Itachi’s brows lifted faintly, the smallest flicker of something behind his eyes. Not mocking, not quite pity—just… entertained, in a way that felt too deliberate.

“If you were half-delirious,” he murmured, unhelpfully, “you wouldn’t be talking or understanding me.”

Sasuke’s head snapped up at the remark—half to protest, half because something about his brother’s tone unsettled him. His eyes caught on the faint, tight curve at the corner of Itachi’s mouth, the way his gaze didn’t sharpen so much as warm... and it struck him in a way he couldn’t place.

It was wrong—like the air shifted, like the faintest shadow of some other time, some other moment he couldn’t quite remember, had just passed between them. And that was what made his skin crawl—the sense that this wasn’t new... That he’d been here before, in this same push-pull between terror and the faint, strange feeling that his brother might actually laugh at him.

He hated how much it threw him off.

“I still could be,” Sasuke muttered stubbornly, but his voice cracked over the words. The longer Itachi’s near-smile lingered in his eyes, the more his chest burned—not with fear this time, but a pressure he didn’t want to admit was close to crying. He blinked hard, as if that could erase the image in front of him. “I didn’t… I didn’t know it was this bad. I thought I—”

“Tore your arm out?” Itachi finished softly, one brow lifting just enough to show he really had been listening to the panic in his voice.

His throat tightened painfully as his breath stuttered. “If I did… it’s permanent... isn’t it?”

“No.” Itachi didn’t hesitate. His voice was a steady anchor against the storm’s hiss. “You popped it out. Not tore.”

Sasuke flinched at the word “popped” like it was supposed to make it better but somehow made it worse.

“There’s a difference?” he asked warily.

Itachi nodded once. “A very important one. But—” His eyes flicked back down to the misshapen shoulder, and his tone deepened slightly, “—it can be fixed, but extremely painful to put back... And it’s not something I can safely attempt more than once right now.”

The words tightened something inside Sasuke that wasn’t just fear. He leaned back slightly, shrinking away from the arm Itachi still supported, as though that might protect him from the possibility of it being done wrong. “And… what if you... can’t?”

“Then,” Itachi said simply, “we keep moving and we regroup with Tobi. Where we’re headed, there will be others better trained in medical ninjutsu—someone with the skill to either repair it surgically or through chakra manipulation, which may be less invasive.”

Sasuke squirmed, his discomfort plain at everything—Tobi, the mystery 'Akatsuki' place, the mentions of others—but the surgical option... hit him especially hard. The thought of being put to sleep and waking up confused and alone with stitches from someone moving the body parts inside him without his knowledge... turned his stomach queesy.

“What if you just… did it now? You said you could, right? Without… all that...?”

Itachi’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment, unreadable again. But then—hesitation, just enough for Sasuke to notice as thunder rumbled off-shore against the pound of waves.

“…I could,” he said at last. “But I won’t—not without something to dull your pain... Which I can partially do—but you won't like it.”

Sasuke bristled at the restraint in his tone, as if Itachi’s calmness was a wall he couldn’t break through. The rain pelted just outside from them, steady and almost too gentle compared to the tension knotting in his chest. His brows knit together, his breathing uneven as he searched his brother’s face.

“Why not...?” he asked finally, his voice small but sharpened at the edges.

For a moment, Itachi didn’t answer. His eyes remained steady on Sasuke’s with the faintest pull of thought working behind them. Then, without breaking that gaze, he shifted—one arm adjusting around his waist as the other reached for the backpack at his side. The movement was slow, deliberate, almost ritualistic, like each second was being measured out before it passed.

The pack came forward, settling on the ground in front of them, the slick canvas mesh catching what little light filtered in from the storm outside. Sasuke stayed where he was—perched in his brother’s lap—but his weight tensed ever so slightly, sensing the undercurrent in the action. Itachi unbuckled the flap with a quiet snick of metal and drew it open, exposing the dark interior.

His hand slipped inside, and Sasuke immediately leaned forward, craning his neck to try and see what was hidden in the shadows.

When the glint of metal caught his eye, his heart jumped.

