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Okay so your last message was sent in while I was already almost done with the scenario, so it’s a little messy? I had to change a few parts, and couldn’t really get into the “angry” Itachi deal. But anyway, I did attempt a sad ending lmao

under the cut bc longer than usual

Itachi Uchiha

Normally, the audacity to even attempt
something like this would have been lost to you. The notion wouldn’t have even crossed your mind.
You’re much too timid, and Itachi far too averse to theatrics to tolerate this.
But the turmoil refuses to dissipate, and you can’t stand it anymore.

You come to his house one morning, unexpected
and unprepared. Though you sat in your room for hours the night before, staring
at the ceiling in trepid anticipation, like it would instill in you the courage
necessary to do this—it did little to alleviate the anxiety.

You keep thinking that maybe, just maybe, he’ll
already know what’s on your mind. He’ll admit to the distance between you two, and offer an
assuring reason to amend that distance, and hopefully quell your concerns. 

Yet when you rap gently on the front door, you
find that possibility thinning with each tense second that passes. The heavy
anxiety curls around you, and your chest tightens when the door slides open. 

It’s Sasuke who answers. Looking so big and
grown now you hardly recognize him.

He smiles a smile that’s still missing a tooth
in the front, but it’s earnest and almost enough to pacify your nerves. "Hi,
_______.“

You expected at least one other Uchiha in the
family to be home, and you’re relieved it’s Sasuke. Had his parents been around
to witness this, you would have been too derided with shame to even step past
the threshold of the house.

“Hi Sasuke… is Itachi here?”

He nods and shouts down the hall behind him, “Nii-san!”

It echoes down the corridor and in response,
there’s a low, almost distracted voice that answers the call.

“What, Sasuke?”

“_______ is here!“ 

Sasuke speaks with such exuberance, oblivious
to the tension holding Itachi’s voice.

You wait, hoping he offers a response.
But there’s none. No reply comes from the other end of the hall. Which should
warrant your suspicions, but you continue in blissful ignorance as Sasuke steps
aside and invites you in.

As you kick off your shoes and make your way
down the hall, hope glows in you in a threatening, toxic way. 

You hope Itachi
will greet you with that subtle, muted smile that used to draw you in so
effortlessly. But doubts blinds that thought now. 

It’s been too long since he’s given you any reminders of his affections toward you. You wouldn’t be surprised if there were none left, in fact. Days go by with no word from him. As of late, the most you see of him is when you unintentionally run into him while out in the village streets. Which is obviously unbecoming of a man who’s maintained your relationship for almost a year now. Time, apparently, is no promise for Itachi.

Each step down the hall quickens the pace of
your heart, yet you’re still grasping onto hapless optimism. You know
if you approach him looking so distraught, fingers wringing over your wrists
and eyes with farce confidence, Itachi will notice. He’s always been too
perceptive.

The smile you futilely hope for is of course,
nowhere to be found. 

His head is bent as he sits on the ground and straps on
his shoes, facing away from you, dressed in an outfit and gear all too familiar
to you.

“You didn’t tell me you were going on a
mission,” you offer almost weakly, masking disappointment and frustration. 

“I was going to ask Shisui to tell you. Or I
would have come by your house on my way out, if I had time.”

The sheer indifference in his tone is what
pierces you the most.

It’s bland, and simple. Not completely unlike
him, yet he still appears distracted, unconcerned with whatever words you have
yet to speak. Unconcerned with what fears you came to reveal.

“Well… do you have time now?”

He pulls the heel of his shoe to fit snugly around
his ankle, but still has yet to even turn and look at you. “Not now. I have to
leave.”

“When will you be back?”

“A week.”

A week.

That’s too long.

You wonder how it can be so excruciating. To be
this close to the man you adore, yet feel worlds apart. You can’t fathom
another week of suffering. 

“I just wanted to talk to you.”

Is there a hint of conviction in your voice?
Perhaps. Or you could be mistaking it for forceful apprehension.

As you expected, he offers no reply. It’s when
he stands to his feet, suddenly shifting his attention to a near cabinet as he
searches for what you can only assume is more gear, that he speaks. But
it’s no lifting comfort. 

“I don’t have time right now.”

Again, that persistent indifference. 

You speak your next words with more intent, as
if it will do anything to sway him. It’s futile, you know. But frustration
grows with each passing second and it’s impossible to allow room for
rationality. “I… really need to talk
to you.” 

“What’s wrong, ______.”

In your turbulence, you can’t quite decipher
whether the shift in his tone poses concern, or pure impatience. 

Assuming the latter, since he still refuses to
look at you, you give in. “I don’t feel right about
us right now…”

He takes his arm guards and slips them
carefully past his hands, up his forearms. The movement is too fluid and too calm
in response to the gravity you’ve attempted with your words.

