Chapter 1: A Walk To Remember
Chapter Text
Chapter I
A Walk To Remember
The scent of antiseptic still clung to her dry, callused skin.
Sakura twisted her bracelet off, letting it clink gently into the porcelain sink as the water poured over her hands. The silver piece shone under the fluorescent lights as the engraving "Intertwined" read clearly—a gift from Ino, who blindly believed in astrology and things of that sort.
She retrieved the band back, her hands trembling faintly in the process. Leaving lab after class would shake her for the rest of the day. Sakura credited it to the relentless pressure for success—one failed test, one oversight in diagnostics, and it could all turn into madness.
Her focus shifted to the flow of the water, seeking to brush off the strain of the last few weeks. Tonight, for once, she wasn't going to allow school to torment her—she was letting herself breathe.
She wiped her hands on her pants and reached for her tote, retrieving a mini moisturizing cream and perfume, applying some of each to her skin as she didn't want to hear more of Ino's endless complaints about her lack of self-care.
Sakura cast a final glance at the mirror, running her fingers through her pink strands, smoothing away the frizz from the day. Perhaps not good enough for her friend's standards, but it would have to do.
Loud and excited chatter bounced through the hallways inside Emory's Medical Education building. Students milled around, bantering between lectures, and it brought the foyer back to life, despite the tension underlying the shenanigans of the frenetic undergraduate routine. Some of them glimpsed at her—most waved or acknowledged her with a quick nod, while others dedicated themselves to staring, clearly weirded out—probably freshmen who found her unusual hair color distracting—too bold and unconventional for a prospective medical professional.
Outside the campus, Atlanta's late-afternoon light poured across the sidewalks around Emory like honey, thick and golden, warming every red brick in sight. She squinted against it, tugging her hoodie up as a shield from the heat, immediately regretting having agreed to the plans for the evening. Yet she dismissed the thought—besides, Ino would yell if she bailed again.
Her phone buzzed twice, nudging against her hip. She fished it out without missing a step.
[IY]
We're already here. Don't be late, Haruno. I'll throw the escale over your head if I eat just one gram of sugar.
[SN]
Naruto's already driving us insane, we need some back up… and smacks.
Sakura smiled, the first real one she'd worn all day. She shoved her phone into her bag, the soles of her shoes tapping quicker against the pavement—it wouldn't be a long walk from campus—nine minutes approximately.
She advanced, quickening her pace.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Sakura hurried through the Rollins building until the sight of big, bright blue letters entered her view—Dancing Goats, an in-school coffee shop, and their favorite meetup spot. She spotted Ino, Naruto, and Shikamaru sitting at a table away from the bar. Knowing she was running late, Sakura darted to the cashier to order her food before they closed for their evening shift.
"I'm sorry," she said between pants, "I know you guys are closing in a few minu—"
"Sakura!" A young, brunette barista emerged—Avory. "Don't worry! You want your usual?"
She smiled and nodded, pleased to see a familiar face.
"I'll take it to your table once it's ready—Devon'll check you out." Avory moved away, focusing on the blender and oven to prepare her food.
A less thrilled, poker-faced Devon met her from the other side of the counter, clicking dramatically on the screen. "Spinach and cheddar quiche, and a strawberry-banana smoothie?"
"Yes, please."
"Eighteen dollars," he said flatly.
"Okay..." She extended her phone to the screen in front of her until the mobile payment confirmation bell rang out. Feeling guilty about the late order, she left a generous tip, but Devon's blue eyes judged her fiercely, making her retreat to the table where her friends awaited.
"Damn," Ino began as she approached, "I'm not gonna even bother pestering you. That guy already did all the work for me."
Sakura took a seat between Naruto and Shikamaru. "You act as if I want to be late. It's not my fault Duncan preaches longer than necessary."
"Don't mention it." Ino raised her hand to stop her from continuing. "I still have nightmares about his classes and how he almost made me quit altogether."
She glanced down at what they had ordered and noticed Naruto drinking coffee.
"Isn't it too late for that?" Sakura pointed at his drink. "Who let him order it?"
Naruto was hyper-energetic, naturally, and caffeine just made it worse. The last thing she wanted was to hear from his parents complaining about his lack of sleep again.
"He got here before I could stop him," Shikamaru replied dryly, sipping from his own cup, utterly dismissive. "I think he flirted with the barista. He didn't pay a dime for it."
Sakura and Ino opened their mouths, exaggerating their surprise.
"You hit on Devon? I didn't know you swung both ways, Naruto." Ino cooed, already halfway through her blueberry muffin.
"I gave her a flower! H-E-R—Her!" Naruto defended, cheeks flushed with indignation. "And it wasn't flirting. I was just being polite. The poor girl seemed to have had a bad day."
"At least we know he can spell three-letter words," Shikamaru snarked.
Ino choked at the comment, almost spilling her drink in the process, while Sakura hid her chuckle behind her hand. Not long after, Avory brought her order to the table, blushing furiously as she set down Sakura's food and made eye contact with Naruto.
"Seems like we'll have free coffee until we graduate—thank you, Naruto," Sakura joked, and her friends' shoulders shook as they restrained their laughter—all except for the Naruto, who pouted at her teasing.
The banter flowed easy, and familiar. Serenity wrapped around her like the scent of roasted beans and warm quiche, making her feel alive. She didn't realize how much she'd needed this—authenticity, home.
They talked about professors and upcoming exams, gossip and rumors, and the lack thereof. Emory was infamous for being incredibly boring and antisocial, too tranquil for their taste. Ino’d complain periodically about how much she regretted her choice of medical imaging and pondered the idea of quitting to pursue her spiritual interests.
"I swear to God, one day I'll disappear, and you'll find me in Little Five Points—a full-blown tarot reader."
"Good luck explaining that to your dad," Shikamaru shot back.
They'd all met years ago at the Japanese church they'd attended weekly with their parents—reluctantly—and had clicked instantly, creating a chaotic foursome their parents came to regret encouraging. Bonded and inseparable, they'd agreed to stay in Atlanta, or at least close enough to visit each other, determined not to break their bond, promising they'd grow old together.
Sakura fidgeted with her bracelet, gazing down at it. Whenever she felt lost or off course, she'd look at it, searching for its comforting message.
Perhaps Ino was right, and they'd been woven together to survive life alongside each other, to fight and conquer the endless challenges that would come their way. Maybe they'd been destined to grow and thrive together, intertwined.
Whatever had tied their fates together, she'd be eternally grateful.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
"I'm telling you—she was having some kind of affair with Bowden. Have you seen those two interacting? There's definitely some sexual tension there," Ino declared.
"You see sexual tension everywhere. I think your dry spell's making you delusional," Shikamaru countered. "You've got a remarkable talent for creating fanfiction out of literally anyone—weren't you shipping Sakura and Naruto at some point?"
She grimaced at the mention of Ino's old and ridiculous conjecture. It had tormented her for months a few years ago.
Ino raised her hands, surrendering. "Not my proudest moment, I know. But, to be fair, my hormones were all over the place back then."
"They've always been," Sakura muttered under her breath, but it didn't pass unnoticed, earning her a smack from Ino.
The concrete sidewalk stretched before them as they walked down Clifton Road, back to their dorms at The Complex. The bustle of evening traffic faded behind them, becoming a distant hum from cars carrying people home after a long day.
Other students strolled around them, their small group blending naturally into the larger flow of foot traffic; their bickering mixed with the surrounding chatter, echoing off the stately, pastel-washed buildings that stood tall throughout the Emory campus. The warm glow of lampposts and dorm windows guided them, standing sentinel against the encroaching darkness of the evening.
The group reached their usual stop; they had to cross to the opposite side of the street. When the green, flashing pedestrian light appeared, they stepped into the crosswalk, still conversing enthusiastically. Sakura turned to laugh and respond to something Naruto had said.
"Shut up, dork!" She called out as she stepped into the street first, her feet finding the white stripes beneath her, following muscle memory.
The faint smell of burnt rubber drifted through the air.
They were halfway across when the screech of tires against asphalt pierced her ears, and a blazing light blinded her from the corner of her vision, racing directly toward her.
Suddenly, she was engulfed in paralyzing darkness.
Screams followed. Someone cried her name, while others shouted nearby. A man barked orders and directions frantically, probably to a 911 dispatcher.
"Sakura," Shikamaru's deep voice called as a hand gently patted her left cheek, "stay awake, please."
"Get back!" Ino snapped from somewhere nearby, "Stop hovering—make space for the ambulance!"
Sakura tried to force words out, but crushing pain drove her against the cold, rough surface beneath her. Her body ached all over, crying out for relief from the stinging agony. The wail of sirens approached, and blue and red lights flickered through the narrow gap between her lids, soothing her anxiety—help was coming.
Boots approached, and gloved hands started working on her. Clinical, unfazed voices tried to reach her, but nothing would come out. Her brain urged her to surrender to the overwhelming stress, throbbing in her temples.
Then, everything slowly shut off, submerging her into complete nothingness.
Chapter 2: Interlude
Notes:
If you'd like to immerse further, I've created a playlist for this fic.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0tdkOZSTrBM10H3kTlDJXf?si=f54c55f9d0ee4d34
Enjoy!
Chapter Text
Chapter II
Interlude
Her body moved of its own accord, a foreign force controlling her movements.
She could not speak, halt, or do anything of her own volition. Her legs ran at inhuman speed, feet stomping on branches and climbing over tall, towering trees that blocked her path. Her chest heaved, lungs demanding air from the ruthless rhythm of her pace, yet something prevented her from stopping.
Sakura had no collection of ever being in such a place: an evergreen, endless woodland that looped in a pattern, repetitive and puzzling. Whoever—or whatever—possessed her body now seemed to have a clear goal, some idea of where it was taking them.
She tried to move her head, to observe her surroundings, but it refused her command. All she could see were her hands, gloved in black, and a brief glimpse of open-toed dark boots as they moved in tempo with her sprint. A sense of urgency, panic, and helplessness flooded her, spiking her anxiety and frustration further. The lack of context was driving her to the edge. She needed to understand what was happening.
Was she fleeing from something—someone?
Where was she heading?
Where the hell was she?
Sakura shifted her focus, approaching the situation from another angle: sensations, cataloging the differences between herself and this entity she now inhabited.
Her hair brushed against her shoulder—shorter than she'd normally worn it. Some kind of pouch scraped against her hip and right thigh, its tight fastenings rubbing against them with an uncomfortable, unfamiliar pressure.
The faint, occasional clank of metal objects colliding added another layer to her unease—was she carrying weapons or some sort of tools?
She wore something on her head, too. The accessory dug into her scalp, a dull, constant tension that throbbed at the base of her skull—a headband, perhaps.
Suddenly, a wave of vibration shook beneath her feet, completely dragging her out of her analysis. Tree branches and leaves began to tremble around her. The girl dropped into a fighting stance while trying to maintain balance on the branch she had landed on.
Crows cawed and flew violently in the opposite direction she was heading, and the sky above darkened ominously, erasing any trace of the sun that had warmed her moments ago. In the distance, a whirlwind of clouds accumulated at a single point, and numerous bolts of lightning descended from it, hitting the ground repeatedly, mercilessly.
When she thought it couldn't get more surreal, an enormous, lion-shaped monster materialized out of the lightning, diving down rapidly, blinding her with a blazing curtain of white radiance once it struck its target.
What the fuck?
A few seconds passed, and an eerie silence ensued, before the gray clouds scattered, vanishing and letting the warm sun peek through.
Is that even possible? Did I miss something in biology class? Maybe it was the quiche I ate—Devon must've spit on it.
An explosion followed, originating from the same place. A gigantic mushroom of dust rose into the air. She squinted to study it, and as the dirt dissipated, two hideous, gigantic creatures emerged—a multi-headed white snake and a massive red humanoid figure.
"No..." the girl muttered, in a language that sounded like Japanese. A tone bizarrely similar to her own. Her feet moved again, continuing the desperate urgency of her flight.
Girl! Are you insane? Why the fuck are you taking us there? Don't you have any survival instincts?
Sakura tried to force her body to turn around and escape, to no avail. She was growing more exasperated with every second that passed. Her eyes burned, and her cheeks felt wet—tears had begun to stream down her face, mixing with drops of sweat.
She tried to remember if she'd ever seen this moment in any movie or show she'd watched, as déjà vu pierced through her, sharp and disorienting. She considered the possibility that the dream had been triggered by something her friends had shown her before.
The glimpse of an exit appeared between a few more trees, and she dashed. Once she reached the last branch, she abruptly launched herself to the ground, landing with natural, swift prowess, not missing a beat. She saw the creatures again, and watched as the red titan began to battle the other, cutting its heads one by one—a majestic yet grotesque sight. They loomed larger with every step, confirming she was closing in on her destination.
Then, they both faded—the snake, its heads severed, perished, and the giant disappeared into thin air.
The scent of scorched stone and smoke stung her nostrils. Boots skidded across gravel, nearly slipping as she staggered to a halt atop the shattered ridge. Below her, remnants of a building lay crumbled, unrecognizable. The space felt heavy and overwhelming, as if some kind of energy lingered in the air. Her chest rose and fell, ribs aching, no longer distinguishing truth from the aching sob that clawed its way up her throat.
Dear Lord...
Her limbs moved without her permission, once more.
Two figures lay at the heart of the ruin. A young, black-haired man stood—barely—shaking and shirtless, soaked in blood and dirt; the other had collapsed on the ground, at his feet, motionless.
"No—"
She stumbled forward to the lifeless body; fragments of tile crunched underneath her. The standing man's head rose, and crimson-red eyes met hers beneath his lashes, threatening and scornful.
