Work Text:
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ Like the Stars ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
“I’m in love with you.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
Itachi sighs as he tugs at the hem of his yukata. He can see his mother’s smile in the mirror as she works, her deft fingers adjusting the knot of his obi—something she insists on doing, despite his resistance.
His stomach twists and his blood roars, but the thought of dinner makes it all the worse. He’s so anxious, and he knows it’s unwarranted, but he can’t fight the apprehension off this time. It swarms around him, nipping it’s impish threats at his fingertips, whispering it’s taunts in his ear, and no amount of fidgeting can keep him busy.
“Relax,” His mother says, moving to stand in front of him now. She starts combing aside the fringe of his hair, and Itachi can’t help but avert his gaze at the softness in her eyes. “You won’t do yourself any favors working yourself up, ‘Tachi-chan.”
His nose twitches at the familiar nickname, and perhaps his lips quirk into a hint of a frown because she laughs, pressing her thumb against the space between his brows teasingly. “Okaasan,” He frowns.
But Mikoto titters, skirting around him to pluck the haori from it’s hanger. “You look wonderful,” She says as she drapes the phoenix silk fabric over his shoulders. He accepts her help this time, slipping his arms into its sleeves and pulling the ends to his chest.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t be so scary, ‘Tachi-chan,” Mikoto laughs. She tucks a tin into the folds of his obi, tapping it for good measure, then takes his face into her hands. “You’ll do just fine.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
“I’ve loved you for so long, that I can’t recall when my feelings for you began.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
Shisui is his saving grace, Itachi thinks as he makes his way into the dining room. His older cousin chats animatedly with his father, painting the older man into a picture of ease that Itachi doesn’t see often. His presence alone wills the nervousness crawling along Itachi’s spine to draw back, until the little monster is nothing but an insect within his chest.
“Ah, Itachi!” Shisui grins. “There you are. We were wondering when you’d join us.”
Itachi bows his head before joining the two men at the table, his own more tentative smile creeping onto his lips as his father’s expression softens. “Sorry for keeping you waiting.”
“We were worried you lost your nerve.”
Sighing, Fugaku leans over to bat at the back of the curly haired Uchiha’s head. “Don’t tease him, Shisui.”
Shisui’s laugh is contagious, spilling out without care, coaxing a chuckle from the pit of Itachi’s belly without much effort. “Sorry,” He laughs, rubbing at the back of his neck, but his smile is sharp. “But I can’t resist, Ojisama. It’s not often Itachi-kun gets so flustered.”
Itachi’s hand finds the back of Shisui’s head without so much as a glance in his direction.
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
“But when I think of the word ‘love’ ...”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
The conversation dies down as the soft thump of approaching footsteps reach their ears. And once again, the nervousness ebbs at the back of Itachi’s neck.
A knee presses against his own—a silent assurance from Shisui, and a reminder to breathe.
The fusuma parts, revealing his younger brother who announces his presence with a tired, “Tadaima.”
“Okaerinasai!” From her place, Mikoto claps, positively glowing with joy as Sasuke steps to the side, revealing a head of blond spikes and rusty robes.
He deflates, his sagging shoulders mirroring the downturn of his lips, only for his dark eyes to flicker back up at the sound of padding feet. “Baka! Don’t just barge in like that!”
Naruto sputters as a hand slams into his face, forcing his head back and his body to the side to make room for rose petals and violet silk.
“S-sorry, Sakura-chan!”
And once again, Itachi feels as if he’s forgotten how to breathe.
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
“ I think of that night, when we wrote our wishes in the garden. Do you remember? You spilled ink on your kimono and my mother lent you one of her own.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
It’s winter.
The skies are dark, as blue as his yukata and as tenebrous as his hair; while the trees are barren, their knobbed branches providing the perfect resting places for the strips of paper in his hands. He’s scrawling his dreams onto those scraps of paper, the bridge of his nose pink from the touch of winter and the teasing breath of intoxication, while Shisui rattles on about his wish.