Assuming his inattention is a consequence of
his already anticipating this, the heartache is all the more harrowing. He must
have felt it too, then. Must have realized the painstaking distance between you
two… Yet he still lets it continue.

Even now, in the face of despair,
he turns his cheek. Was he being cruel? Or is he too occupied with his duties
to concern himself with such trivial affairs… trivial affairs like you.

“Itachi,” you speak his name for the first
time, like it had been caught on your tongue. “Please.”

“If you insist on discussing this, then wait
until I return.” 

The authority in his tone startles you, seizes
your chest in frustration and anxiety. There’s a fleeting thought to just leave
now and save yourself inevitable embarrassment. But you can’t.

“You know that’s not fair,” you insist, voice
rising a decimal above what you’re used to. “I’m tired of feeling like
this.”

He too notices the volume of your voice, and quickly
glances down the hall to assure that Sasuke is in his room and not
eavesdropping. 

“You’ll have to,” he says as he returns to
gathering his gear. 

“Itachi,” your voice is desperate now, almost pleading.
You’re aware of how pitiful it sounds, and how unnecessary Itachi probably finds the
melodrama. But what does he expect? This unprecedented insensitivity that douses
your heart with pain is just… too much to bear. Too much to tolerate when you
deserve answers. 

“______,” he speaks your name with unnatural
calm. “I have to leave.”

“I promise it won’t be a stupid argument,
Itachi. I just want to talk.”

“I understand.” Finally, he slings a pack over
his shoulder, grabs his sword, and glances at you. “Just wait until I return.”

“Itachi.” Your voice is neither sharp nor assertive, but the intent is all the same. You fight the urge to reach out and touch him.
To set a beseeching hand on his shoulder or grab him in some effort to keep him
here. But you know better.

“Sasuke,” Itachi calls down the hall. “I’m
leaving. Mother should be home soon.”

The little eager footsteps of the young Uchiha resound
behind you as he runs down the hall, comes to stop next to you and see his
older brother off in a familiar glow of enthusiasm that always made you
smile. Now it’s just stifling. 

“Bye nii-san,” Sasuke smiles up at his brother,
ignorant to the deafening tension that keeps imploring words at the back of
your throat.

Itachi pats him on the head, but the smile that
finds his lips looks forced on the otherwise grim expression he wears.

He glances at you, surprised you’ve remained
silent and subsided your pleas. It eases him… in a deplorable way. But the apprehensive
paralysis breaks as soon as he turns to leave. 

Itachi—“

The transparent anguish in your voice sounds
grating and embarrassing.

He stops, and examines you once more. The opaque sheen over his dark eyes suggests
that something must be going on in
that head of his. Undoubtedly, he’s cursing how pathetic it sounds. 

“I’ll be back in a week.”

It’s all he offers you before he slides open
the door and departs.

                                                           ~

A simple mission. Escorting a family of Konoha merchants to a nearby town only a few miles outside the village. So rudimentary, so simple. Yet, a grievance to you nevertheless. Mostly thanks to your clouded conscience.
Itachi’s words plaster your ability to focus. 

Yet you know deep down, there’s nothing you
could have done to escape the ambush. 

A cluster of bandits that outnumbered you four times over. Two out of three of your team perish on the return to the village. You
narrowly escape with a broken arm, and a punctured lung, you think you hear the medics say
when you’re rushed into the village hospital.

It’s two days before you’re even able to sit up
without the room spinning. Three days until you can actually stomach food and
ignore the queasy swirl in your gut. Four days until Itachi returns to the
village. 

How he heard you were in the hospital, you’re
not sure. Perhaps Shisui. Perhaps your family, who had
spent most of the night tending to you until you shooed them away. You couldn’t
stand being pampered. Among all the dulling emotions that had so harassed you
over the past week, sympathy and pity were not welcome.

He’s much too relaxed as he enters your room.
You heard him before you saw him, just outside the door, giving a nurse your
name and thanking her when she directed him into the room. 

He momentarily pauses when he sees you, wide
awake, sitting up in bed, staring at him expectantly.

“_____.”

“Did you come back early?” The words spill from your mouth before you can even decide your stance on his arrival.

“Yes.” He drags the nearest chair to the side
of your bed and sits. 

You expect an explanation, but you don’t ask.
Itachi’s never been one to relay the details of his missions. Whether due to Anbu
confidentiality or a lack of interest to do so, you never quite knew.

Normally it would eat at you in an irritating
way, because you loved him and wanted to know everything and anything about him. He was that important to you. And you thought he held you in the same
light. But that steadfast faith is withering fast. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, exasperation
bordering your tone. “You should probably be working. I’d hate for this to be
an inconvenience for you.“

He closes his eyes and exhales slowly through
his nose, unimpressed by the acerbity, though not surprised. “I came to see
you, obviously.”