"What are you doing here?" His deep voice pierced her ears, restrained but familiar.
The girl ignored him, her gaze fixed on the other man. She moved closer to the figure on the ground.
One look at him, and her legs faltered, knees hit the rubble. Dull, dark eyes stared into the sky; a smile curved his narrow lips, though fresh, thick blood stained the corners of his mouth. She hovered over him, trembling with shock. What had once been vibrant, striking, and beautiful was now pale and smudged with filth. His long, raven hair scattered around him, regal and sublime.
"Itachi...?" she called.
Something ancient ignited within her—despair, helplessness.
Itachi?
She gripped Itachi's shirt. Demoralized and helpless, she shook him back and forth, hoping he'd wake. His body was heavy under her grasp, too still.
Dead.
"No—no, no, no—please," she pleaded, scrambling on top of him, clinging to the useless hope he'd answer.
She scanned over him frantically; a warm, green glow emanated from her palms. "Not yet—I just got here! There must be something—"
"Sakura," the man called her again, his voice impatient, drained.
"Please," she choked, lowering her forehead to his, tears seeping from her lashes. "Itachi, please!"
Her cheek nuzzled his, coating her skin with mud and blood. The metallic taste invaded her nostrils, yet she didn't care. "Don't do this to me," she whispered against his skin.
Footsteps approached, and a loud thud, followed by rustling, snapped her back to reality. She turned sharply, arms shielding Itachi fiercely from anyone who dared approach.
Two men now towered over her, poised and unreadable. One of them cradled the raven-haired boy who had spoken to her earlier, unconscious. Half his body was green, the other white, his form deformed into a cactus-like shape that encased his head. Twisted. Unnatural.
The man beside him wore a spiral-patterned orange mask, a single hole revealing a gleaming red, menacing eye—the same one she'd seen before. Both were clothed in black, red-cloud-stamped cloaks.
Though she didn't recognize them, her body tensed instinctively, screaming that their presence meant trouble.
"Haruno." The masked man's voice sliced through the air. "Move."
Slowly, Sakura shifted, crawling over Itachi, her legs straddling his sides as she straightened into a defensive crouch, unwilling to abandon the source of her suffering. Her fists clenched, and the same green light pulsed to life again—wild, furious, blazing with defiance.
"Make me."
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
She shot upright, gasping desperately for air.
"Itachi—!" She cried, but her voice was raspy and hoarse.
A cough tore through her chest. Her throat felt raw and dry. She reached for her neck, only to notice a heavy cast encased her right arm. The other twitched in discomfort—an IV line pierced the skin, the tubing cold and unyielding.
Blinking rapidly, she tried to adjust to the brightness in the room. The claustrophobic mix of fluorescent lights, the scent of disinfectant, and constant beeping almost made her gag.
Sakura glanced down at her cast again. Messages decorated the white shield—short notes and signatures scattered among small drawings of cherry blossom flowers and hearts. Among the notes, she could identify her friends' handwriting.
"What happened...?"
Sakura scanned her surroundings, searching for answers. She flinched when she spotted a figure lying motionless on the sofa but quickly relaxed as she recognized the woman—her mother, Mebuki. She was asleep, sprawled across the furniture.
Flowers and balloons decorated a table nearby; most of the balloons displayed phrases such as "Get well soon!" and "Speedy recovery."
Her eyes found a digital clock—10:00 P.M.
She sat up in bed, trying to piece together whatever she could recall, cataloging each detail silently—Thursday. Lab class day. Dancing Goats. Quiche. Naruto, Ino, Shikamaru, and she had all been walking home together. The smell of burning rubber. Flashing light.
Then, that dream.
She winced as a migraine struck, throbbing at her temples.
There was no explanation for it. Nothing about it made sense, from beginning to end. It had felt so real. She swore she could still smell the blood and dirt. Never in her life had she experienced such anguish and gloom. Her heartbeat quickened.
Had she been in a coma?
Or perhaps it was just a side effect of whatever they'd medicated her with.
Sakura looked at her mother again. Guilt weighed on her, but she needed answers.
"Mom...?" She whispered, instantly regretting waking her up. Mebuki didn't react. She cleared her throat and tried again, louder. "Mom."
Mebuki stirred slightly, wincing and slowly opening her eyes. "What—"
Green eyes, mirrors of her own, went wide open in shock. Mebuki sat up straight as she processed what was happening. "Sakura?"
"Hey..." She waved.
Her mother deflated, tears began streaming down her face. In the blink of an eye, she rushed toward Sakura, leaning over her, touching her face as if she were a hallucination.
"Oh, God," Mebuki whispered. "Thank you—thank you, God."
"Mom—" Sakura grimaced. "I'm fine. Could you please—"
"I need to tell the nurses," her mother said, already moving toward the door. "Wait here. I'll be right back."
"Mom, wait—"
The door shut.
"Great." Sakura rolled her eyes and sighed.
The last thing she needed was nurses and doctors bombarding her with their endless questions. She was hungry and tired and wanted to sleep instead. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and her forehead, trying to ease the headache. Couldn't they at least give her some context before interrogating her?
The door opened again, and Mebuki entered, accompanied by two men—a doctor and a nurse.
"Ms. Haruno," the man in the white coat stepped forward with a calm smile. "I'm Dr. Evans, and this is Peter—he's your night nurse."
Peter offered a small wave.
"We're very glad you're awake."
He paused, studying her briefly with professional concern.
"You've been unconscious for three days. How are you feeling physically? Any pain, dizziness, or nausea?"
"A bit of everything?" She answered, uncertain. Evans approached her and began examining her thoroughly—her IV, pulse, and pupils—dictating the details out loud so Peter could write them down.
"That's normal," Evans assured her. "You've got a mild concussion, which is fortunate, given the severity of the impact."
"Severity of the impact...?" She asked. "What hit...?"
The doctor straightened, meeting her gaze. "Do you have any memory of what happened?"
"I just remember crossing a street with my friends while we walked back to our dorms." Sakura glanced at Mebuki. "What happened?"
Evans' lips formed a thin line before talking. "A car hit you as you crossed the street."
"A car?" She echoed, anxiety rising. "What about my friends? Are they okay? Were they hit too?"
"They're fine, Sakura," Mebuki said firmly. "Don't worry."
Sakura blinked, her sight blurring slightly. The edges of the room seemed to close in. Too loud. She needed to be alone. It was too much—the accident, the cast, the concussion.
A million questions raced through her mind: How would she manage her classes? Would she have to withdraw for the semester? Who hit her?
Her chest heaved erratically as panic settled in, and her stomach churned.
"Honey?" She heard Mebuki. "Is something wrong?"
"I—" A wave of nausea hit her.
Sakura stared down at the blankets, focusing on their soft colors. She pressed against her stomach to fight the nausea. Footsteps and rustling sounded around her, and someone touched her back briefly, while another, holding a basin, appeared in her lap.
"Ms. Haruno," a voice spoke beside her—Peter. "Don't fight it. It's okay."
She hunched forward, giving in to the humiliation, dry heaving once, but nothing came up except for a bit of bile and the bitter taste of acid and shame.
"You're doing fine," Evans said gently, checking her pulse. "We'll give you something for the nausea, but for now we should let you rest."
"Yes," Mebuki agreed, brushing Sakura's hair away from her forehead. "She needs sleep."
Sakura didn't argue. Her body trembled faintly as she let herself sink back into the bed. Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy. The others kept talking around her, but their voices only faded, becoming murmurs.
As clarity dimmed around Sakura, she allowed the linen to hide and entangle her. And she wondered if that terrible nightmare would come back or, maybe, she'd meet the young man again.
She didn't admit it aloud, but part of her wanted to see him.
Itachi.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Someone caressed her hair, stroking it and waking her up.
Half-lidded, onyx eyes welcomed her back from her slumber. Ebony strands spread long and untamed across his pillow, his shoulders bare. His lips parted, and a barely perceptible sigh escaped them.
Sakura wanted to look around, but her head remained still against the pillow, her gaze focused on the man before her. They lay hidden beneath the sheets, and she immediately discerned she was naked.
When I asked for different circumstances, I didn't mean this, she thought.
"Sakura." Her name rolled off his tongue, low and resonant.
The sound ignited her, sending a tacit signal. A carnal—embarrassing—pressure built inside her, eager to surrender to his desires.
Drawn by the uncontrollable magnetism that urged her to seek contact, she decreased the gap between them, yet not enough to appease the excitement behind his call.
His features were refined and elegant. His fair skin glowed with a natural radiance undern the dim, golden candlelight of the room. He didn't appear much older than her, maybe passing her with two or three years, at most.
There was something timeless in the way he lay there. His lashes were long and delicate, casting shadows beneath his eyes. His lips, narrow and serious, carried a serene depth. Tear troughs traced beneath his eyes, full of untold truths and stories for her to discover.
Her hand rose to his face, brushing his lower lip, plump and tender beneath her ministration. He shut his eyes—brow furrowed—lost in pleasure, entranced.
Her stroke descended, trailing a lazy line from the jaw to his sharp cheekbones. His chest rose, his body went taut under the covers.
He was undeniably, disarmingly beautiful—and dangerous.
His movement wandered, landing on her waist. With effortless force, Itachi drew her closer, burying his face in the crook of her neck, heat radiating against her exposed flesh—claiming the land as his. His mouth sealed the curve with fervent kisses—hungry and reverent.
He explored farther around her waist, fingertips splaying along the arch of her lower back, guiding her to him until their bodies pressed together in perfect accordance, like the final piece of an ancient puzzle waiting to be solved.
Itachi's face lifted, and she met his eyes—gleaming crimson, with three comma-like spades, identical to the ones she'd seen in her last dream.
The sight surprised Sakura, yet in this realm, the girl was unfazed. Instead, a tingling blaze dismantled her from within, filling every bit of her with anticipation.
"Say it again," he demanded, his voice hoarse.
The corners of her lips curled up.
"I love you, Itachi."
Chapter 3: On Hold
Notes:
If you'd like to immerse further, I've created a playlist for this fic.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0tdkOZSTrBM10H3kTlDJXf?si=f54c55f9d0ee4d34
Enjoy!
Chapter Text
Chapter III
On Hold
Murmurs pried at her sleep, tugging her back toward consciousness and smudging the edges of the dream she'd been in.
In the fading haze, a tender warmth enveloped her, much like the delicate caress of fingertips grazing her skin or the soft whisper of a voice she couldn't quite catch. The feeling hovered close, a fragile thread pulling at the edges of her mind.
She didn't open her eyes, nor did she move. She simply listened, determined to discern what the voices were saying, and who they belonged to. However, she couldn't identify them from so far away.
Sakura cracked one eye open.
Daylight poured into the room, fierce and uninvited, forcing a wince out of her as it struck her face. She blinked through the glare, scanning the space. Her gaze landed on Mebuki, who stood at the door, half inside the room. Her body blocked the threshold, head turned just enough to speak to someone on the other side.
Her voice was low—lower than Sakura had ever heard—but her movements betrayed her. Mebuki was upset, even if she was trying to keep it quiet.
Now they had her attention.
"Mom?"
Mebuki pivoted instantly, her lips curving into a smile that didn't reach her eyes as she gripped the door tightly. "Honey!"
"She's awake—let us speak with her," a masculine voice spoke from the other side.
Her mother exhaled softly, a frown overtaking her features and vanishing any trace of feigned excitement.
"Who is it?" Sakura asked.
"Detectives. They've been plaguing—" she raised her voice deliberately, loud enough for those outside to hear, "us ever since you got here."
Sakura giggled softly, the sound dry and scratchy in her throat. "Let them in."
Mebuki didn't smile. "You haven't eaten anything for days. They can wait."
"They'll keep coming back if I don't face them now," she reasoned. "Might as well just get it over with, don't you think?"
Her mother's expression softened, but her grip remained tight on the doorknob. "Are you sure?"
Sakura nodded steadily.
"Okay," Mebuki conceded. "But they've got only ten minutes—no more, no less."
Her mother glanced back over her shoulder. "You heard me. Ten minutes."
She opened the door enough to step aside, and two men entered. The first was tall and sharp-featured, with a leather notebook already in hand. His partner, shorter and broader, gave Sakura a small, unreadable nod as he closed the door behind them. Neither smiled, both stoic and businesslike. Probably irritated by her mother's resistance.
"Ms. Haruno," the tall one greeted, flipping his notebook open. "Apologies for the intrusion. I'm Detective Vermont, and this is Detective Lindsey."
Sakura pushed herself up in the bed, adjusting the pillow behind her back. Her cast thudded softly against the blanket. "It's fine."
"We won't take much of your time," Lindsey added. "Just a few follow-up questions. If anything hurts or you'd prefer to stop, do let us know."
Sakura didn't object, her gaze drifting briefly toward her mother, who lingered at the edge of the room, arms folded.
Vermont began, "Can you walk us through what you remember from the day of the accident?"
"I spent most of the day moving between classes at James Williams. Around three in the afternoon, I met my friends—Ino, Naruto, and Shikamaru—at Dancing Goats on Clifton."
"The ones with you when the incident happened?" He interrupted. "Nara, Yamanaka, and Uzumaki?"
"Yes." She paused, giving him a chance to write everything down. Once done, he gestured for her to continue. "We ate and talked for a while."
"How long would be 'a while'?" Lindsey asked.
"Around four hours?" Lindsey's brow shot up at her answer. "We talk a lot," she added with a faint, apologetic shrug.
Mebuki clicked her tongue. "Is that a problem now, detective?"
"Not at all," Vermont interjected. "And then?"
Sakura hesitated, her fingers toying with a loose thread on the blanket. "We all left around seven-thirty and walked together back to our dorms."