“What did you wish for?” Shisui asks after a while.
“You’re not supposed to talk about them,” Itachi says, although the scold in his voice is crumpled and bleeds with mirth. “Otherwise they won’t come true.”
Shisui hums in response, his lips pursing slightly but otherwise unfazed by the faux reprimand. “Since when did you get so superstitious?”
Itachi doesn’t respond, instead sweeping his gaze about the courtyard. Wishes are sprinkled all over the compound, swaying from empty branches and from the corners of neighboring homes, while prayers emblazoned the tops of windows and lanterns throw crimson shadows against the contrasting snow. His mother sits beautifully amongst the peonies, her fingers plucking at the shamisen his father made and lips humming her winter song, while his father and his guests warm themselves with hot sake.
There’s a gasp, or rather, a shriek, followed by the shattering of porcelain and the muttered cursing of his younger brother. The courtyard fills with the worried cooing of his clanswomen, who rush about with withdrawn cloths and nimble hands; Itachi frowns, instinctually moving towards the epicenter of this hurricane to find a distraught rosette.
She’s frustrated and teary eyed, her voice pitched with her mood as Sasuke gently dabs at the dark blot that splatters against the plum blossoms embroidered into her kimono. There’s a fallen inkstone and a dropped brush, black ink splashed across the engawa and against the snow. And perhaps it’s the alcohol waxing poetry in his ear, but Itachi can’t help but notice the way the colors make her glow.
“I’m sorry,” She says, bowing to the women reaching for her. But he knows his clanswomen—they’ll stop at nothing to rectify the problem. They’re kind like that.
“Oh, Sakura-chan,” He hears his mother coo. She’s at the younger woman’s side within moments, examining the stain with the kind of care that only she could. “Come, let’s get that cleaned before it sets.”
But Sakura bows again. “It’s fine! I’m sorry for ruining your flooring!”
“Don’t worry about the flooring,” His mother huffs, her free hand waving the fumbled words away. “Let’s get you changed.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
“And you were so beautiful, that I had to run away, or else I’d make a fool of myself, confessing to you.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
She’s gorgeous.
She’s beautiful, and dazzling and every flowery term for pretty that ever existed, but still, every description of the woman he sees now is a gross misunderstatement.
And Itachi has never thought of himself as particularly poetically inclined — its Shisui who’s best at romanticizing wordplay — but to say Sakura is pretty, would be as bland as saying the sun is yellow — sufficient, but not accurate enough to capture its burn.
Because it’s the way the peach undertones of her skin flush when she’s bitten by the season’s teeth, that makes her pretty. It’s the way the fallen snowflakes weave into and clash with her rosy hair that make her beautiful. It’s the way the glass petals of her higanbana kanzashi catch the nearby flames that make her gorgeous. It’s the way those malachite eyes spark like the belly of a wildfire when she smiles, that makes her dazzling.
And it’s the way the rich navy of his mother’s kimono claims its love of her—how it bathes her and drips into the snowy backdrop with wispy whites and indigo streaks, and how the spider lilies bloom from the hem like the laugh in her throat—that make her resplendent.
“Ah, I recognize that kimono,” Fugaku muses, and Itachi can already hear the amusement tainting his tone. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen it.”
“Doesn’t Sakura-chan look gorgeous?” His mother asks, tapping at the kanzashi in the rosette’s hair. Sakura blushes, laughing and waving a hand to dismiss the older woman’s teasing, while one hand hides her face. Mikoto laughs some more, twirling the girl around to reveal the Uchiha crest emblazoned on the back. “Doesn’t she look just like me?”
“Mikoto-sama! Please don’t joke around!”
“Ah don’t be so embarrassed, Sakura-chan. Uchiha colors suit you,” Shisui teases, and Itachi feels himself shifting with discomfort. “Don’t you think, Itachi?”