Water—

The instant Itachi’s hand lifted it free, Sasuke’s right arm shot out on instinct, fingers grasping for the canteen like a lifeline—but his brother pulled it smoothly away, holding it just out of his reach. His brows drew down, an unspoken protest twitching at the corner of his mouth.

The canteen was placed to the side instead, far enough that he couldn’t snatch it without shifting painfully. Itachi’s hand went back into the bag without a word.

Sasuke’s attention sharpened now, the ache in his throat momentarily pushed aside by curiosity. He leaned forward again, catching glimpses of a portion of items laid hidden away—the two folded bloody cloths, a coil of thin ninja's wire, some large rolled object tucked near the bottom, and something that might’ve been a sealed food packet—before Itachi’s fingers closed around a smaller object, meticulously sheathed in an almost hidden pocket.

When it emerged, the sound was soft but distinct.

A faint rattle.

The small, opaque bottle rested in Itachi’s palm, its label bleached at the edges and text weathered into near illegibility. His eyes fixed on it instantly, a ripple of unease tightening in his stomach before he could stop it.

It was the shape—the sound.

Pills?

And just like that, the words Tobi had thrown at him earlier, smug and insinuating, slid back into his head like a splinter. Itachi, you wouldn't—

Itachi’s thumb brushed over the cap once before he leaned forward slightly and—without forcing it—let Sasuke take the bottle from his hand. The plastic was slightly warm against his palm from his brother's touch and almost too light for how heavy it felt in his mind. While he inspected it—barely able to read the words in their tiny print—Itachi closed the pack with quiet finality, flipping the top over and sliding it neatly aside.

His fingers curled a little tighter around the bottle as he looked back up, his voice hesitant but edged with wariness. “…What is this?”

“Painkillers,” Itachi replied simply, his voice even.

Sasuke’s eyes narrowed faintly, suspicion shifting into something closer to petulance. “Then... why didn’t you show me these before? I could’ve used them for my foot—”

Itachi reached for the bottle, but instead of taking it, he simply turned it around in Sasuke’s hand, guiding his gaze to the faded warning label printed in tiny black text near the bottom. His finger tapped lightly at a particular line, the one marked in bold: Not recommended for pediatric use under 12 years old unless directed by a medical professional.

“I didn’t bring them for you,” he said, voice low but measured. "You weren't even supposed to see them."

The words landed with a muted thud in his chest. He stared down at the bottle again, his thumb rubbing over the rough edge of the label. The pills shifted faintly inside.

Itachi didn’t comment, gaze instead lingering on what Sasuke was sure was the misshapen line of his shoulder and the way his posture slumped to guard it. When he finally looked back to his brother, there was something unreadable in the set of his expression—measured, distant, but with a thread of decision winding through it.

“…But now,” he said quietly, “the situation calls for it.”

The faint rattle of pills inside the bottle seemed suddenly louder in the pause that followed.

The idea of swallowing whatever was in here tangled in his mind like two threads pulled tight in opposite directions—one made of the gnawing, unrelenting ache in his shoulder, the other a coil of doubt that wouldn’t loosen. The pain was winning—he could feel it. It pressed against the back of his skull, blurred the edges of the room, made the thought of resetting his shoulder feel like staring down the barrel of something he couldn’t dodge. And if the other option was surgery—being put under, waking up confused and cut open—then maybe… maybe this was better...

But—

His gaze drifted up to Itachi’s jaw.

For a fleeting moment, he imagined what it would feel like if that pain just… stopped. No more stabbing jolt every time his body shifted. No more sick, burning pull at the back of his arm. No more having to fight every breath that tried to tighten around it.

But the thought twisted quickly, replaced by another—harsher, sharper.

Tobi’s voice.

That smooth, teasing lilt, needling him just to see the reaction.

Itachi had denied it before—flat and certain—but that didn’t erase the fact that the person holding the pills now was the same person who had killed the Uchiha clan without explanation, the same person who could look at him with unreadable calm after doing it.

If he took them, he wouldn’t know what was in them. He wouldn’t know what they might do. He wouldn’t even know if the pain going away was because of the medicine or something worse... The rain whispered outside the rock’s edge, soft but steady, while the thought pressed harder against his skull. Was this is how it happens? That he would wake up somewhere else—with someone else—already too late?