"You were walking back together, just the four of you?" Lindsey asked for clarification.
She scratched her head, looking up at the ceiling as if it might offer her clarity. The question unsettled her, though she wasn't sure why. It had only been the four of them walking together, unless the detectives meant the other groups nearby.
"I think there were other students walking the same path," she offered, uncertainty creeping into her voice.
Vermont nodded, scribbling quickly in his notebook. "What happened next?"
"We were crossing the street when it happened," she stated. "I'm sure the pedestrian signal showed green."
"Can you describe the vehicle?"
Sakura blinked, doubt flickering across her face. She had no recollection of anything. Not the car. Not the driver. Panic washed over her. They couldn't do much about the incident if she couldn't offer more information. It had happened so suddenly that other witnesses probably hadn't seen anything additional either. They wouldn't have insisted on talking to her otherwise.
"Not really..." Sakura trailed off. "It was too fast."
Vermont glanced at Lindsey. The latter sighed and leaned forward slightly. "Did you see the driver?"
She didn't miss that look, and her anxiety spiked further. Sakura hesitated again, and the room fell quiet for a beat too long as everyone waited for her answer. A knot built in her throat.
"No," Sakura admitted finally.
Vermont wrote something down, but this time didn't ask for clarification. Sakura saw Mebuki shifting near the wall, jaw tight, visibly displeased.
"Alright," Vermont said at last, tapping the notebook with the tip of his pen. "We won't press further right now, but we may need to return with follow-up questions."
Sakura gave a small nod, too drained to do more.
"Thank you for your time, Ms. Haruno."
They turned to leave. As the door opened, Vermont glanced back. "And if you do remember anything—no matter how minor—have your parents contact us."
The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Sakura to drown in weariness and the uncertainty of her own memories.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Later that day, she sat on her bed, surrounded by her friends, who—after almost four days since the incident—were finally allowed to visit her. Her mother had retreated somewhere in the hospital, giving her space to talk with the group. She was likely on the phone with her father, updating him while he worked.
Sakura was grateful for the brief reprieve. Mebuki's apprehension had only deepened after the detectives' visit, and the disappointment on her face was clear as water. Since then, she'd spent hours turning over the incident in her mind, replaying fragments, searching for anything—any detail, any face—to no avail.
The worst part of it all? With no more information and only a broken arm and concussion, police would close the case. Another hit-and-run shelved in the extensive records of hectic Atlanta. Her hopes plummeted.
"Fuck the police, honestly," Naruto said. "They acted the same with us. What do they expect? The car came out of nowhere."
"They're just doing their job," Shikamaru muttered, idly picking at one of Sakura's gift baskets. "Man, even the dean sent you something."
Sakura glanced at her friend, who had remained unusually quiet by her side, silently helping her eat some watermelon. She could tell Ino was holding something back.
"Ino," she called, but Ino didn't meet her gaze. "Are you okay?"
Her friend's eyes dipped to her lap. Platinum strands fell forward, veiling her face—but then her shoulders began to shake, giving her away. She was not, in fact, okay.
"Ino...?"
"We're never walking down Clifton again," Ino said between sobs, and Sakura felt her heart ache. "One of us has to get a car."
Sakura let out a soft laugh. "And who would that be?"
"Naruto or Shikamaru," Ino replied, wiping her cheeks. "We can't risk ruining our delicate nails with work."
Sakura burst into laughter at her friend's absurdity, while Naruto and Shikamaru immediately started arguing against her logic—earning a string of snarky comments from Ino, whose glassy blue eyes now glared at them with mock scorn.
"That's why both of you are single—neither of you knows how to treat a lady," Ino snapped.
Shikamaru scoffed, already heading toward the door with Naruto. "We do. There's just none in sight at the moment."
Ino let out an offended gasp and unleashed a fresh round of insults. She pushed up from her seat, stomped to the gift table, grabbed a teddy bear, and hurled it at Shikamaru, who used the door as a shield.
Naruto, standing behind Shikamaru, laughed. "Womp, womp!"
Ino walked a few steps closer, fist raised in warning, and the boys quickly shut the door, leaving the girls alone.
"I swear to God..." Ino mumbled under her breath, then slumped back into the chair beside Sakura's bed.
They stared at each other seriously, then burst into laughter, unable to hold it back. Sakura knew she could never live without them—the endless bickering, the jokes, and the unwavering support they gave each other. In just a few hours of consciousness, amid all the turmoil and uncertainty, she had missed them deeply.
Ino and Sakura continued talking about the accident, and her friend confirmed her version of events. Apparently, most witnesses couldn't identify anything beyond the car's model and color. No one had caught a glimpse of the perpetrator.
Sensing her insecurity, Ino gently steered the conversation to lighter topics—mostly about Sakura being the talk of the school, the "star of the moment.” But she found little comfort in being remembered as the student who was hit by a car instead of for her achievements.
As Ino kept chatting, Sakura's eyes drifted to the gifts on her table, specifically, a bouquet of red roses. The color pulled her back to the dream. To Itachi's crimson, intense eyes. She had dreamed of him again. This time, more vivid.
More real.
More shameful.
Even now, his scent seemed to cling to her skin—steel, smoke, and something hauntingly familiar. It ghosted beneath her nose, refusing to leave. Part of her body still quivered at the memory of his carnal yet exquisite contact—cursing her into a permanent state of longing for a cruel ploy of her own mind.
And those eyes... she thought. How can they shift from black to red? Not to mention those weird markings around his pupils.
She'd seen them before—on the other two men from her earlier dream. The masked one and the boy who strangely resembled Itachi, just paler, with shorter hair.
Nothing made sense, but dreams themselves rarely did.
"Earth to Sakura?" Ino's palm waved in front of her face.
Sakura shook her head and refocused on Ino. "I'm sorry—I spaced out."
"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"
She gave Ino an apologetic smile, shoulders hunching, which earned a sigh from her friend. Ino followed Sakura's gaze and spotted the red roses.
"They're pretty, right? But I wouldn't send those for recovery. Tulips and orchids are better," Ino added.
"Still preserving that flower shop wisdom, huh?"
"Might as well. I'm doomed to inherit the store unless Mom magically pops out another kid."
Sakura felt for Ino. Her goals had always leaned toward spirituality, not business and flowers.
While she understood the Yamanakas' logic, she couldn't help but think they could have guided Ino toward a path that explored the mind and reality further—psychology, perhaps, or even metaphysics. Something that nurtured her passion while building a safety net in case her calling couldn't promise profit.
"Maybe in another life," Ino whispered, as if reading her thoughts.
Another life.
What would Sakura have become in another life?
Chapter 4: Inception
Notes:
If you'd like to immerse further, I've created a playlist for this fic.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0tdkOZSTrBM10H3kTlDJXf?si=f54c55f9d0ee4d34
Enjoy!EDIT 07/28/2025: I noticed AO3's saying I posted this chapter on 07/24 when I didn't and I'm thinking it probably posted my draft (?????) fuck AO3.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter IV
Inception
Raindrops enveloped him, soaking his clothes and hair, adding weight to his stride. Tall trees stretched before him, accomplices to his secrets, aiding his attempts to remain hidden beneath their canopy. He had been here already. This wasn't his first time here in this recurring vision. The beginning of a cycle of self-indulgence and return.
Itachi had memorized this reverie in absolute detail—every move, caress, sound, and scent. Anything that might lead him closer to her.
Of all the delusions he'd endured, this one remained the most polarizing, a symbol of the origin of their sinful connection.
This version of himself ran through the woodlands with precision and secrecy, a hunter circling its prey. Though his eyesight, blurred by the minute, betrayed him with a throbbing migraine and bone-deep fatigue. Whatever this version of him was, or had been, was becoming a curse. A tax this body could no longer afford.
He counted each step, urging for the second she would come into his line of sight.
Now, as always, he'd stand there and activate that gifted sight, one Itachi envied.
Obedient, his doppelgänger perched on a branch, twin pools darting across the terrain. His eyes pulsed within his skull, signaling that a majestic ability was activating Itachi had never witnessed—the unique skill to perceive chakra's vibrant hues and subtle shifts, transforming colors and details into sharp relief: an excruciating canvas of nature.
He swept the area, clearing it of any possible danger, until they spotted a figure lying under a tree a thousand feet apart from him, on his left side—the blue energy flowing within them dimming at an alarming rate.
"This..." the man trailed off aloud, "I know this chakra."
He advanced toward the familiar figure, closing the distance between them with grim resolve.
He stopped as a pair of motionless legs beneath a tree came into view. Landing without a sound, Itachi lunged forward, his pace disciplined and calculated.
His body stilled as he met the person at last. A pink-haired young girl lay on the ground, back resting against the hardwood. Bruises and scratches marred her fair skin, granting her an emaciated appearance; a thick, fresh bloodstain spread across her abdomen. One hand—radiating a weak, green glow—rested atop the injury, trembling from exertion. Her chest heaved faintly, denoting her weary state.
No matter how many times Itachi had beheld this scene unfolding in front of him, the feeling of helplessness clung to him with each replay. The lack of urgency and reaction from his double drove him insane on every single occasion.
"Haruno," he called.
Her dog-tired eyes flew wide with recognition before she shook her head and quickly squeezed them shut again.
"No..." Her soft voice emerged as Sakura shifted, attempting a fighting stance, but her limbs were sluggish, dulled by enervation.
Itachi knelt. He rested an elbow casually on his knee as he studied her, unfazed. His other fingertips rose to her face; his index finger and thumb cupped her chin. She squirmed beneath his contact.
"Get off me," Sakura ordered between shallow pants.
She flinched, angling away from him. Rain had chilled and damped her skin. He could feel the effort in her body not to shiver beneath him.
"I said, get off," she rasped again, her cracked voice fierce, as one leg kicked him, pushing him a few inches away.
He didn't retreat or seem bothered by her outburst, just continued to regard her in silence.
"The wound is too deep to heal with the little chakra you have left." He broke the silence. "You'll die if you don't let me help."
She scoffed, a bitter smile curling her lips. "Why would a genocidal maniac want to help me? To kill me once I'm healed?"
"You're not on my kill list, Haruno," he responded with clinical calm.
"Well, you definitely are on mine," she hissed.
"That's something we can solve later, if you survive." Itachi sprang to his feet. "But I'll leave if that's what you wish."
She strove to stand but slipped, hitting the back of her head on the tree. Sakura bit her lower lip, holding back a wince, but the sound reached Itachi's ears. Her chakra had extinguished entirely, leaving her defenseless and unable to heal herself. Her only thread to awareness was resolve and scarce chakra. It kept her conscious, but not for long.
Itachi counted exactly ten seconds, and her face relaxed afterwards, a faint sigh edging past her lips. Her arms fell to her sides, and her upper body rolled to one side, succumbing. With a swift move, he caught her before she collapsed onto the ground.
His limbs slid beneath her knees and around her back, careful not to worsen her injuries. He lifted her, and her head tipped, falling onto his shoulder. Her hair, rose and striking, clashed starkly with the black of his cloak. Itachi offered her a final glance, noting how peaceful, yet pale, she appeared.
He adjusted his grip on her senseless form, his attention flicking once more to the torn flesh at her abdomen. The bleeding had slowed, but not quite enough. She needed treatment. Fast.
Around them, the storm dulled to a hush as Itachi leapt into the trees, branches cracking under his feet as he raced through the woods, fixed on Sakura's survival.
The scent of blood clung to the air, mingling with wet earth and crushing humidity.
Her proximity was his anchor, heat pooling against him—comforting, familiar. The only peace he'd allow himself.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The sound of birds chirping and warm rays of sunlight peeking through his window blinds welcomed him back to reality, washing away the cold setting and sensations of his dream. He didn't bolt upright or react right away. Instead, he stayed there, oddly calm. The flashes came too often to startle him now.
His phone vibrated mercilessly on the nightstand, dragging him dazedly out of slumber.
Annoyed by the sudden noise, he drifted lazily to his left, patting the furniture piece as he searched for his phone. Once found, he brought it to his face, its brightness causing him to grimace in discomfort. The name 'Shizune' glowed persistently at the center of the screen.
Itachi raised the device to his ear. "Yes, Shizune?"
"I apologize for the early interruption," Shizune's nervous voice came through. "A job opportunity came our way, too hard to ignore."
Itachi didn't approve already. "I hope it falls within my conditions."
"Well..." she began. "You see. It's from the Terumi family..."
He hummed, urging her to continue.
"It's a nude paint—"
"No," Itachi cut in.
"But—"
"I said no." He hung up.
Her name flashed again on his phone's screen, but he turned it off, resolved to ignore her.
There was nothing Itachi despised more than double-intended offers. For some time now, the head of the Terumi family had been insistent on making contact with him—clearly with ulterior motives. Still, he hadn't expected her to stoop so low as to extend such an outrageous offer to gain his attention.
It was pointless, though. His art wasn't drawn to flesh, it was haunted by memories of what his alternative life had been. His work carried promises and affliction. Not the infatuation of a woman searching for meaning in shadows.
Itachi sat up in bed, leaning against the backrest, and tossed the phone to the floor—tired of dealing with such nuisances so early in the day. He brushed an irritated frown away.
He had dreamed of Sakura again.
He had chosen to.
The corner of his mind settled on an orange container placed on his desk, sitting in the corner of the room, waiting for the day he might actually use it. Trazodone. His psychiatrist had prescribed it as a hopeful alternative to the hallucinations that plagued him.
Itachi rose from the bed, his feet guiding him toward the desk—this time focused on something hanging on the wall: a calendar. He reached for the pen dangling beside it and drew a line across the current date.
Day 1,097.
Three days beyond the anniversary.