He doesn’t respond to Shisui as he rushes from the courtyard, not even as his cousin calls out, “Wait! Where are you going?”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
“Because I love the way that shade of blue looks when it’s on you.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
Shisui had told him the sake was mild, that it was meant to buzz and not to plaster, but if that were true, why does Itachi feel like he’s falling?
He feels so warm, as if his blood has ignited with fire in his veins and his chest in particular burns. He’s felt the smolder of his affection for a while now—but this is the first time he’s really ever really acknowledged it.
So it has to be the alcohol, Itachi decides, when he feels his heartbeat stutter, when the butterflies in his chest morph into lions and the flames in his chest rage.
It has to be the alcohol, because he’s seen his brother’s friend thousands of times in twelve years, in millions of colors and billions of shades.
But none of them stole his breath the way this shade of blue did.
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
“But also, when I think about ‘love’ , I think of the way you smile when you’ve accomplished the impossible.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
The first thing Itachi sees when he wakes up is his brother.
Sasuke is sitting on the windowsill, a book in hand and a leg propped up. The sky behind him is ruddy with late afternoon, the dappling sunlight casting a warm glow that highlights the rare softness in his cheeks. When was the last time he’s seen such serenity on his brother’s face?
Itachi can’t recall.
“Sasuke?”
His throat itches, his voice unrecognizable to even himself, but Sasuke hears him anyway. He shuts his book and lets it dangle from his fingers. “Niisan,” He greets, nodding. “How are you feeling?”
Like Hell, he wants to say, but he forgoes honesty. “I’m fine.”
Sasuke grunts, his head dropping back to rest against the rim of the window. “Okaachan is with Sakura now. She’ll be back soon.” Itachi nods, but doesn’t say anything. His head aches, swarming with a murky recollection that feels incomplete. He tries to piece together fragments — a searing pain to his side, the feeling of blood in his lungs, an explosion directly beneath him.
“She worked her ass off, you know.” There’s a bite to Sasuke’s tone now, the kind reserved for moments of possessive anger. And it’s mirrored in his glare. “Sakura — she tapped into her seal. Worked on you for a whole day and a half before you were stable enough for her to take a break. You died on her table four times — and not completely because of your injuries.”
Dread seeps deep into Itachi’s bones at the iciness that overtakes his brother’s hiss. But he refuses to look down — not now, when Sasuke’s eyes shine with the first hint of tears. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Sorry?” Sasuke gets up, stalking towards the bed and dropping his book without care. “You died and you were reckless — ”
“Sasuke — ”
“And you lied to us! You were sick and you didn’t tell anyone ! You didn’t tell me !”
Itachi flinches, both from the sting of his injuries and from the crack in Sasuke’s voice. He’s never been one to appreciate vulnerability, to accept the slightest hint of weakness. Yet, here is his baby brother, furiously wiping at the falling tears before they get past his lashes. His Sharingan sparkles, flickering and darkening as he bears his heart — and perhaps that hurts Itachi more than anything else.
“How long...how long have you been hiding this sickness from us?”
The door opens, and while a majority of the tense atmosphere dissipates, residual flecks linger. Sasuke goes back to the window, snatching his book and flipping to the dog-eared page. Itachi looks down at his hands, tracing the paths of bandaging winding around each finger, before finally looking up at his mother.
But she isn’t alone.
Sakura is looking at him, her lips pursed and her brow furrowed, looking almost like his mother now. He fights the urge to look away, because he really hates the way disappointment looks on her — on both of them, actually.
“Sasuke-kun,” The Hokage’s apprentice begins, coming to stand beside the bed. “You shouldn’t be antagonizing the patient. Stressing him out will only make things worse.”
Sasuke sucks at his teeth, making a wet clicking noise that makes his distaste clear, but he keeps his nose buried in his book, if not to hide his angry blush. Sakura tsks, but doesn’t address his brother again, focusing instead on him. She gently presses her fingers against his arm, viridian eyes tracking the twitching of his muscles and the miniscule traces of agony.