Itachi’s not normally one to lace sarcasm in
his words, but you can only imagine it’s a result of your own acerbity. Which
is fair, but no less frustrating.  

“I didn’t think I would be your priority.”

“I told you we would talk once I returned. And
here I am.”

Itachi definitely doesn’t appreciate your tone.
It’s obvious to him that whatever angst had been pestering your mind has
twisted into cruel irritation. Again, not entirely a surprise. 

“Want do you want to talk about, _______?” he
asks when you stretch the silence. 

You notice his eyes fight not to stray from
yours, but there’s one prolonged moment where his charcoal orbs graze down your
body, inspecting the bruises and cuts on your arms, regarding the other injuries
you’ve managed to accumulate.

But his façade betrays nothing. If he’s troubled
by the sight, he doesn’t show it. His expression remains stolid.

Then his eyes glide back to yours the moment you draw
a quiet breath.

It’s only meant as a delay, the words you wish
to speak lost in a mix of confusion and hesitance. You can’t decide where to
start.

“So much… There’s so much I want to talk about.
But…”

“Then you need to start somewhere.”

“…But it doesn’t matter anymore.”

His eyes scan you with harsh skepticism, maybe
a dash of annoyance. 

“Are you telling me that whatever troubled you has completely slipped your mind.”

“I’m telling you it doesn’t matter. Whatever I say won’t mean a thing, Itachi.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I just… I know you.”

But do you? You often wonder if anyone in this
world knows Itachi. If anyone can truly breach his guarded mind and know what exactly it means to be Itachi Uchiha. 

You
wish you did. If only to confirm or mend your suspicions as to how he feels
about you now. But over the course of these last strenuous
days, you’ve come to accept that you likely mean no more to Itachi than you did when you were just strangers. The surprising warmth Itachi once exposed as he confessed his feelings for you is nowhere to be found.

He doesn’t enjoy meandering around the point.
No matter how despairing. But he knows better than to pry or reprimand you for evading what you want to say. 

“And I know you,” he speaks. “You wouldn’t abandon something you
were once so adamant about. Adamant enough to come uninvited to my home—“

“Are you upset that I did that?” you ask him, a
forceful snap to your voice that makes your cheeks flush in heat. This isn’t an
audacity you recognize in yourself. It’s so easy to slip from the hold of calm
when he hurts you so much.

“No,” he speaks slowly. “I’m not.”

“Well… It doesn’t matter, just—no it doesn’t matter,
Itachi. But I do have one thing I need to say.”

He breaths in an air of poise, meant to prepare
him for whatever this will be. Because knowing you, it’s complicated.

Allowing you to collect your thoughts, he
remains silent. It does little for you, though. Nothing can quell the anguish splitting through you.

“I feel like this wouldn’t have been so
difficult had we talked about it that morning,” you begin, softer than he
anticipated. “But I’ve… had a lot of time to think.”

A lot of time. 

He’d hardly consider a few days a lot of time,
yet he knows it’s unfair of him to judge when this turmoil has been dangling
over you for weeks. He accepted that he would have to sit and listen to your
grievances when he returned, so he doesn’t open his mouth as you continue, focus only on the words that come so hesitantly from your lips.

“I think if we just let this go, it’ll be
easier… I’d rather end it now then have to rack my brain over it.”

You can’t even find the courage to look at him
as you say it. His charcoal eyes always stir a softness in you that you can’t
afford right now. Not if you want to find an end to your despair.

“It’s unlike you to drop a complaint so easily,”
he comments, regarding you curiously. “I already told you, we could discuss it.
There’s no need to forget the concern now. It will just surface later on—“

“I’m not talking about that, Itachi. I mean us.
We need to let go of us. We just need
to end this.”

He waits for more, but nothing comes. Is it perturbed
surprise that knits his brows ever so slightly? He honestly doesn’t know. But
yes he’s surprised. Incredibly surprised.

You’re normally incapable of condensing your concerns into
something so simple. It’s so odd of you to come to this quick resolution. And one as severe as this,
nonetheless.

It stirs a discomfort in his conscience, one so
uncharacteristic of his normally hollow demeanor. 

“Is that what you wanted to tell me all along,”
he speaks, less of a question, more of a cynical comment. “Or did you come
to this conclusion after you visited me.”

You try to pick at the meaning behind his
question. He’s certainly searching for an honest answer, but it’s almost
painful to give it.

“Well… after. But it’s like I said. Whatever I
wanted to tell you before is irrelevant. I know you, Itachi. It’s only going to
annoy you if I prattle on about problems that you probably can’t, or won’t fix.
This is what needs to be done.”