He shifted uncomfortably in his brother’s lap, the motion sending another lance of pain through his shoulder that made his breath hitch.

Finally, he latched onto something, a piece of solid ground in the unease.

“I’m not twelve,” he said suddenly, holding the bottle back toward Itachi like it was proof of his own case. “I'm not even eight—you said so last night. And it’s on the label—It says under twelve can’t—”

“I know, but the restriction won’t matter.” Itachi interrupted, his voice as patient as ever. 

"It might." Sasuke’s jaw tensed. “What if you’re wrong? What if it makes me sick—?”

“It won’t,” Itachi said, meeting his gaze without blinking. “One dose won’t harm you. But…” His voice shifted slightly, growing quieter in a way that made Sasuke focus harder. “…it will affect your chakra. Significantly.”

Sasuke blinked, caught off guard. “… What?”

“These aren’t ordinary civilian painkillers,” Itachi explained, his tone precise, like each word was placed in a deliberate order. “They block pain receptors, yes—but they also suppress chakra flow at main points in the body. It slows the impulses along the pathways so the nervous system stops transmitting pain as intensely.”

Sasuke stared at the bottle, frowning faintly, trying to imagine that happening inside him. The idea felt alien.

“Your body will be forced into a state of rest,” Itachi continued, “You will be more tired, weaker, and less alert. Lethargy is not a side-effect—it’s the intended effect.”

“How long?” Sasuke asked, voice wary.

"For you... perhaps twelve hours. Longer, since your system is... weakened... and needs the time to recover. But you won't feel the apex of lethargy until maybe two hours in, and after that point it will eventually wear down—but slowly. It's not something meant to work fast—it's gradual and long-lasting, but it should block enough of your pain that I can try resetting your shoulder in maybe less than thirty minutes after you take it.”

The words landed like a rock in his stomach, not all of them connecting into a real meaning, but he understood just enough. It would mean twelve hours where he wouldn’t be able to keep up... Twelve hours where he might be carried along without knowing who-knows-where they were headed, without the ability to fight back if he had to. The thought of that helplessness—combined with not knowing what the pills might actually do... made the back of his neck prickle.

But then came the other side of it—twelve hours where his shoulder might not feel like it was ripping apart from the inside every time he moved the tiniest bit wrong. Twelve hours where the thought of surgery wouldn’t hang over him so heavily because maybe, just maybe, Itachi could fix it here and now.

Still…

He clutched the bottle tighter, his thumb pressing into the ridged cap.

“Why do you even have these?” he muttered.

Itachi's gaze lingered on his face a moment longer than usual before he finally reached forward. His movements were unhurried, hand brushing lightly over Sasuke's fingers as he took the bottle back—his grip gentle enough not to force it away, but steady that the transfer happened without resistance. The faint rattle of pills crackled in the small space between them.

He didn’t do anything with it right away.

 Instead, he let the bottle settle in his palm and rubbed his thumb over the weathered paper label, as if smoothing an old crease. His eyes lowered briefly to it, and his voice, when it came, carried a faint undertow—low, deliberate, and edged in something Sasuke couldn’t name.

“I wasn’t sure… what would happen afterwards.” There was a pause, just long enough to make it the space shrink between them. “I just thought it would be better to be prepared than regret leaving something behind.” 

His tone remained as calm as ever, but the vagueness in it sat wrong inside.

Sasuke’s brows knit in unease.

“That’s not... what I meant... I meant where did you get them?”

For a beat, Itachi’s expression didn’t change—like he’d anticipated the pushback. But, without hurry, he twisted the bottle in his fingers and popped the cap with a faint snap of plastic that echoed lightly under the low drum of rain outside. He didn’t tip the pills out—instead his fingers hooked onto a small, sharply folded square of paper tucked flat along the inner wall of the container.

He held it out without explanation.

Sasuke took it warily. The paper was thin but stiff, the folds so deep they resisted opening at first. As he opened it there were dense blocks of printed text and too many cramped scribbled notes that he couldn’t read, let alone understand—long medical words, numbers, abbreviations... But then his eyes caught on the parts that mattered.

Uchiha Itachi.