“How are you feeling?” His mother asks, coming to sit at his side. Her fingertips are feather-light against his cheek, cradling him with a concerned smile, as if scared to touch him.
He considers repeating his, “I’m fine,” but the subtle glance Sasuke gives him makes him reconsider. “My head,” He begins. “It hurts. And my chest…”
Warmth spreads through Itachi then, pooling especially at his chest. It’s comforting, this heat, and as it seeps further into his skin, the itching pain lessens bit by bit. It’s almost addictive, how wonderful it feels, how the blooming breath of chakra soothes his tense muscles. Although, he doesn’t appreciate the way his heart races.
“Do you remember anything, Itachi-san?” Sakura asks after a moment.
“No,” He admits.
Sakura hums, her free hand now hovering over the back of his head. He feels warm there too, now. “You were caught in an ambush on your mission to Iwa. One of your attackers, he’s the Tsuchikage’s apprentice. He has this technique that lets him create explosives out of clay.” He tracks the way she looks him over, how her brows furrow and her cheek twitches, her body language making him wonder if it’s out of anger that her voice tightens. “You didn’t notice them, surrounding you.”
He frowns. Impossible.
“You were in pain,” Sakura continues, and the comforting heat leaves him all too soon. “I can only assume what happened, based on the recounts of your team, but you were coughing blood. Genma saw you wiping it away. And when I heard that you— that you, and Genma and Hayate were coming back from your mission early, with multiple severe injuries, and that you weren’t conscious — how do you think I felt when I went to operate and found,” She pauses, her lips parting but shutting, as if she were struggling with her words. And suddenly, the guilt smashes into him, shocking him as abruptly as a splash of cold water. “The cells along your chakra network were infected. Decaying. As a result, you end up needing to use more chakra to perform jutsu, and the strain it put on your body left your immune system defenseless. You were on Death’s door, Itachi.”
His mother sniffles, so out of instinct, Itachi reaches for her hand. He squeezes it, hoping the swiping of his thumb on her knuckles soothes her. He wants to apologize, to Sakura and his mother and Sasuke, his teammates, and even his father. But he can’t find the words.
“But I did it.”
His gaze snaps up, searching watery emeralds for any bit of deceit. But he doesn’t find any. Instead, he finds a spark. Joy and satisfaction and pride color the shadows of her irises, brightening the earthy hue with morning light. And despite the brightness, Itachi finds himself lost.
She’s smiling—no, grinning now, and the tears in her eyes shine in the most glorious of ways. “Everyone said it was impossible, that you were untreatable. But I did it.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
“How your eyes soften when children ask you to play.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
“I’m just saying, Itachi, that this vacation will be good for you!”
Itachi sighs, sitting back on his palms and tilting his head back. His neck cracks as he rolls it, each individual crick popping from the nape of his skull to the base of his spine. It’s been weeks since his discharge, and since then he’s been prescribed more rest than he can bear. He can’t so much as pick up a kunai for polishing without being scolded by his mother. And frankly, it’s boring.
But he still feels guilty, so he puts up with her insistent mothering and her constant fussing even if it makes him want to scratch at his skin.
“You’ll be back on the roster before you know it,” Shisui assures, patting at his shoulder. “Sakura-chan is the best doctor you could ask for. She might even surpass Lady Tsunade at the rate she’s going.”
At the mention of his pink haired doctor, Itachi adverts his gaze, turning to watch the youngest of his clansmen run amok. They kick up dust as they wrestle around, dirtying their clothing and dischveling their hair, but their laughter peals, reverberating through the streets. “You have high faith in her.”
He doesn’t miss the pinkess in Shisui’s cheeks, or the way the older Uchiha suddenly finds his fingernails much more interesting. “Don’t act like you don’t. Sakura-chan has always been my favorite out of Sasuke’s friends.” He leans back, mirroring Itachi’s position. “She’s passionate, and you didn’t see her that day. She had this look on her face, like she had collected all the determination in her and wore it like war paint. There was no doubt in my mind that she’d save you.”