Since that first dream, three years had passed.
For three years, he had tried to decipher their meaning, failing repeatedly. Nothing could explain the phenomenon. Many theorized it was a past life, rambling about dimensions, curses, and other mystical nonsense he rejected. No one had provided an actual answer—a solution.
Itachi had given up hope that she existed anywhere but in his own mind, ultimately categorizing it as an aftershock of the accident. But there was this enticing gravity that kept driving him back to her—clouding his reason, distorting his grip on truth.
The illusion held him captive in an endless loop of mirages—ninjas, chakra, and a world teeming with impossible abilities.
He had searched and carved for any trace or possibility of its existence relentlessly, borderline obsessively, just to find nothing. It wasn't real. She wasn't real. Sakura was nothing but a product of his own trauma. The sweetest escape from his daily guilt.
Itachi opened the door to his room, not without grabbing a shirt draped over his desk chair and slipping it on. The hallway greeted him, adorned with nothing more than a black-and-red ink painting. He paused in front of it, studying the figure etched within. His gaze skimmed the silhouette of the woman who stood in the illustration—pristine and forsaken, unreachable. Her back faced him, clad in a crimson kimono.
The very same one he had torn from her in the depths of his deranged visions.
His lips pressed shut, heavy with the weight of memory. Countless times had he toyed with the idea of storing it away, selling it, or even burning it—anything to sever the fragile belief in her presence. But he never found the courage to follow through. To relinquish her would be to cast aside every feeling he treasured for Sakura, and Itachi was not ready to lose that.
The house phone began to ring, its sound bouncing within the residence and pulling his attention away from the painting. He cursed himself for forgetting to disconnect it.
Deciding there was no escape, Itachi paced to the kitchen, where the device rang annoyingly. He stopped in front of it and let it ring a few more times, hoping the caller would eventually give up—bold of him. They didn't stop.
He picked up. "Yes?"
"I'm running out of managers, Itachi," a woman snapped from the other side.
"You can always find more."
"I don't need to—correction: I don't want to."
He rolled his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Then train them better, Tsunade."
"They are trained!" she yelled. He pushed the phone away from his ear, still able to hear her bickering. "You can't keep turning down every job we offer you."
"I can, and I will decline whatever, whenever I want." Itachi held the phone between his shoulder and ear, moving around the kitchen to prepare some coffee. "I don't do jobs, Tsunade. My art's not a side quest."
Tsunade sighed. And he continued, "I'll work on my terms and at my pace."
Itachi was sick and tired of his managing firm's obsession with odd jobs. He had a steady clientele—a loyal one, to say the least. They didn't demand or request anything. His clients understood his work and valued it enough to pay a considerable amount for his pieces.
"Though I respect your position," Tsunade began, "I think your work has been stuck these last few years—gloomy and...somber."
"Gloomy and somber got me where I am."
He heard her click her tongue. "Why don't we talk about this at AIX?"
"Do we have to?"
"Stop being a hermit," Tsunade scolded. "Either way, we need to go over some event planning for the next two months."
A blatant lie. He hardly did events.
"Tsunade, I've got things to—"
"See you there at eight—bye!"
She hung up.
He probably deserved the abruptness after doing the same to Shizune. Not that he regretted it. She needed to learn to respect his boundaries. With Tsunade as her guide—and boss—the chances of that happening were slim.
Itachi carefully seized the cup of coffee from the brewer and ambled to the glass sliding door that led to his garden, admiring the vibrancy and magic of spring. The plants he’d tended so long, nursed through ruthless winters and autumns, were beginning to bloom.
Maybe all he needed was to move on in order to achieve so—to come to terms with the fact that these fabrications of his, like the coffee cooling between his palms, had gone bitter with time. What once had been a mysterious, ever-waiting haven had now calcified into a weight he dragged through every waking hour.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Itachi descended through the narrow road of Kanagawa. The Yokosuka train line raced furiously beside him—loud, but still diligently ferrying exhausted passengers home from work, each eager to end their long day. His, however, had barely begun.
He passed a few town locals, offering a wave or a slight bow depending on their age. Most recognized him by now, whether for his national fame or his frequent visits to the intimate bar he was venturing into.
Itachi came to a stop before a modest three-story building, where AIX rested covertly above an Italian bistro just off the main road. The building's beige brick façade blended seamlessly into Kamakura's mundane, almost secretive charm.
The only signs of its existence were a clean, metallic emblem and the word "bar" spelled out in subtle backlit letters across the second-floor window, alongside a small placard bearing an abstract logo, paired with a discreet arrow pointing toward the narrow stairwell leading upward.
"He paused at the threshold, steeling himself, letting the brisk evening air settle in his lungs, bracing himself for a meeting he'd been avoiding for some time. Reuniting with Tsunade was no easy task. It was simpler to retort and sass her from a distance—over the phone, without facing her derisive once-over. Being a rebel always felt easier when he was safely secluded inside his home.
Itachi stepped into the stairwell, lazily plodding toward the bar and his impending defeat. The doors mocked him as he pushed through them, having borne witness to more than a few of his midnight guilts and sorrows.
Tsunade sat alone at the bar, a wine glass filled to the brim. Without a word, he took the seat beside her. The bartender lay a drink in front of him instantly—his regular: a smoked plum old fashioned. The bearded, yet youthful-looking man offered him a knowing smile. Itachi nodded back, raising the glass to his lips.
"Interesting choice," Tsunade remarked at last. "Didn't take you for someone who drinks cocktails."
"I'm a man of surprises."
"And headaches," she added, bone-dry.
He smirked and took another sip, hiding the curl of his lips behind the glass. Tsunade was a hard stone—impenetrable, easy to read, and easier to provoke. Her temper flared at the slightest edge or inconvenience, earning her no shortage of infamy. And that was exactly why he'd chosen her: for her unapologetic transparency.
"You owe Shizune an apology."
He arched a brow. "Do I?"
"Yes, you do." She brought her glass to her lips and downed it in one go, leaving him momentarily stunned. "You keep making her walk on eggshells around you. It's wearing her thin."
"Well, you could both stop piling jobs on me and start respecting my boundaries. Then we'd all be happy."
"Testing your boundaries might get you further," she shot back.
"I highly doubt painting a naked woman would lead me anywhere, except to her bed."
"Perhaps that's exactly what you need."
That earned her a brief silence and a measured look. "I don't remember 'matchmaker' being on our contract."
Tsunade didn't answer. Instead, she signaled the bartender to pour her another drink.
He watched her move, struck—not for the first time—by how little she seemed to age. If anything, his own fatigue had worn him down more visibly. Her long blonde hair, tied in loose twin ponytails, brushed past her waist. And he mused whether she wore it like that on purpose to appear younger.
She sank into her seat, head leaning back, and he knew she was about to give him one and chew him up, again.
"Itachi," she called, her tone laced with seriousness, "I'm just trying to get you out of your shell. I'm worried."
"There's no need to be."
Tsunade ignored him. "I know it's been three years, and it might be too soon. But..."
She paused as the bartender returned with her drink, shielding their conversation from curious ears.
"But?" he asked once the man had left.
"But I think you're spiraling. You have carried this hermit life too long, and your art shows it."
He didn't refute. She was right. Itachi hadn't been his old self in a long time, and he couldn't seem to shake it off. Still, he didn't appreciate the constant reminders or the prying. It wasn't self-awareness he lacked.
"Have you considered, maybe, moving out of Kamakura?" She leaned closer to him. "Tokyo could do you some good."
"I hate Tokyo."
"What about going on dates, then? The fishing pool's full of good contestants—I certainly know many."
"Not interested," he deadpanned.
Tsunade bit her lower lip, and a few minutes passed, as if she were second-guessing herself or searching for more ideas to torture him with. Itachi immediately discerned she was about to say something that would unsettle him. So his gaze wandered around the ambiance, focusing more on the bar's relaxing, affable vibe than on the woman beside him.
Yellow-toned, dim lights glowed softly overhead, cozy and soothing. Couples sat at tables behind them, their quiet chatter reduced to murmurs, each one promising a thousand stories.
"What about a vacation?" she said after a beat, twirling the glass between her palms. "It's been a while since you've been to the States—"
He didn't like the turn this conversation was taking.
"Tsunade," he warned.
"I bet your brother—"
Suddenly, he shot to his feet, chugged the rest of his drink, and placed some cash on the counter.
"Itachi, wait."
She reached for him, but he was already on his way to the door—leaving Tsunade alone, with nothing else left to say. Unwilling to hear another word of her tirade.
There were only two topics Itachi never entertained: his family, and America.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
He entered the darkness of his home; silence and an indifferent chill embraced him. In that instant, Tsunade's words sank in. He realized despondency was the only thing keeping him company.
Itachi sat on the raised floor of the genkan and languidly took off his shoes, setting them aside. Barefoot, he stared at the wooden floor, lost in thought beneath the blackness of the evening. Turning on the lights felt incriminating, as if the luminosity would expose his grievances.
A noise startled him, somewhere deep in the hallway behind him. He dismissed it at first, assuming he'd left a window open or that it was just the usual screech of the hardwood. But when it came again moments later, it alarmed him.
He stood, mindful not to stir the quiet or alert the source. Itachi crept toward the end of the hallway, moving warily. Another creak echoed from within his studio, this time, unmistakably footsteps.
Facing the studio door, his hold lingered on the handle, hesitant—wondering where he'd found the nerve to confront a possible intruder. The other eased into his jacket pocket, ready to grab his phone at the first sign of danger.
He twisted the knob and finally opened the door. Moonlight pierced through the window, illuminating the color-stained, art-filled room. A male figure loomed near one of his desks, holding a sketchbook and studying its contents.
The air thinned around them, the walls seeming to shrink—cornering them both into a dead end.
"Sasuke?" he breathed, not trusting what he saw.
The boy turned slowly, empty onyxes meeting Itachi with chronic stoicism.
"Hello, brother."
Notes:
Hi there!
O-M-G.
I wrote this chapter during three flights on my way to BP’s concert—so I apologize if it’s a bit… wonky.Just to clarify: these scenes are memories. Itachi and Sakura are both witnessing moments from their past lives, but mostly on a physical level. They can sense some emotions and sensations—panic, shock, anxiety, excitement—but they don’t fully know what their past selves were thinking in those moments.
So any inner dialogue or reflections you encounter during these dreams belong to the present-time Itachi and Sakura.
That being said, I really hope you enjoyed this chapter—I've been eager to write Itachi for so long, and I'm glad we've reached this point.
Thanks so much, and see you in the next chapter!
Chapter 5: Lineage of Deceits
Summary:
I created a playlist for this fic, if you'd like to immerse yourself in it.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0tdkOZSTrBM10H3kTlDJXf?si=eab61b55a0214dd6
Notes:
I KNOW NOHING ABOUT BOATS OKAY?
NOTHING
Chapter Text
Chapter V
Lineage of Deceit
A warring quietude floated between them. The ghost of deferred frays loomed, steeped in unavowed feelings and grudges. Branches brushed against the studio window, the pale sound doing nothing to soothe his stupefaction.
He’d grown, Itachi observed. His hair reached beneath his chin, black and straight. A stunning copy of their mother. Yet his carbon gaze regarded him with a simmering aversion, destroying the resemblance—reducing their likeness to the merely physical.
It had been three years since their last encounter. The circumstances weren’t a source of pride for Itachi. Not that he’d ever wished for their bond to unravel in abandonment and forsakenness. It had been the only logical path to take.
Itachi adjusted his shoulders, hands slipping into his pockets. He ambled around his studio, Sasuke’s scrutiny piercing and tracking his moves.
“To what do I owe this visit?” Itachi questioned at last, reverting to their native tongue.
From the corner of his vision, he caught Sasuke’s attention diverting to the art that surrounded them.
“Am I not allowed to check on my brother?” Sasuke tossed back.
“Well...” Itachi poked and circled the rim of a cup filled with murky water. “It is rather... sudden.”
“Oh.” Sarcasm edged his voice. “Should I have gone through your manager first? Or is family not worth a second of your time?”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged, tilting his head, following Sasuke’s game. “I would’ve prepared in advance for your...”
Itachi scanned him from head to toe, noting Sasuke’s lavish black suit.
“...sumptuous taste.”
His brother let out a bitter laugh, disdain woven through the mockery—resonating in his ears with raw condescension. Sasuke paced across the studio with deliberate disinterest, picking up and misplacing tools. An apparent attempt to provoke Itachi.
“Tastes you used to share, if I may remind you,” Sasuke reproached. “You might pretend—play into this ignoble role of yours, live in simplicity and anonymity—but the truth is: you’re just like me.”
“I can see Madara’s already gotten into your head.” Itachi paused before a painting of Sakura, shielding the intimate piece. “Is that why you’re here? Because he sent you?”
“Grandfather doesn’t know I’m here.” The title didn’t escape him. “You can keep your paranoid theories to yourself.”
“I think it’s others who have paranoid tendencies, but we can leave that discussion for later.” Itachi headed to the door, a wave of apprehension urging him to distance Sasuke from his den. “Would you like a drink?”
“As long as you don’t poison it.” Sasuke shadowed him.
A smirk threatened to curl his lips. “I don’t wish to be blamed for another death in this family.”
They stepped out of the studio, passing the only portrait on the left wall. Sasuke’s footsteps halted. Itachi turned, finding him studying the painting intently.
After pausing a while, his brother asked: “You really are hung up on this woman—is she your girlfriend or what?”
Possessiveness stirred in Itachi. Sakura was not a topic for discussion, least of all with his family. Not until he understood the reason behind Sasuke’s unexpected visit. Not after the years of exile he had endured.