And, beneath it, in neat, familiar writing—their mother’s name and signature. The date in the corner signified a refill from six months ago...

Sasuke stared at it, the softening rain filling the pause between them. The hospital’s crest was faint in the top corner, the kind he'd seen from official forms—like his Academy registration form—ink pressed deep into the paper. He couldn’t make sense of almost any of the actual meaning, but the proof was inarguable... these weren’t from some stranger or an unknown source.

“They were prescribed to me,” Itachi admitted at last, breaking the quiet.

Sasuke looked up, not quite as startled by the admission, but by the fact Itachi’s tone was not… defensive.

"Why...?"

Only then did Itachi glance at him, his gaze unreadable, but not sharp.

“When I was eight,” he began, and there was the faintest pause, like the words resisted leaving. “I awakened my Sharingan for the first time on a mission... And it happened suddenly… and violently,” he went on, his voice level but slower now, as though he was turning the memory over carefully in his mind before offering it. “I didn’t know how to control it yet and I couldn’t… turn it off.”

Another pause.

This one longer.

“It stayed active for nearly two days straight, no matter what our—” he paused again, for a brief moment this time, as if something rotten had filled his mouth. “... Nothing helped... Every moment it burned—like my vision was caught in fire and my chakra was draining constantly, faster than I could replenish it. By the second night, I couldn’t stand for more than a few minutes at a time and my eyes felt… raw... as if any movement would tear them apart.”

Sasuke’s grip on the paper tightened slightly.

“I barely slept...” Itachi continued. “And every time my eyes closed, the strain worsen when they opened again. I couldn’t think clearly... I could barely blink.”

He glanced briefly away, his thumb brushing over the bottle in his palm. “The prescription was from the hospital and she... it was approved. It dampened my chakra flow—just enough to weaken the connection to my eyes and turn it off by intervention. The pain dulled and I… slept for almost an entire day after the first dose.”

The quiet that followed was heavier than before. Sasuke stared at him, unsure if it was the story itself or the way Itachi had told it—so careful and... slow—like something pulled reluctantly from a place he didn’t visit often.

BUt for the first time in days, he felt something shift under the surface of his suspicion.

Because Itachi wasn’t perfect.

He wasn’t untouchable.

He had needed help too...

Sasuke looked back down at the paper in his lap.

Without quite realizing it, he tugged at Itachi’s arm until it was wrapped loosely around his stomach, then leaned back into his brother’s chest. He kept facing forward, tucking himself under Itachi’s chin, still staring at the prescription as if the printed words might reveal more.

Itachi’s voice, when it came again, was quieter. “I wouldn’t give you anything that would harm you... If you don’t want a full dose, I can split it. It will work for less time and not as well, but it should still be enough for your shoulder.”

Sasuke squirmed faintly, the hesitation writ clear in the small shifts of his shoulders. The ache in his injured one flared again, sharper now after sitting still so long.

He swallowed.

The offer hung in the air—temptation on one side, doubt on the other. He thought about the story, about Itachi at eight years old—about the idea that even he could be… hurt like that.

“I didn’t know that story,” Sasuke said finally, feeling like it was the only safe option.

“I know...” Itachi replied simply. "You were too young to remember it."

Sasuke stayed quiet for a long moment after that, his thoughts circling the same tight loop—pain, doubt... pain again.

The rhythm was exhausting, like his own mind was dragging him back and forth by the collar. His fingers twitched faintly against the paper still resting in his lap, but he didn’t look at it again. The truth of it—the proof—was already lodged somewhere deeper than he wanted to admit. The ache in his shoulder pulsed again, hot and sharp, curling through the bone until it gnawed at his patience. He shifted, the motion pulling a quiet breath from him, and his eyes flicked toward the bottle still held loosely in Itachi’s hand.

It wasn’t trust, not really—not yet... But the thought of dragging this out, of letting the pain stretch longer and longer until his own breathing was the only thing he could hear, made his stomach twist.

His eyes dropped to the bottle still in Itachi’s hand, but before his fingers could even twitch toward it, the question slipped out, soft but edged with unease.

“…You’re not… gonna leave again, are you?” His gaze darted away almost immediately. “Not—leave me like this... with him?”