Itachi doesn’t respond, thinking back to what Sasuke had said at the hospital. He had died multiple times. Died. And Sakura pulled him back from the Gods’ hands. And she pulled the incurable sickness within him by force.
The laughter of the children morph into excited screams, forcing both Itachi and Shisui to straighten and focus on them. The kids run, shoving each other aside in their haste to greet the two figures coming from around the corner, and suddenly, Itachi finds his chest tightening.
“Sakura-chan!”
“Sakura-senpai!”
“Oneechan!”
He watches as Sakura, accompanied by Naruto, tries to navigate their way through the little mischief of Uchiha. She’s laughing, patting at dark-haired heads and greeting each kid by name. Distantly, he hears Naruto grumble, “I’m here too, ya’know!”
“Can you play with us?” A little girl pleads, her hands clasped together in askance.
“Yeah, please?” A boy adds. “We’re playing Hana Ichi Monme!”
Sakura laughs, and the sound stirs something in Itachi’s belly. “You look like you were wrestling, not playing Hana Ichi Monme.” But then she looks at Naruto, who’s got a grin settled upon his features. “But, if we’re gonna be playing, then,” She ducks down, whispering something to the kids, and almost immediately, they cheer and sprint over towards him and Shisui.
“Itachi nii-sama!”
“Shisui-nii!”
“Will you come play with us?”
Itachi chuckles as he lifts one cousin, Kasumi, into his lap. “Please! Sakura-nee said she’ll play if you play, too!”
Beside him, Shisui laughs, standing as he throws another cousin, Reichi, into the air whilst little Koishi climbs him like the monkey that he is. “Using us as bargaining chips, Sakura-chan?” Shisui yells out. “That’s awfully sinister, even for you!”
Sakura snorts. “You better be nicer to me, Shisui. I haven’t picked my team yet!”
“But Oneechan, you always pick Itachi nii-sama.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
“How you can tear the world apart with just your fingers.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
They had been traveling for hours.
They’re tired and hungry, and there’s a blade in his side but he doesn’t care. He can’t, not when some bastards from Kirigakure are hot on their trail.
The mission, as cliche as it is, was supposed to be simple. They were just meant to deliver a series of scrolls to Sunagakure and head back, but along the way, a gang of Kiri-nin intercepted them, wanting to test their luck against “Konoha’s Best”. They were young kids, perhaps his brother’s age, and normally wouldn’t post much of a threat.
But one of them apparently knows how to use Kirigakure’s infamous Kirisame technique, and two of them are Hozuki, with a rare kekkei genkai that allowed them to turn into water, making most of his attacks of little use. And he’s on strict orders—”Don’t even think about using your Sharingan or any other strenuous jutsu, otherwise I’ll make sure you won’t be taking on anything more than Genin missions for the rest of this year.”—so his options are limited.
“These kids are persistent,” His temporary teammate, Izumo, grunts, shifting mid-jump to avoid a pitched kunai. “I’ll give ‘em that.”
Kotetsu huffs, catching another kunai and tossing it back. “Genma owes us, big time.”
Itachi makes to speak, but before he can even summon a hum to his throat, a large, black lion bounds past them. He hears the curses, and sounds of battle roaring behind him, prompting him to skid to a stop at the next branch. Black lightning flickers past him, a Sharingan blazing, and the wind grows wild as it circles into a familiar palm.
“Hope you left some fight for us,” Naruto laughs, disappearing almost instantly.
“You three get back home.” Sakura emerges from the trees. She tugs her gloves onto her slim, deceptively small hands, blowing at the hair that falls into her face. The wildfire in her eyes is alive, blazing brighter than ever, and she looks ethereal. The seal above her brow glows, demanding to be let loose but the markings don’t stretch further than below her eyes. She gives him a smile. “We’ve got this handed from here.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
“I’ve never been good at showing my feelings, but being in love with you comes to me as naturally as breathing.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
“Sakura-san?”