“It’s just a person I made up.”
One could say he was not lying.
“Sure...” Sasuke sounded unconvinced but didn’t press.
Together, they continued to the living room, where a black sectional couch awaited. Sasuke sat on it, uninvited and overconfident, while Itachi collected two glasses and a bottle of whiskey from the mini-bar, pouring it neat for them both.
“Assuming my tastes again?” Sasuke bantered.
“Did I get it wrong?” Itachi asked. The younger didn’t answer, confirming his guess. “Would you prefer wine?”
Sasuke scoffed and simply accepted the offer, lips pursed, face turned away from Itachi.
He extended the drink to his brother and planted himself on a single-seat recliner. Sasuke leaned back, one arm draped over the backrest, ankle resting atop his opposite knee. That was what he had become: feigned poise, rehearsed until even he believed it.
Itachi saw right through him. Years apart wouldn’t undo their traits. His brother’s condescending scrutiny didn’t go unnoticed as it traveled across the room. Despite his guardedness, curiosity clung to every line of his posture. The tapping of his finger against the glass betrayed him.
Seeing Sasuke there, before him, after such a long time felt surreal. Part of Itachi’s self-inflicted banishment could be credited to his disorder. Watching his brother drag him to the brink of exhaustion—and actively try to kill him—hadn’t exactly been a pleasant ride.
He sampled the whiskey, hoping the bold flavor might cleanse the memory.
“What are your plans in Japan?” Itachi resumed. “Must not be good if Madara doesn’t know you’re here.”
Sasuke glanced at the glass. “I thought it would be nice to reconnect with my brother. Reconnect with my roots.”
He did not believe him for a second.
“What did you do?”
“Huh?”
Itachi rested his elbows on his knees, leaning in. “What. Did. You. Do?”
A sharp tension cut through Sasuke’s face, gone the next beat. The rim of the glass paused at his mouth, his movements unhurried, theatrical.
“You should get checked for lead poisoning,” Sasuke suggested dryly. “There must be some in the paint you use. You’ve cooked your brain.”
Itachi hummed, unfazed by the bait. A difference that marked them for life: he wore calmness as a cuirass—impenetrable, undecipherable.
“Thank you for the unsolicited advice. I’ll keep it in mind.” He undid two buttons on his shirt. “Where are you staying?”
“I was hoping I could stay here.”
Itachi’s brow shot up. That confirmed it. Sasuke had definitely done something. He was hiding.
They had more than enough time for Sasuke to crack under pressure, Itachi considered. His temporary presence could serve as an advantage to get the answers he needed.
“Well, then.” He rose to his feet. “I’ll always have space to spare for my brother. Let me guide you to your room. You must be exhausted.”
As Itachi went to the hallway, Sasuke’s upcoming question unraveled him.
“Is it close to yours?”
“Why would that matter?” Itachi countered.
“I’m an early bird, and I’ve got calls to make throughout the night. I’d hate to keep you awake,” Sasuke reasoned instantly.
In another time, it would have sounded logical. He would have appreciated it. However, the immediacy raised his suspicions even higher. It had come out practiced.
“Good thing I’m a morning person too,” Itachi lied. “And as for the sound, I’m a heavy sleeper—nothing wakes me up.”
Itachi left Sasuke no chance to argue. He heard a displeased sigh escape Sasuke as he stood from the couch, placing his empty glass on the coffee table.
“I don’t want to hear you whining later,” Sasuke muttered.
The younger joined him, treading behind toward the room. The only one furnished except for Itachi’s. Over the years, he had never bothered to finish the third one, assuming no one would visit. He’d limited himself to buying only the necessary amenities.
Itachi opened the door and stepped aside, letting Sasuke enter the room.
Naked, Olympia-white walls greeted them. A queen-sized bed centered the room, flanked by two nightstands, each holding a lamp. Soulless. Clinical. In the corner, a chestnut desk perched, topped with a few pens in a holder. Nothing but a window provided access to the outside, its curtain thin enough to allow natural light to pierce through.
“That’s the bathroom.” Itachi pointed to the far-right corner. “There should be some toiletries. If not, please do let me know.”
Sasuke paced around the room, examining it with quiet curiosity as Itachi continued offering him instructions and details about the house.
“This feels like a jail,” Sasuke interrupted him mid-explanation.
Itachi’s jaw tightened, and his arms folded. “You’re more than welcome to book a hotel.”
Sasuke rolled his eyes and waved him off, signaling the end of their conversation for the greater good.
Itachi’s irritation spiked. His brother’s remarks and whining—things he’d specifically asked not to hear—had already started. And now, Sasuke was the one making them.
“Suit yourself, then.” Itachi tapped the door. “Good night.”
He left Sasuke behind and retreated to his bedroom, the weight of the day plummeting onto his shoulders. A migraine pulsed under his temples. The portrait appeared beside him again, and a spark of vulnerability urged him to remove it from the wall—to hide it from his brother’s prying eyes. He did not. To do so would highlight its importance and effect on him.
Itachi pushed into his bedroom, his gaze spotting the orange container on his desk. After the day’s events—Tsunade’s nagging, and his brother’s intrusion—playing Russian Roulette with the depths of his consciousness didn’t sound tempting. He needed to call it quits and take his medicine. Move on.
Tonight wasn’t the night to be a better man, though.
. 𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
Silverware clinked against plates, and cheerful laughter bounced through the dining room. The arduous sunlight of 30A peeked in, accentuating the vibrant mix of colors that decorated the walls, filled with beach-themed artwork and pure white and blue furniture.
Sweat mingled with the drops of water descending from his hair, sliding down his spine and dampening the chair beneath him. The scent of sunscreen lingered under his nose, his skin burning—flushed red across the exposed areas of his body and face.
White curtains flowed as the crisp, saltwater air of the Gulf made its way through the open glass door dividing the room from the balcony, entrancing him with the delicious humidity he wished didn’t prevail as a souvenir of his dearest moments shared with those akin to him.
A photo hung on the wall behind his cousin, Shisui: both of their families smiled brightly at the camera, hugging and making silly faces—except for his late father, Fugaku, who barely posed. His brother Kagami had sneaked two fingers behind Fugaku’s head, granting him horns.
A golden plaque at the bottom engraved the year, marked in cursive: April, 2017.
A year before his parents’ accidental deaths.
Five years since the last vacation they had all shared—the final Uchiha escape that still paired the brothers.
Kagami’s focus followed his, landing on the photo. His face softened, brow knitting slightly as melancholy clawed into his heart.
“Sometimes when I miss him, “ he began, “I just look at you, Itachi—you’re a vivid copy of Fugaku.“
“Thank you,“ Itachi whispered, offering Kagami a soft smile.
Kagami winked at him, but the intention fell flat. Itachi knew his uncle was trying his best to cope, for everyone’s sake. Being the head of the Uchiha Corps. and of the family left little to no space to mourn the dead. Not even his own brother.
Not to mention the responsibility of raising three kids was bitterly awarded to Kagami and his wife, Otohime, after both him and Sasuke were adopted into their family following the tragedy. Despite the overwhelming and rushed decision, the couple had gladly opened their doors to the orphans, clinging to them—their last thread to Fugaku and Mikoto.
“What about me?“ Sasuke interjected.
Otohime chuckled beside him and pinched his cheek. “You’re the baby of the family, of course.“ She pouted. “Please don’t grow up—you’re our last bird in the nest.“
Sasuke huffed, pushing away their aunt’s stroke, but the blush on his cheeks betrayed him. He loved Otohime’s attention and melodrama.
“Do you think we’ll spot any sharks?“ Shisui asked as he refilled his plate with another round of food.
“Maybe, if you hurry.“ Itachi glanced down at his phone. “It’s getting late.“
“We’ll be fine,“ Shisui dismissed.
The jarring past that lurked around them faded as his found family resumed their conversation with ease and joy. Sasuke decided to stay home with Otohime and Kagami—the boat trip consisting only of Itachi and Shisui.
Once they’d finished eating, the two of them dashed upstairs—shoving each other, with Otohime scolding them from downstairs over the bustle they’d caused.
“I bet I can catch a fish bigger than you,“ Shisui taunted.
“You said that last time, and the only thing you caught was a lame, minuscule trout.“
They finished changing, slipping into sheer shirts and clean shorts for the fishing trip ahead. After heading downstairs, they rejoined the rest of the family and bid them goodbye.
“Don’t stay out too long, okay? There’s some rain in the forecast,“ Kagami warned.
“It’s just a drizzle,“ Itachi said. “I already checked.“
“Drizzle or not, come back if it starts raining,“ Otohime scolded.
Shisui grumbled an exhausted ‘Yes, Mom,' pressing a kiss to her cheek before following Itachi to the door. He waved everyone goodbye.
They jumped into the golf cart, Shisui taking the driver’s seat. He drove them down the 30A highway, where locals and cyclists greeted them with casual smiles. Having vacationed there for years—long before either of them was born—most people recognized the Uchiha family.
Shisui pulled into the marina’s parking lot. Itachi spotted their center-console boat right away. They hopped out, grabbing a cooler from the back seat. He followed his cousin down the dock, sandals clapping damply against the hot wood as they advanced toward the boat—a sleek, white vessel with navy trim and twin outboards mounted on the back.
Shisui untied the mooring lines from the cleats, coiling the ropes neatly. “Fuel tank’s full. Should be good for a few hours.“
Itachi nodded and climbed aboard first, steadying himself on the metal railing before stepping onto the deck. The humid air smelled of brine and motor oil. Accumulated water from past rains wet his feet, but he didn’t care, used to the sensation. He double-checked the compartments and storage, ensuring they were well-equipped, then began the pre-start checklist: battery switch on, bilge pump primed, safety gear accounted for.
“Got enough bait?“ he asked, glancing at the cooler.
Shisui patted the lid and grinned. “Squid and shrimp—your favorites.“
With everything in place, Shisui stood behind the wheel and turned the key. The twin engines sputtered, then growled to life. Vibrations ran through the fiberglass hull as Itachi cast off the remaining dock lines and gave the vessel a gentle push.
The boat drifted a few feet from the slip, then Shisui eased it into reverse, guiding them out of the marina and eastern lake waters to the Gulf with practiced precision. The open water lay ahead—crystal clear, shimmering, and vast beneath them.
“Doesn’t look like it’ll rain,“ Shisui commented, squinting at the wide blue sky and collecting his sunglasses from his pocket, though a thin veil of clouds formed near the horizon.
“It’s Florida, it always starts that way,“ Itachi muttered, taking a seat on the starboard bench and setting the cooler between them. He reached for a rod, checking the reel tension. “Let’s anchor near the reef before the tide turns.“
They cruised for a while, their laughter carried off by wind and waves as the bow cleaved through the surf, salt spray clinging to their skin. By Shisui’s side, Itachi felt the purest form of freedom. No judgment or prejudice. Just unconditional support and love. There, where the sea swallowed their insecurities and stories untold, he belonged.
“I wish we could stay here forever,“ Shisui said, “away from duty and rules.“
“Away from Madara?“
“Away from Madara, indeed,“ the older echoed with a chuckle. “Though he’d still find a way to jerk Dad back into corporate life.“
“Workaholism.“ Itachi shook his head. “It runs in our blood.“
Shisui burst out laughing. “Not in mine, for sure.“
“You’re a faulty branch on our genealogical tree. You don’t count.“
“Hey!“ He tossed something at Itachi. “Have some respect for your older brother, or I’ll send you back to the orphanage.“
“Orphanage?“ Itachi scoffed. “At least Sasuke and I were a choice.“
“I’ll tell Mom you said that,“ Shisui threatened, grinning.
A gust rolled in, rocking the boat. Wind whistled against their skin, nearly muting the purr of the engine. The sea stretched endlessly around them as Shisui navigated them forward.
“Are you sure the weather’s holding?“ Itachi asked, glancing toward the thickening line of clouds.
Shisui waved him off, but the humor had dimmed behind his sunglasses. “We’ve got time.“
They paused their conversation, letting the rhythm of the waves fill the silence. A school of flying fish broke the surface in the distance. Itachi reclined, eyes closing against the brightness.
Nearly an hour had passed, but Shisui hadn’t cut the engine. The shoreline had faded to a faint blur on the horizon, shrinking by the second as they dared to venture farther out.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?“
“Yep,“ Shisui said after a pause. “I’m taking us to a good spot. I’m not leaving empty-handed today.“
A sudden change in the wind tugged at Itachi’s hair, and he sat up to read their surroundings. Waves lifted, rising higher than before, leaking water into the boat—not violent, but restless. The sky had shifted in compass. What had been a soft veil of clouds earlier had thickened into a denser gray, expanding wider with each passing minute.
“Shisui,“ he called from his seat, “you might want to check the radar.“
“I already did. It looked fine earlier.“
“That was an hour ago.“
Shisui hesitated, then leaned over to the console. His shoulders stiffened.
“... There’s something building south of us,“ Shisui admitted. “It wasn’t there before, I swear.“
“We need to head back.“
Shisui didn’t argue. He turned the wheel, adjusting the throttle with more force than usual. The engine whined louder as the boat began to arc back toward the vanishing coastline. But the water wasn’t cooperative. Swells rolled in diagonally now, knocking the hull sideways as they climbed and dropped.
Itachi clasped the rail. “Radio in!“ he ordered over the marine roar.
Another wave slammed into them, spraying salt across their faces. Itachi braced as the bow lifted, the nose tilting unnaturally high before dropping with a hard slap. Shisui lost his footing before he could even reach the radio, the impact dragging him toward the edge.
Something cracked overhead. The antenna swayed, cables flapping from their brackets. Another swell—taller, merciless—approached without warning.