 Itachi’s gaze sharpened—subtle, but there—and for a moment Sasuke was ready for Itachi not to answer.

Until he did.

“No, I told you I wouldn't let that happen again... and I won't,” he said, then—just faintly—something warmer, almost rueful. “You’re stuck with me..."

Sasuke blinked, the words catching somewhere between disbelief and a quiet, reluctant relief. There was something almost familiar there—almost the old Itachi. The one who answered when spoken to. The one who didn’t vanish into cold silence, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Sasuke found himself believing him, if only a little... 

Itachi shifted the bottle in his hand, tilting it slightly toward him.

The offer was there—quiet and patient.

Sasuke hesitated only a moment longer before slowly reaching toward it, guiding his brother's hand closer until he could peer inside the container.

He tried to pick out the smallest pill from the bunch, sifting gently as if he could somehow tell them apart by touch alone. He searched for the smallest one, maybe hoping it might mean less effect—less risk—but they were identical, giving him nothing to hold onto but the illusion of choice.

Eventually, he hooked one at random between his fingertips, drawing it out into the open and towards his brother's waiting palm.

Itachi accepted it with the same measured care he’d shown all along, positioning it between his thumb and the side of his pointer finger and applying a slow, deliberate pressure along the scored line until it split cleanly in two—almost soundless—and then shifted his hand so both halves rested side-by-side in his palm.

Sasuke hesitated, eyes flicking between them.

That tiny difference had to matter.

With the kind of careful deliberation—usually reserved for things that might explode—he plucked the smaller half and cupped it in his good hand. His gaze sank to it—something so small and chalky on his palm, almost unremarkable for the weight it carried in his mind in what this pale shard of decision really meant—

The heat in his face rose, muddied between nausea and nerves.

Behind him, there was the soft scrape of metal as Itachi’s arm shifted as the canteen’s weight clicked faintly while the lid was unscrewed. Sasuke didn’t look up until his brother’s voice broke the soft hum of rain.

“Take slow sips... and don't gulp it,” he reminded. “You're dehydrated, so if you drink too fast you'll get sick again.”

Sasuke gave a stiff nod, more out of habit than certainty, and stared at the half-split medicine one last time. He pressed his lips together.

He could still back out...

Itachi wasn’t forcing him.

But the thought of another sharp pull in his shoulder… another moment of sitting here debating while the pain kept climbing… made the choice for him.

Slowly, he placed the medicine on his tongue.

Itachi handed over the canteen. The weight of it nearly dragged his wrist down—unprepared for how heavy it felt to lift with one hand as he struggled to adjust his grip, barely managing to bring it to his mouth, and took what was meant to be a sip—but came out closer to a gigantic gulp.

The cool water rushed down, pulling the pill with it, the aftertaste of chalk trailing faintly in its wake.

But his thirst—sharp and restless after hours of neglect—clawed at him faster than his restraint could keep up. He tilted the canteen back again, further this time, chasing that cold until it felt like he could drown the dryness lodged deep in his chest.

His second swallow came much quicker than the first.

And then a third mouthful before he realized it even happened.

The fourth tipped into something greedy and choking.

The water slid too fast, too easy, down his throat, and he didn’t notice how far back the canteen had tilted, draining into his stomach until—

Resistance.

The canteen began to tilt away, just a little. He didn’t want to stop, but Itachi was pulling gently, silently coaxing it from his grip—easing the base of it forward until the trickle slowed into a sudden spasm of breath. He managed one final swallow before he remembered he had to keep breathing between sips.

“Sasuke, that's enough,” his brother wheezed just slightly, a strange mix of faint bewilderment and something like mild disappointment to leave no space for argument. "Slow down."

Sasuke blinked up at him, lips damp at the corners from where the cool had splashed higher than he could swallow. His chest rose and fell quickly, not just from the drinking but from the fact that the water was gone from his reach... A small line formed between his brows, but Itachi was already easing the canteen away, screwing the lid with the same care he’d taken with the medicine.

Before Sasuke could decide whether or not to protest, Itachi’s hands came to rest against his sides, fingers spanning lightly over his ribs.

The intent was obvious.