He can feel everybody’s eyes on him, their weight tugging down on the one thread of confidence he has left. But it’s her gaze that steadies him, pulling him back from the insecure ledge of his mind.
Her head cants with curiosity, irises sparkling as they catch the light, and she smiles. “Yes, Itachi-san?”
He clears his throat, purposely avoiding the pleased glint in his family’s eyes with a bow. He can feel his mother’s excitement squeezing at his hand, and Shisui’s confidence thrumming in his bones, Sasuke’s amusement licking at his ears. And those all combined make his father’s joy unbearably too much to handle.
“Would you like to go for a walk?”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
“The way you look at me makes me feel strong, confident—complete.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
The encroaching evening is calm as the scarlets of the summer sky dwindle into galactic indigos. And the breeze is scented with the infamous cinnamon-like spice native to Konoha.
It’s reassuring, grounding even, as Itachi silently stumbles over his words like a boy at the academy. How humiliating it is, to be renowned for his tact and his grace in sensitive matters, to be feared across nations like Death himself, and to still find himself so tongue tied that he may as well choke himself with his tongue.
But Sakura doesn’t comment on his unease.
She just walks along beside him. Her expression is lax, serene like the still pond beneath them, but Itachi can see her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her yukata. “It’s a beautiful night,” She says, after a few minutes have passed.
Itachi hums. “It is. And you enjoyed dinner?”
She grins. “Of course! Mikoto-sama’s cooking is a wonder. There’s nothing—and don’t tell my Okaachan this—but there’s nothing better than Mikoto-sama’s gyoza.”
Feeling the anxiety dither, Itachi lets out a soft chuckle. “Aa, Okaasan’s dumplings are certainly one of my more favored dishes. Unfortunately, I hate to admit that I can never make them as pretty as her’s.”
Sakura’s gaze snaps to him, her expression morphing into one of faux surprise—complete with the wide eyes and a hand to her lips. “Oh? The Great Uchiha Itachi can’t make perfect dumplings? Impossible!”
His lips quirk at her teasing, snipping away the last of his apprehension in one swift movement. “It’s true,” He teases. “The leaf pattern in particular is the most difficult. Okaasan would always tease me about how lopsided they’d come out.”
There’s a twinkle in her eye that makes his heartbeat stutter. “I bet those ones always tasted the best.”
Itachi huffs. “Sasuke would say otherwise.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
“But the weight of your gaze scares me, too. Because I feel weak and out of control.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
For a long while, they stand in silence.
It’s not the awkward type, or a forced type. It’s calm. Tranquil. Easy.
They stand outside beneath the stars and enjoy one another’s company in the most simplistic of ways. The koi swirl about in their watery reflections, their flicking tails making their images waver. In the background, cicadas preen and wind chimes toll, a shishi-odoshi clunks under running water. They can even hear laughter from the rest of their party, despite being so far from the main house.
“Itachi-san?” There’s an accusation in her voice. Nothing terribly harsh or rough, but stern enough to make the Uchiha startle. “Was there something you wanted to say to me? I know you—stalling behind silence isn’t your usual tactic.”
He wills himself to face her, exhaling slowly. And of course, she’s facing him completely. She doesn’t look upset, like this was all just a waste of her time. If anything, she looks confused, maybe a little shy, if he looks deeply enough. But he doesn’t think about that.
And so he nods, and pulls out the envelope that weighed down his obi for the entirety of the night. He thrusts it forward, hiding the redness in his cheeks with a bow meant only for his equal .
“Forgive me,” He says, when a confused sound leaves Sakura’s throat. “I am a coward. The things I want to say to you, I can’t. So please, read this.”
And he waits, willing his hands to cease their shaking, even as he feels the patterned parchment leave his fingers.
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
“And I want nothing more than to make you feel even a fraction of what I do. If you’ll have me.”
＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