It’s a contrite answer, he can tell. No matter how
you avoid his eyes and no matter the sting of determination in your voice, you
regret the decision. 

So does he.

Yet, he equally respects it. Since your decision
is spurred by his own negligence, he knows he has little room to protest, no matter how much he wants to… but he still tries.

“And you think that’s the best solution?”

You glare at him, peeved that he would question your conviction when he’s done nothing thus far to make amends for his behavior. If he truly was opposed to the decision, why
isn’t he giving you definite resistance? Does he really care? Or is he just pulling
final confirmation from you? Final confirmation that he can finally gain reprieve from you and your constant cynicism. 

“Can you think of a better one?” you ask.

Yes. He can. But will it mean anything to you
when you’re so marred by frustration? Anything he can offer you will take a
rational, logical perspective. One that he already knows won’t reach you in the
forlorn, dedicated state that you’ve adopted.

“I think you need to calm down, first of all,”
he says.

Calm
down
?”

He should have expected that.

“How can I calm down, Itachi? You completely
brushed me off when I wanted to speak to you and now you wonder why I’ve given
up? After so many weeks of enduring this and knowing you probably don’t care at
all? Do you really expect me to be calm in that situation?!”

Your face feels warm, your throat feels tight, and your eyes sting with the threat of tears. You pray and fight to hold them in, but
the strength is lost to you.

He touches your arm gently, fingers pressing
into your soft skin to convey his intent, whatever it may be. It doesn’t soothe you, even if it is the most intimacy he’s shown you in what feels
like forever.

“I just wish you would talk to me, Itachi,” you
choke out, the sore constriction of your throat giving out as the first tear
spills down your lower lid. It’s almost terrifying how easily one of his simple touches can break you down.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Anything,”
you plea, voice breaking again. “Anything to let me know that you care
if you even do anymore. But I think I already know.”

He watches the tear glide down your cheek. He reaches
forward and wipes it away before the drop can fall off your jawline, but his
expression doesn’t change even when you flinch away from him. 

“Stop it,” you mutter helplessly. “Stop trying
to make this okay. It’s not. You can’t just ignore what I’m telling you.”

He merely blinks as he takes in your disposition.
So many emotions rush at his heart but he’s too callous to allow them in so
easily. It’s his curse. And you’re suffering because of it.

The silence eats at you. Every shred of your
being is telling you to scream at him. But you can’t. The fact he hasn’t said
anything rubs salt into the wounds of your heartache, but you suppose it’s not
entirely unlike him to remain stolid in the face of such sentimental
tension. 

“You might as well just leave,” you speak,
muted agony injected in every word. “It’s like you said. You have nothing to
say. What good is it going to do you to sit here and watch me like this?”

He exhales a punctuated breath, as if irritated
or exasperated. Likely both.

“____,
you just—“

Leave.”

The despairing authority of your tone says all
it needs to.

He could stay, ignore the obvious irritation
blinding you and persist with his attempt at a sound discussion. It would only
further your pain, he knows. And while he’s willing to stretch that limit in
favor of achieving a rational understanding, he knows it’s unlikely to reach
you at this point. His words will mean nothing. Not unless he gets on his knees and begs for forgiveness, which he will not do. He won’t apologize for focusing on his clan, and on his village. It’s his duty.

He cares about you. He still does. He always has. So he knows he can’t hurt you any longer.

He takes one long, concentrated look into your glossy eyes,
and finds that one of the fresh cuts sunk into his back seems unbearably painful
now.

“If that’s what you want, ______.”

It’s only when he says those words and you hear
the dull scrape of his chair as he stands that you look at him. Fearfully,
anxiously. Is he really about to do this? So easily? 

You regret telling him to leave. It had been spoken only out of a spiteful need to admonish him. You know it would be incredibly foolish and
naive of you to bring up another grievance just to keep him here with you. That
would do nothing to buoy your conviction. It would cater to the undying need to
keep him close to your heart, even at the cost of all the pain.

You watch him in suspended anxiety. He lifts
his arm and flexes the muscles that run through the limb, obvious pain etched
into his features. Immediately you want to open your mouth and inquire on his well-being. But you don’t. You have to force away the sentiment that once encouraged that.

He glances at you carefully. When your
eyes meet, your heart aches because you think that you see a sliver of the
Itachi you once knew in his dark spheres.

But the opportunity to investigate further is
gone when he walks away, and toward the door.

“I wish you a speedy recovery, _____. Stay in bed. Rest.” Then he’s gone.

It’s the most cordiality he’s offered in a
long time. A painfully long time. But it does nothing to quell the misery. It’s
merely a small mercy. Like a final breath of air before you start to drown.

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