Sasuke still stiffened anyway.

The lift wasn’t rough, but his body still reacted before his mind caught up—fingers curling slightly into Itachi’s sleeve, the small jolt of don’t move me prickling hot in his chest. Itachi of course kept his hold careful, steadying his left side with the smallest shift of grip to support his shoulder as he lifted him from his lap, the warmth of his chest and arm slipping away piece by piece until Sasuke was eased down beside him—alone—and legs pulled in close without thinking.

The space felt bigger than it was.

A drum of thunder filled it instantly.

Itachi didn’t look at him right away—he leaned slightly to his other side instead, the faint rustle of fabric and something small and stiff breaking the sound of the rain. Sasuke’s eyes followed the movement automatically, and when the crinkling shape came into view, his stomach gave a faint, twisting drop.

He recognized it instantly.

It was compact and pale, made of pressed starch and fat and something bitter that clung to the tongue. Not quite bread. Not quite anything.

The memory ate him alive—

Itachi had brought some home once after a mission—not recently, but long enough ago that he had still been small enough for their mother not to scold them too sternly for leaving crumbs behind. He remembered the way Itachi had broken off a corner and offered a piece for him to try as a playful joke. He had taken it with both hands, curious, eyes wide—and the taste had been awful... but he’d forced himself to eat most of it anyway... just to prove he could.

Now, Itachi had that same awful thing again—

And his stomach growled.

Loudly...

He flinched, embarrassed, as the teen glanced at him without comment, setting it down—not toward him, but on his opposite side with the canteen, tucked against his hip. His brows pinched in the smallest frown.

It wasn’t as if he wanted to tear into it right now... he wasn’t that hungry... but something in the gesture sat wrong, like being shut out of a conversation he hadn't realized was happening without hearing the end. His mouth opened just slightly, the beginning of a question, but then—

—the cloak was pulled into view.

Black, heavy, the dull sheen of dried blood dragging his attention down to its hem before he could look away. His stomach tightened, faintly uneasy, even before his mind caught up to why—Itachi gave it a small, deliberate shake, letting it unfurl in slow motion, swaying in over himself like something returning to its rightful place.

The smell of wet fabric and faint iron reached him first—seeping into the air between them like something rotten.

He didn’t want to see it on Itachi again—

The edges drew together as the top button snapped shut, soft and almost polite, but final in the way a door is when it clicks home.

Sasuke’s gaze dropped to his knees, though it kept betraying him in small flickers to his brother's face. Itachi’s body shifted slowly—feet finding a new, quiet balance in a crouch, muscles loose but ready beneath the cloak’s damp weight. He heard canvas creaking softly under its burden as his brother swung the backpack up over one shoulder.

He couldn’t meet Itachi's gaze.

Instead, his eyes traced the rain-slicked edge of the lean-to’s opening, where the storm was lingering. The pounding rhythm of raindrops had slowed to a hesitant drizzle, the storm’s anger spent for now—and soddening the sandy beach. Far off, where the trees lined the upper edge of the forest, the branches had ceased their wild dance and hung almost still, as if the wind itself had finally given up.

His breath hitched without meaning to as his eyes flicked down toward the lake—

The water still wrestled with the shore—still mercifully restless—but the waves had quieted... softened. Less a roar and more a whisper now, like the lake wasn't just breathing anymore, it was sighing—settling in relief after the fury of winds.

“It’s been long enough,” Itachi's voice spooked him, cutting low but horrifyingly firm. "It's time to go."

Sasuke’s heart thudded wildly, panic seeping in beneath the slow easing of rain and thunder of his pulse.

He didn’t want Itachi that close—not when the cloak smelled like that, heavy with blood and damp, the crusted edge ghosting across his skin in memory before it even touched him. But the other part of him—the one still reeling from the way Itachi’s voice had been minutes ago—didn’t want that space to unfold between them either.

His thoughts tangled, pulling him both ways until neither felt possible.

Could he ask to walk?

Could he even keep balance in the sand with his foot bound so tightly?

He pictured himself hobbling behind, dragging in Itachi’s shadow, his shoulder screaming from the first stumble—

Itachi spared him the trouble.