“Hold on!“
Itachi ducked instinctively, grabbing a side cleat.
Shisui didn’t move fast enough.
The wave struck at an angle. The boat jerked, tilted too hard to port. With a sickening splash, the vessel lurched. Shisui reached for the rail—but missed, tumbling overboard and disappearing from Itachi’s sight.
“Shisui!“
Itachi lunged toward the stern, but another hit unbalanced him—gravity dragging him backward with a vicious tug as water struck again. The back of his head collided with a metallic object. A crack of pain exploded behind his eyes.
He got up, staggering, heart pounding in his ears. One hand flew to the back of his skull, palms coming away sticky—wet and warm. He held them before him. Crimson.
A sharp, stinging pain bloomed, blazing and instant, spreading through his core.
Itachi’s vision doubled, then split—shapes bending and blurring, frayed at the edges. His eyelids begged his faltering will to surrender.
His stomach twisted violently. He collapsed onto all fours, knees crashing against the deck as his throat seized, a dry, guttural sound tearing from deep within. He retched, blood splattering below.
Sound muffled. Time slowed. His limbs wouldn’t obey.
Somewhere, barely audible, came a strangled cry—gurgled, distant, drowning. Shisui’s voice, imploring but already fading beneath the surge.
Itachi clawed uselessly at the slick surface, slipping, grasping for anything—for another chance. He sank.
The last thing Itachi saw was the fractured expanse above, splintering apart, before unconsciousness claimed him whole.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Itachi’s nails clawed the sheets, chest heaving as a loud gasp tore from him. He jolted upright, thrashing against the bedsheets—fighting them as if they’d tried to strangle him.
He covered his mouth, a gagged emerging from deep within. Itachi tumbled into the bathroom, slamming the door open. He dropped to his knees and emptied his stomach into the toilet, digging into the base for support.
His strength unraveled as he tipped onto his side, cheek pressed against the cold, rigid wood. Strands fanned around him, baby hairs sticking to his forehead with sweat.
Itachi seldom dreamed of the incident, though it had marked the beginning of his maddening journey alongside Sakura. Well-known remorse grated him against the floor.
He had locked himself inside a golden cage when he moved to Japan—an aim to escape the repercussions of his failure to save his dear cousin.
Perhaps it was Sasuke’s unexpected arrival that triggered this unwanted memory. His brother embodied his worst fears, shaped into human form—one akin to him and their mother, as if she had grown inside him to torture Itachi for the rest of his life, with reproach, and disappointment.
Itachi lay on his back, wiping his forehead and the wetness beneath his eyes. Tears. His defenses faltered as the weight of suppressed mourning spilled over. More tears streamed down his face, carrying hushed words and unspoken sorrow.
His shield crumbled before him as he faced the monster he’d become: a man who had forsaken his responsibilities, and his own younger brother, to elude grief—distracted by the ghost of a nonexistent being.
Itachi had worn himself out trying to avoid thoughts of Shisui, his death, and his role in it. Yet Shisui loomed everywhere. His influence paralyzed Itachi in a chokehold he couldn’t shake off.
No matter how far he ran, or how desperately he hid, Shisui would be there. Reduced to an eternal calamity. No longer the man he had admired, the boy he had grown up with—the blissful star of the Uchiha family.
“It should’ve been me,” he whispered, his plea stuttering to pieces.
He didn’t know how long he lay on the bathroom floor, crying his laments away, steeped in misery.
Through the small window high above the sink, the sun rang in the beginning of the day—yet the will to move refused to stir.
His eyes drifted to the floating dust caught in the ray of light, counting each particle, giving them a story, a universe—pretending those specks could feel, or live beyond their means. In all of them, Shisui lived happily, married, caring, and catching the biggest fish that could’ve ever existed. Lives he deserved to experience.
A side of him warned him of Sasuke’s presence in the house, advising him not to let his brother stray much around the residence.
He forced himself up, meeting his reflection in the mirror.
His hair, a crown of thorns, damp and snarled with dampness he didn’t dare to smell or touch, fell on his shoulders. Dried saliva crusted the corners of his mouth, his lips pale and parched. His usual dark circles had deepened, hollow, and fathomless. Anthracite pools repudiated his own self.
Stripping off his underwear and sweatpants, he stepped into the shower. Cold water jolted his muscles awake as it ran down his body. He kept the process quick—the wetness made him feel even more uncomfortable after the dream he’d endured.
Itachi cut it short, twisting the valve off and dragging a towel over himself. He brushed his teeth, rinsing out the acidity and rasp that clung to his throat.
He returned to his bedroom, grabbing some clothes to throw on, leaving his hair loose. His grasp hovered over the knob. He exhaled, bracing himself to confront the epitome of his countless sins.
The smell of coffee floated in the hallway as he opened the door. Everything looked untouched—silent, still—as if time had paused. If not for the earthy scent. He lumbered toward the kitchen, delaying the inevitable.
Sasuke sat cross-legged at the breakfast table, sipping from a mug as he scrolled through his phone.
“Good morning,” Itachi greeted. “Did you sleep well?”
Sasuke nodded, focused set on his screen.
Itachi crossed the kitchen and opened the fridge, searching for food ideas. “I’m making breakfast. Eggs and toast. Do you want some?”
His brother ignored him again. He pressed the arch of his nose, his massage drifting to his brow and temple, applying pressure.
As he cooked, he noticed Sasuke shift on his seat uncomfortably, visibly unsettled by whatever there was on his phone.
“Everything alright?” he asked, scrambling the eggs in the pan.
“Yeah...” Sasuke mumbled.
The doubt in Sasuke’s voice struck a nerve in Itachi’s wariness. If he wanted to uncover what was tormenting his brother, he needed to be direct about his intentions. Sasuke couldn’t show up unannounced without offering an explanation—especially after three years of minimal, scattered contact.
“Sasuke.” He placed a plate in front of him. “If you’re going to stay here, we need to establish some rules.”
The younger frowned, confused. “Rules?”
“Yes, rules.” Itachi sat across from him. “I don’t think they’ll be hard to follow.”
Sasuke didn’t answer, waiting for him to continue. This was the moment. They were both too old to walk in circles around the topic.
“I just have two rules—simple as the alphabet,” Itachi began. “Clear honesty, and open communication.”
“Isn’t communication included in honesty?” Sasuke interrupted.
“You can be honest,” Itachi replied, “but that doesn’t always mean you know how to convey it clearly.”
Itachi gave him space to process, letting the words settle. He took a few bites of his food, the texture grating against an already irritated palate.
“What if that honesty doesn’t sit well with you?” Sasuke argued, his food uneaten. “Will you run again? Or will you stay?”
He observed Sasuke for a moment, measuring him. His shoulders were tense, fists gripping the tablecloth, wrinkling it.
“Whatever you want me to do, Sasuke.” Itachi fixed his eyes on his brother. “This time is entirely about you.”
There was a click within Sasuke. A shocked sigh edged his lips, and his body relaxed. He stared at the phone one more time, the device’s screen upside down—hiding its content from Itachi.
Sasuke’s gaze flickered between him and the mobile. Ultimately, he grabbed it, hissing a quiet curse as he typed nervously on the screen.
At last, he showed Itachi his phone, holding it up. He narrowed his eyes against it, coming close to the screen, as the font size was difficult to recognize from afar.
“Emory student struck by a car,” Itachi read aloud, not yet delving into the details. “Okay, that’s... tragic. But what does that have to do with you?”
Sasuke’s trembled around the device as he put the phone down. Itachi’s heart clenched at the sight of his panic. Without having an answer, somehow, the brief connection between them hung fragile, expecting the last words that would shatter it.
“I was the one—” Sasuke swallowed hard. “The one who hit the student.”
Everything came to a halt.
Itachi immediately regretted asking for honesty.
Chapter 6: Bound by Sin
Chapter Text
Chapter VI
Bound by Sin
Water drops clashed against the metallic sink, each one falling in thirty-second intervals. A repair he’d been delaying for days, maybe weeks. The same way he’d neglected his brother until the consequences slapped reason out of Itachi.
Minutes went by; neither of them spoke. Itachi hoped that if he stretched the quietness long enough, Sasuke would laugh and retract his confession, claiming it was nothing but a ruthless prank to break the ice. The shy tremor in his brother’s demeanor told him otherwise, though.
“How...” Itachi began, the words brittle. “How did it even happen?”
Itachi prayed, whether to gods or unseen witnesses to their fraying bond, that Sasuke might be spared the gnawing guilt this fault had unleashed. Pass it to him instead. One more blame would not break what was already shattered.
Sasuke inhaled, gathering the will to confess.
“Grandfather sent me to do a check on the southern branch in Atlanta. I...” He rubbed the back of his neck, grimacing. “I went to a college party, and you can imagine what happened.”
“No, I cannot.” Itachi commanded. “Please elaborate.”
Sasuke didn’t answer. Itachi fists fastened on his lap, calmness running out.
“We’re talking about someone’s life here,” he chided. “Elaborate.“
Itachi watched Sasuke hesitate, his cheek drawing inward as he nervously brushed the inside of his mouth. He granted him time to organize his thoughts, which disturbed him simultaneously.
How bad had it been that the details slipped his memory?
“I did some weed,” Sasuke admitted at last. “I ran a red light and hit a student crossing the street.”
“Student?” he echoed, incredulous. “You don’t even know their name?”
“I fled the scene,” Sasuke muttered. “The article only mentions age and gender. It’s a girl, twenty-one.”
Itachi’s pinched his forehead, the kneading traversing to his hair and raking through it as he sank deeper into his chair. An ironic, bitter laugh escaped him—disbelief sealing off any chance of acceptance.
“I couldn’t let it go on my record,” Sasuke stammered. “He’d disown me, Itachi. The company’s all I’ve got—this would annihilate my—” He shook his head, correcting himself. “Our reputation.”
Itachi covered his mouth, one arm folded, measuring Sasuke’s panic. His brother babbled on with foolish, senseless excuses. To acknowledge them would be to justify his attempt to advocate for his crime.
He leapt to his feet, grabbed his half-eaten breakfast, and headed toward the trashcan, tossing the leftovers. Sasuke’s stare stalked his path with caution, dubious.
“Not going to say anything?”
Itachi snatched a hair clip from the counter, tying back his strands before beginning to retreat from the kitchen. “Finish your breakfast. I’ll go and prepare my bags.”
“Huh?” Sasuke sprang up, the table screeching beneath him. “What do you mean?”
“We’re returning to the States.” Itachi asserted with odd serenity.
Behind him, Sasuke’s bare feet pounded as he rushed to catch up. “I can’t go back! If I come forward—”
Itachi pivoted, catching Sasuke off guard as he stumbled against him.
“Don’t you think Madara already knows something’s wrong?” Itachi scorned. “What was your plan? Move here and dodge responsibility? Hide from the law?”
“I came here because I had nowhere else to go.” Sasuke pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. “Kagami and Otohime were out of the question.”
He sighed, brows knitted. “I just panicked, okay? I didn’t know what to do.”
The tension dissipated from Itachi’s shoulders; his heart clenched at the sight of his brother’s disgrace. History betrayed once again, damning them into ever-creeping shame and repentance.
Yet the cases were worlds apart in their severity. Sasuke’s reckless indiscretion had harmed an innocent girl. For Itachi, the blame was imposed upon him for his inability to have exhorted himself to save Shisui.
Itachi couldn’t allow his brother’s life to be tainted further, even if it consumed Itachi whole. For the first time in years, Sasuke had resorted to his aid. Betraying his brother’s trust was a choice he couldn’t find within himself to make. There had to be another way to straighten the current state of events.
“Show me the article again.”
Sasuke pulled his phone from his pocket and unlocked it. After a few taps, he offered the screen to Itachi.
He retrieved it, reading the unfolding details of the accident. Sasuke hadn’t lied.
The article didn’t state extra information beyond age and gender, providing a brief retelling of the incident and the date it occurred, and noting the student had been transported to Emory’s emergency hospital and stabilized.
“Okay,” Itachi uttered to the ceiling, sorting through the plan. “You’ll return to Chicago and pretend nothing happened.”
“But—”
“You will go back and act like nothing happened,” he reiterated sternly, pressing the phone into Sasuke’s chest. “I’ll head to Atlanta and try to find out more.”
Sasuke snatched it, dumbfounded. “What do you plan to do?”
“Find her.”
Sasuke hissed. “We cannot involve the police, Itachi.”
“I won’t,” Itachi resumed his stride toward his room. “But we do need to apologize and compensate her somehow.”
“What if she decides to report me?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” he averted. “Finding her is our priority now. Go get ready.”
Sasuke didn’t argue, and Itachi left him behind. They couldn’t afford to waste another second in idle chatter. Four days had passed since the incident. The furor over the accident was likely still buzzing among the students. Itachi just needed to fish for details.
Itachi’s room lay open before him, the bed cluttered—a silent mockery of his earlier, abrupt awakening. In a desperate grasp for mundanity, he moved to do the one thing he could: reclaim some agency over at least this part of his life.
Once finished, Itachi turned toward the calendar pinned to his wall. He’d forgotten to mark it earlier. His feet carried him over, ready to add another day to the count, considering whether to jot down a special note about the unusual dream.
He picked up the hanging pen and crossed out the square—April 24th—and was about to note the abnormality when a peculiar coincidence struck him.
The car incident had occurred on the same day as the boat accident.
“What...” he mumbled, peering.
Itachi leaned in, bracing his forearms on either side of the calendar, his focus fixed on the date marked with an asterisk. The anniversary was etched on him with no need of a reminder.
Destiny, it seemed, was toying with him once again.