The teen shifted without warning, his weight rolling forward just enough before his hands were back—one arm scooping under his knees, the other sliding easily for the ration and canteen—as Sasuke startled at the sudden choice, a sharp breath catching in his throat as the world tilted and the air shifted against his cheek.

Itachi rose smoothly to his full height, not breaking stride in the motion, steady but not crushing. The cloak’s edge brushed over the side of Sasuke’s leg and he tensed, wriggling faintly against it as if the contact burned—but Itachi only adjusted him higher in his grip, his left shoulder drawn gently inward, tucked just so to keep the weight from dragging down when they would walk.

A faint crinkle broke through the sound of rain.

Itachi’s free hand had found the ration bar, tearing just enough of the wrapper with one hand to pass the package into his reluctant grasp.

Sasuke froze in disgust.

His gaze lingered on the thing like it might dissolve on its own if he stared hard enough—compact, pale, edges pressed sharp by whatever machine had birthed it. Nose wrinkling almost imperceptibly, his expression shifted so small it could have been mistaken for the afterthought of a blink—except for the way his mouth tightened into a deep-set frown right after.

“You need to eat,” Itachi cut in, his voice as even as it had been all morning, carrying no weight of argument, just stern fact. “I know you haven’t in almost two days... if I count what you... expelled.”

His brother's eyes cut down to him for only a heartbeat, but it was enough to make him guilty.

Two days...

A number like that shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did, curling inward on itself with something sour. Two days ago, he had woken up for school—not on the ground, damaged like something beyond repair. Two days ago, he had eaten breakfast surrounded by family—not eating some manufactured soggy bar. Two days ago, he had been the best of his peers—not—

Not this.

And whose fault is that? 

The thought felt like a safety pin in his head—ready to stab or attach the memories—but it didn’t last long before the edge dulled and something heavier crept in.

Because he remembered exactly whose blood was dried on that cloak and who painted it there...

He couldn’t look at it again, but he could feel it—could feel the weight of it draped from Itachi’s shoulders, still damp in places where the dark stains met crusty stiffened patches.

His chest sank inward without him deciding to move at all.

He turned his face toward Itachi’s shoulder, curling into the solid warmth there because looking at the signs felt worse than deciding to ignore them. His arm, the one still clutching the ration, ended up draped over his brother’s shoulder, the packet resting against the back of Itachi’s cloak held between three loose fingers. He stared at it like he could will it to fall—let it tumble and vanish into the ground, perhaps to be stolen by the lake’s unruly waves—but his fingers wouldn’t open.

The muscles in his arm had gone tight, locked in a holding pattern, clutching it even though he wanted it gone.

It wasn’t comfortable—not exactly—but it was... something.

Itachi shifted only slightly, but Sasuke felt it—the slow gathering of the cloak’s folds from behind, the fabric pulling inward. One arm still kept him balanced and supported, but the other was guiding the heavy black cover around him, enclosing him in that same smell of damp and iron. The rustle of cloth was quiet compared to the sound of rain, but it filled his ears all the same.

His breath hitched once—not from surprise, but from the way the air inside the cloak felt warmer instantly, heavier, less escapable. The thick folds fell over his back, across the crook of his good arm, down toward his knees.

He didn’t resist anymore.

Some part of him still hated the fact he didn't.

The sand shifted under Itachi’s steps as they left the shallow shelter of the lean-to, rain lightly splattering across their heads, and Sasuke let his eyes close—not from tiredness, not yet—but because watching the world pass made the queasy pull in his stomach worse. He focused on the muted thud of each footfall instead, the faint creak of the straps from Itachi’s pack, the way his brother’s breathing didn’t change even with the weight of him on his arm.

The ration bar was still in his hand, warm now from his grip, and slightly softened beneath the wrapper where his fingertip tips pressed. He thought about dropping it again—about letting it slip quietly from the folds of the cloak without Itachi noticing until they were too far to turn back. 

But idea of forcing himself to move already felt exhausting.

And so he just stayed there—tucked in, caught between the steady anchor of his brother’s chest and the prickling crawl of thoughts that wouldn’t leave him alone—hoping, at the very least, that the medicine wouldn’t make him regret choosing him over pain.