Before he could mull over it further, his phone rang on the nightstand. He reached for it. Across the screen, Tsunade’s name lit up—right on cue.
He pressed it to his ear. “Yes?”
“Do I have to buy you some dango for you to forgive me?”
“Too early for dango,” Itachi replied flatly, though the corner of his lips curved upward. “But I have a task for you if you want to earn some points.”
“As long as it doesn’t cost me, I’ll do anything,” she teased. “Shoot.”
“I need to book two flights to America.”
The line went silent.
“Did I hear you right?” Tsunade’s voice jumped an octave. “You want to go back home?”
“Calling it ‘home’ is a stretch.” Itachi paced his room, gathering items and bags. “One flight lands in Atlanta, the other in Chicago. We leave today.”
“Today?” she exclaimed. “We?”
Itachi hummed, pulling clothes from drawers and the closet. “I’ll text you the details. Thanks, Tsunade—I really appreciate it.”
“Wait! I never agreed—”
He hung up.
A flood of messages from Tsunade popped up nonstop.
He set the phone down on the bed and rummaged through his nightstand drawer, searching for his American passport—the last stamp dated three years ago, when he exiled himself to Japan after Shisui’s death.
Fear twisted with wary eagerness inside him.
He had stormed out on Tsunade for daring to mention Sasuke and his home country. Itachi felt a pang of guilt for confusing the poor woman in a matter of hours. She probably thought he was spiraling. He was—but not for the reasons she suspected yesterday.
Itachi snapped a photo of the passport and sent it to her, then flung the phone onto the bed. He ambled toward the door, ready to ask Sasuke for his, when he spotted the trazodone perched on his desk.
During this trip, his focus had to center on Sasuke and the stranger girl. He needed proper sleep and had to set aside—at least for a moment—his addiction to these hallucinations. Remembering Shisui might have been a clear sign of their hold on him.
Perhaps a sign it was time to let go. He had grown too comfortable with this hex.
. 𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
Her back encountered the wall as the man in front of her cornered her. Rubies glinted with controlled repose. Itachi advanced steadily until scarce inches separated them. His height advantage forced Sakura to arch her neck to match his gaze.
The tension was palpable—unaware of the deeper context, she felt it keenly. Her blood coiled with dread, limbs stiff beneath his intense scrutiny. He wore the same clothes he’d died in.
She knew this room. Pastel-peach walls enclosed a space bare but for a full-sized bed and a small table. Candles burned low, their flames swaying, painting restless shadows across his face as the night pooled in the corners, encapsulating them within a hush of contempt.
“You’re walking on thin glass, Sakura,” Itachi warned, his husky voice carrying an edge. “I recommend you stop lurking in things that don’t concern you.”
“Rich of you,” she murmured, defiant. “You could’ve left me to die that day. Instead, you dragged me here.”
Itachi folded his arms, anchoring himself firmly in place. “Maybe I should have.”
She clawed the wall behind her, scratching the lean texture with her nails.
“Then why did you do it?” she demanded in a hiss.
Nervous drops of sweat slid down her neck, outlining the ridge of her clavicles and straying beneath her shirt. His gaze followed, hollow pupils shadowing the glistening trail.
“Consider it my last and only kind gesture to my brother,“ Itachi responded eventually.
She scoffed. “Kindness?”
Itachi frowned. “Yes, Sakura. Even genocidal maniacs are capable of kindness, now and then.”
“I think it’s pretty clear Sasuke cares little about me, or anyone except for vengeance.” She bit her lip, the brutal truth stirring something within her that Sakura wished to understand. “So it was useless.”
His expression softened at the statement. The benevolence he’d admired her with before was missing, replaced with lukewarm curiosity. Not threatening nor hostile.
The name Sasuke resonated—Itachi’s brother, apparently. A new clue to note.
Itachi’s eyes, bizarrely, faded back to charcoal. Arms dropped, relaxing.
“Not really useless. I’ve heard about your infamous fixation with him.”
Her palms itched, a familiar, tickling hotness blooming beneath her skin.
Sakura couldn’t conceive how these two had achieved a relationship while they professed such cruelty to one another. Not to mention the ‘fixation’ whiplash.
Was this version really attracted to Sasuke?
He tilted his head.
“He’ll come to kill me,” Itachi declared, stepping closer. His torso melded against hers. “Restoring the clan might be next on his list.”
She laughed.
Itachi didn’t react; the seriousness of his tone doubled down. He truly meant it. Sakura couldn’t believe the message he was sending her—serving her doppelgänger on a silver platter to his brother.
Meanwhile, their body language translated contrarily. Strands of his hair brushed her forehead. Neither of them was retreating. Instead, there was a trace of reluctance.
“And that’s why you saved me.” She smirked, skeptical. “Sure.”
“It sounds like you want me to give a different answer.” Itachi caged her, his palms pressing against the wall on either side of her. “What do you want, Sakura?”
Thunder cracked near the building, followed shortly by lightning—its brief flash illuminating Itachi’s features.
Neither moved, locked in a silent battle. The smell of bar soap and lemon balm tea mingled in the air, both emanating from him.
Fictional or not, she’d had a yen to see him again, even under such conflicted circumstances. Itachi intrigued her, enticing Sakura to come back to him—to be at the mercy of a man she barely knew.
Itachi was a force not to be reckoned with, but when he stared at her like this, all she could do was hope her outward defiance kept provoking him.
“You speak as if you’ve already decided the course I should take,” she decried. “Based solely on how useful I might be to your brother—a prospect reduced to mere reproduction.”
The candle flickered and perished, condemning them to darkness amid the storm.
“The day I killed my family, not only did I end a legacy of lives—I bound others to ours.” Itachi’s words softened as he closed the distance, and her lashes fluttered shut. “I trapped us all in a cycle of pain.”
He skimmed a delicate thread from her left cheek.
“After this meeting, I shall die by Sasuke’s hands...”
Itachi revealed his catch: a minuscule, pink eyelash.
“And you’ll continue your life as a successful kunoichi—grow older, maybe marry, if that’s what you wish.”
He discarded the hair, the delicate strand vanishing onto the floor. She said nothing; her only wish was for him to stop speaking, and kiss her.
His voice, shielded in impassivity, was now laced with desolation.
“But the fact remains: the entanglement of our destinies ends here. Whatever my intention was the day I saved you won’t change a thing.”
His detachment burned. Sakura forced her body to wake, declaring the interaction over—no matter what followed. Her will faltered. She tried to shift her attention from Itachi, but it was impossible; he stood before her, clouding her vision entirely.
Itachi’s unapologetic transparency didn’t align with the version of him she held dear for a short period. He’d confessed to atrocities, and submitted to the ticking clock above him—the countdown to his demise and the moment he would finally pay for his crimes.
She wanted out, but her needs sank behind an unseen veil—mute, useless, and submissive to the woman steering her body.
To her surprise, her hands captured his before it could lower, tight and opposing his departure. His glare drew taut, equally unprepared.
“If this is the end,” she whispered, as though millions spied their exchange, “why don’t we step outside the norm, just once?”
His calloused, scarred skin contrasted hers beneath her grasp. He assessed the veracity of her intentions. The underlying suggestion caught Sakura off-guard; after everything said and done, undying desire still kindled beneath.
“You took care of me.” Sakura punctuated each word with a tug. “You nursed me, even when I cursed you.”
No argument came.
“If all of this is an indulged delusion,” she said, releasing him, “I’ll leave tonight, and forget this ever happened.”
As a result of his reticence, she squirmed from his imprisonment, aiming toward a bag placed in a corner of the room—the tacit rejection slumping over her and commanding her to leave. Yet a magnetic force pulled her back; he gripped her waist, turning her around, realigning her world once more.
Without a chance to grasp reality, Itachi drew her in. His lips seared hers with ardent governance, claiming and exploring every inch of her mouth, denouncing the doubt that persecuted them.
Itachi kneaded the back of her neck, rubbing and stroking her nape. She clutched his shirt, denying the seamless contact to end.
Sakura savored his honeyed taste as his tongue invaded her whole, uninvited, and longed for. She met his with hers, entangling in a clumsy dance that quickly grew efficient.
Easing for a moment, she bit his lower lip, tugging it down slightly—dragging a guttural, frustrated sound out of Itachi.
Hips collided as he backed her against the same wall, the kiss breaking but his presence looming close. Her back hit the surface. The tension between them spiked, urgency blinding their senses.
Itachi descended to her jawline, tracing it with parted lips, his teeth grazing the delicate flesh—threatening to mark it as his.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he husked, his lips skimming along the curve of her neck, sending a shiver to her core. “You’re still in time to backtrack.”
Sakura wandered through his hair, finding the band that tied it in place. She tugged it free, letting the raven strands cascade over Itachi’s shoulders.
Another thunderclap cracked, strengthening her resolve.
“I’ve never yielded in battle.” She lowered her face to meet his. “I intend to keep that record clean.”
His brows creased, hinting at a pain she couldn’t decipher, as if her words triggered an unknown ache inside.
When Itachi sealed their lips again, the pulse was slower and steadier. The harmony they paced with was an attestation of the thread once taken for granted.
The universe shrank around them. Palms wandered from her hips down to her thighs, slithering beneath. He knelt before her, summoning momentum, then lifted her—wrapping her legs around his waist, bringing her to his height.
Sakura whimpered when his abdomen bumped her center, stoking a shameful ravenousness. She regretted ever wanting to abandon the scene, reveling in the raw sensations this man coaxed from her.
Air condensed, and heat crushed her. Her clothes desperately begged for release, the netted fabric rasping against her skin.
With a faint push, she nudged him back; their lips coming apart with a slick click as she forced space between them.
A disheveled Itachi watched her, puzzled, but the moment of confusion evaporated when Sakura unzipped her vest in a deliberate tease.
Gleaming, blood-red irises tracked the movement, pupils dilating at the invitation. He stiffened beneath her, grip squeezing her thighs as he adjusted his hold.
Itachi waited for a sign of objection, granting a last second of mercy. Sakura’s nod was shy but certain, the vest slipping off her shoulders with a soft rustle of fabric. Her eyes flickered to the bed behind him, no words necessary.
Arms belted around him, clinging harder. His loud, throbbing heartbeat lulled her own rising agitation. A consolation. The downfall wasn’t only hers.
Cradling her, he guided them toward the bed—his steps measured and unwavering. This was the man she knew and missed during her waking hours. Under the initial coldness, his selfless nature quietly emerged.
Itachi placed her gently on the bed, releasing her as he peeled off his own shirt and undergarments. He regarded her from above, her legs braced against his sides, pressing into his knees. A hollow ache blossomed inside her, yearning for his contact to return.
Sakura’s cheeks flamed as she fragrantly studied his upper nudity. Never in her real life had she witnessed this level of effortless grandeur.
Scars elongated on his skin, evidencing a warrior’s toil—adding a rugged edge to his masculine allure she couldn’t deny.
Though he wasn’t bulky, she sensed an uncommon strength within him. Not that she wanted him to be. He had a refined, but athletic.
A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he caught her surveying him. She clenched the sheets, exasperation cracking her facade—craving to kiss the mockery away.
His interest drifted downward, landing on her boot-clad feet.
For once, her double aligned with Sakura’s instincts as one leg lifted, hooking over Itachi’s shoulder—a bold challenge to assert dominance and reclaim control of the moment.
His concentration faltered between Sakura and her raised leg. He wasn’t uncertain, just loitering for her to voice her demands. She didn’t succumb, holding her silence as though testing him.
A finger slithered lazily along the leather boot, taunting her. She tried to wrench her leg free, but he kept her pinned—unrelenting. Relishing her frustration, he slid the boot off, maddeningly unhurried.
Her skin seemed to breathe the instant he discarded the boot. A shiver caught in her chest when he toyed with the band of her toeless sock.
“Itachi—” she choked.
The excruciating lack of agency was unraveling her, battling with a vicious version of herself that forbade Sakura from interjecting.
She bit her lower lip as he caressed the arch and instep. After tracing languid circles, he pinched the tip of the sheer mesh and peeled it off, letting it fall behind him.
His mouth took its place instantly, startling her. She sank onto the mattress as his tongue engraved a wet path across her ankle and shin.
His available hand worked on her other foot, less patiently this time—anticipation consuming him as it did her. A knot built between her legs in response to his flaring hunger.
“What do you want, Sakura?” Itachi croaked, parting her thighs and lowering himself into the space. “Tell me.”
Sakura rose, sitting up and creating a distance between Itachi and her torso. She reached for his face, cupping it gently. Roles reversed. It was her turn to pay with the same coin.
She traced along his lips, slipping inside his mouth, his tongue teasing the tip as he revered her.
There, she felt like a goddess he’d been born to adore; destined to live for, learn from, and explore nothing but her.
Sakura refused to leave, selfishly willing to damn herself to a lifetime of spectating as long as she got to feel his presence near—the only place she could truly meet him.
“Ruin me,” Sakura adjured, fragile as glass. “Undo me, and build me back up.”
Black spades twirled around his pupils.
She could see herself enjoying this curse.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
“Sakura?” Someone shook her gently, voice edged with alarm. “Are you awake?”
She stirred, adjusting to the pale textured ceiling above. Darkness engulfed the room. Sweat clammed against her skin, sticking her sheets to her body uncomfortably. A humiliating warmth pooled low—a stubborn souvenir.
Groggy and grumpy at the intrusion, Sakura sat.
She inspected her surroundings. Her dorm room. Dolores, her roommate, waited patiently by the bedside. The digital clock behind the pixie-haired girl glowed 4:00 A.M.
“I’m sorry.” She sighed. “I know you must be tired, but I thought you were having a nightmare—it sounded really bad.”
“I bet.” Sakura scratched her head, pushing her feet off the bed. “It’s okay, Dolly. You can go back to sleep.”
“Alright...” Dolly agreed wearily, returning to her side—climbing the stairwell to the bunk bed that towered over the desk and chest of drawers.
She remained seated, the silence stretching—a melancholy withdrawal.
Resentment quickly substituted it as harsh reality settled in: the cast on her right arm and Itachi’s absence. She summoned her logic to find some reason in the chaos.
The doctors cleared Sakura for release from the hospital just the day before. Her parents had insisted on her going back home with them and requesting an extension for her finals, but a broken arm wouldn’t stop her. She should’ve listened.
Now, she faced a worried roommate, awakened by her jarring noises.
Control over her life was slipping through her fingers, at least the ones not trapped in the cast.
One thing she did have authority over was her hygiene. She needed a shower.
Resigned, Sakura grabbed her phone, turning on the flashlight but dimming it to avoid disturbing her poor roommate further. She made her way to Dolores’ side, carefully gathering clothes from her drawers.
“Sakura?” the girl above peeked her head over. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” Sakura hugged the clothes to her chest. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“At this hour?”
Sakura paused, searching for the right words.
“I can’t go back to sleep,” she admitted. “The nightmare threw me off.”
“Oh, no...” Dolores lamented. “Do you want me to help? Your cast might get wet.”
Sakura smiled at her.
She couldn’t complain about her. Amid the chaos of college life, she cleared the fog—a blessing. Other students, even her friends, had shared horror stories about their roommates. Sakura herself had dealt with some rough ones during her first year. Thankfully, this time, she’d been lucky.
“I’ll be fine.” Sakura dismissed. “Thank you, though.”
Her bunkmate extended her arm, raising her pinky finger. A secret habit of theirs. “You promise?”
Instinctively, Sakura interlaced hers with her roommate’s. “I promise—I’ll let you know if I need help.”
Sakura wished her goodnight and stepped out toward the communal bathrooms. She squinted against the harsh fluorescent lights lining the hallway.
At this hour, quietude toured the corridors. Her footsteps, clad in slippers, dragged softly over the carpet—the only sound marking her stolid, three-minute trek to the bathroom. After one final turn, the white-tiled floor came into view, and the scent of antiseptic hit her, drawing an involuntary gag.
Sakura set her belongings on the sink at a calm pace, ready to let the shower wash her sorrows away. But when she caught her bare reflection in the mirror, the stark image nearly brought her to tears.
Her hair was a complete mess, tangled and disarrayed. Eye bags and bruises had developed across her face, her pallor accentuated the purple and green undertones.
Somehow, she seemed emaciated, as if her fatiguing unconsciousness had spanned for weeks, rather than three days.
To top it off, lewd and tragic, disjointed visions plagued her, so palpable they blurred the line between fiction and truth.
Before falling asleep, Sakura had scoured the internet for answers, only to find nonsense from monks and self-proclaimed experts on past lives.
Sakura convinced herself this disorder had nothing to do with any past life, just vain fantasies prompted by her contusion.
Then why was she typing each fragment, each impossible detail, into her phone—as if afraid she might forget?
Notes:
I told you, didn't I?
I gotta admit though: I’ve never written something like this—and it shows. So, pleaseeeeee, bare with me.
Anyway…
After two lengthy—HEAVY—chapters, both POVs are in the same chap for the first time ever.
It felt necessary to get some substance, even if it through flashbacks.
Additionally, I wanna thank everyone that dedicates a minute to read my story, leave a comment, or give kudos. I appreciate each one of you and the excitement you've shown❀
I hope this fic continues to provide some joy to y'all and that it meets your expectations by the moment we finish it.
Thank you!
Note: I just remembered Sakura wears open-toe boots lol my bad
Chapter 7: Fragments of a Helpless Mind
Notes:
P.S: I know NOTHING of neuroscience and I fucking hate not being able to understand 😭 but it was this or medicine so… 💀
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
VII
Fragments of a Helpless Mind
Students walked in front of her, filling the hallway with hasty paces and nervous chatter. Sakura perched by her closed classroom door, lingering outside until the final written test finished. Mr. Castillo had planned an oral exam because of the cast—with the condition she present it separately.
Some people stopped to greet her, and offered condolences for her current condition, wishing her a fast recovery and for justice to be served. And she wished they would stop. They meant well, for sure—the constant reminders gnawed at her all the same.
Sakura had heard no news from the police, and the fear of dismissal seized her when she realized there was a high chance they would not find the perpetrator.
Her accident couldn’t have come at a worse time, Sakura thought. She wasn’t one to struggle with exams, but she despised any sort of special treatment, even when grounded in logic.
This incident had clawed into the normalcy of her life, gripping and robbing her mental peace. Not only was she sabotaged by mobility issues in her right arm, but she couldn’t find serenity in her sleep either—haunted by Itachi’s daily visits, making her consider not sleeping at all, or sleeping just to come back to him.
Thankfully, classes would end next week, signaling the beginning of her freedom. She could sprint back home to rest and find a solution to the heated visions that had tormented her this past week. Sakura remained convinced they’d stop soon enough.
The door opened next to her, and her classmates exited. Most greeted her with brief waves and smiles, except for one.
A guy halted before her. Tall and splendid, Gaspar blocked her way into the classroom with eagerness. Defined caramel waves of hair cascaded right under his jaw, in perfect harmony with his tan complexion. Green jewels regarded her nervously as he beamed at her.
They had shared some classes in the past, and at one point, he’d caught her attention. It had never progressed beyond fleeting interest.
“It suits you.” He poked the cast on her right arm. “Too bad there’s no more space to sign it.”
In another time, she would have melted under his focus. Yet, someone else clouded her thoughts, and his comment stirred up her defenses.
“Really?” She hunched her right shoulder, adjusting the sling band, controlling her growing irritation. “What would you have written?”
Gaspar opened his mouth to respond. A strict, demanding voice cut through from behind him.
“Haruno,” Mr. Castillo interjected. “I don’t have all day—or would you prefer I fail you?”
Sakura muttered an apology to Gaspar and hurried inside the classroom, where a short, white-haired man waited for her. Castillo had taught her different classes throughout her years in college, and each one of them had been a nightmare. Between his mid-class rants and stern nature, there was no space for sympathy. The man was a genius, demanding nothing but excellence in his subject—shaping students to his creed.
He tracked her path over his glasses as she sat before him, expectant and skeptical. She already knew how this worked, though an oral exam was a first for her. Castillo loved to intimidate his students, like a cat that toys with its prey before eating it.
“First of all,” he began, leaning back in his chair, fingers interlocking at chest level. “I’m sorry about what happened. I appreciate your effort to be here despite your condition.”
His attempt to comfort struck her. She appreciated it, though she never would have expected such acknowledgment from him. For Sakura, showing up was the bare minimum she could do, nothing extraordinary.
She’d minimized it in efforts to ignore the truth of what her life had consisted of this past week, and seeing it acknowledged by no one else but Castillo made her reality feel rawer, harder to ignore—coming from someone as unimpressible as him.
“Thank you, Mr. Castillo.” She offered him a humble bow of her head. “I appreciate your kindness.”
“Good.” He nodded, gathering papers and tapping them against the table to align them. “I don’t think you’ll find this exam as kind, so I hope you’re prepared.”
Sakura smiled. “I always am.”
The exam began with rather easy questions, which Sakura answered confidently. She’d studied for weeks for this test, carving every little detail into her memory. Castillo liked to play dirty, resorting to underrated information most students didn’t pay attention to or didn’t bother to remember, but this wasn’t her first rodeo.
However, leave it to him to find a way to make someone falter—and he’d succeed.
“Now, given what I taught you about the default mode network and its relationship to consciousness,” Castillo started as he leaned forward, removing his glasses and examining their cleanness with plain disinterest. “How would you design an experiment to test whether dreams represent genuine memory consolidation versus random neural firing? What controls would you need?”
Instead of a professor, he should have dedicated himself to being a medium. The timing was merciless.
Sakura glanced at her cast. The question had been easy, too easy for Castillo’s essence. She knew the answer, from the first word to the dot at the end. Her thoughts rumbled regardless—she couldn’t escape images of Itachi. Everything about him and their meetings, how real they had felt.
His invasive touch, the embarrassing sounds that escaped them, scents and sensations they inflicted on each other. She remembered everything. Sometimes, Sakura could swear she’d felt them during her waking moments. Too hard to miss—too enticing to forget.
Were her memories a simple, random coping mechanism her brain had unleashed upon her?
“Haruno,” Castillo called. “Should I mark it as a missed question?”
“No, no—” she stammered. “I know the answer. I’m sorry.”
“That’s what I thought.” He appraised. “I couldn’t imagine such an easy question surpassing you after all the other ones.”
Castillo gestured for her to continue. Sakura straightened in her seat and inhaled, composing herself and gathering momentum for the long answer. She began, focusing on his pen moving as he noted her response. The rhythm of his writing helped her organize her thoughts, the rustle of the nib against paper filling the gaps of silence.
“For controls, you’d need a REM-deprived group, a comparison between REM and non-REM effects, and different memory types to test…” She trailed off, her confidence flying right through the window.
“And…?” Castillo pressed, boredom funneling around him.
Sakura bit her lower lip, feeling observed and judged by the impatient figure sitting in front of her.
“You’d also need to analyze dream content to see if it contains elements from learned material, but that’s where it gets complicated because...” She clutched the silk material of her skirt, sweat accumulating on her nape.
She hesitated, doubt laced in her tone. “Because how do you distinguish between genuine memory processing and dreams that feel real but might be... something else entirely?”
“Sounds more like a question than an answer,” Castillo joked, a corner of his lip curling up. “But I’ll let it slide today. Consider this my last and only gesture of kindness.”
Sakura’s body grew rigid.
That phrase—the exact same one Itachi had used to justify himself. Her jaw tightened. Perhaps these sequences were fragments of a distant reality, assembled into illusion to help her cope.
As if God had decided the torturing had been enough, Castillo diverted the question to the last topic he’d taught them that semester, and Sakura regained agency of her knowledge—setting aside any trace of Itachi for the sake of her grades. She had determined then and there that he was a patchwork of memories stored in the depths of her consciousness.
“Well.” He cracked his knuckles, stretching. “That’s it. I’ll post the grades soon. Keep an eye on your online account.”
“Th-that’s it?”
“Yes.” His face distorted in confusion at her shift. He shooed her off. “Leave.”
She nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Castillo. I appreciate your consideration.”
Sakura sprang to her feet, the weight of perplexity flowing through her blood with each step she took toward the door.
“Stay out of trouble,” Castillo advised from behind her. “Hope the next time I see you, that cast’s off.”
Sakura reduced herself to offering him a small wave before retreating outside. She couldn’t bring herself to face him as humiliation seeped from her pores. Never in her life had she hesitated in an exam―her clean record was now ruined.
As she opened the door in front of her, a gasp came out of her when someone claimed her shoulder, dragging her out of her daze. A silhouette loomed next to the door. Gaspar, again.
“Oh, man. Did I scare you?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry.”
She scrutinized the hand resting over her shoulder—unconsented, uninvited—and he seemed to have received the message, as he let her go.
“It’s okay,” she comforted, appeasing the unwarranted tension. Gaspar didn’t mean ill; it was she who was on edge after everything, lashing out at anything.
She walked away from the door, striving to create some distance from the hell she’d barely survived unscathed, and Gaspar joined beside her.
“Tough test, huh?”
“Not really,” she dismissed. “My head’s just not in the game today.”
“It happens to the best of us.”
“No, it’s not okay. This never happens to me,” she remarked.
A charged silence ensued after her comment, and she wanted to punch herself. The poor guy wasn’t responsible for her indiscretion, so she shouldn’t unleash her ire on him.
“What were you doing there, anyway?” She asked, trying to break the ice.
He came to a stop. “I was waiting for you.”
She stopped a few feet away from him. Had she heard correctly?
She faced him, searching for a crack of a joke, but a shy smile welcomed her.
Was he fucking blushing?
Guilt washed over her; he had waited for her, more than half an hour, and she’d repaid him with mistreatment.
“Why…” the answer entangled in her as she scraped for the right thing to say.
“I’ve―” He raked his hair, shifting the weight of his backpack to his other shoulder, fidgeting with its strands. “I’ve been wanting to ask you something for a while, then your accident happened and…”
“Yes?” she uttered.
He contemplated, pausing for a long couple of seconds.
“And it just made me want to ask you out on a date even more.”
She wanted to be excited, yet nothing came. Gaspar before her—stripping his true intentions bare, exposing himself to rejection—didn’t provoke a reaction from her. The realization added further to her mortification. Sakura could try to rationalize her feelings all she wanted, but truth be told, a fictional man had her in an iron grip.
Sakura didn’t owe loyalty to her visions, though. And she would not. Maybe this is what she needed, something—someone—to blur the thread this ghost had drawn between them.
Gaspar was gentle, admired by many, with a radiant personality that could mellow anyone’s walls. Standing there with expectant, hopeful eyes, looking like a golden retriever―earnest and warm, possessing that genuine kindness that drew people in through sheer magnetism.
She couldn’t find it in her to say no.
“What did you have in mind?”
His face lit up at her question, and he closed the gap between them with long steps, dominating her field of vision.
“I was thinking of this Japanese place: Yaketori Kouna?”
“Yakitori Kona,” Sakura corrected.
The choice unnerved her. In the past, most men she’d gone on dates with had been lenient with her native roots. It wasn’t a matter of disliking Japanese food; rather, it was the underlying assumption that pissed her off.
“Yes! That one!” He pulled out his phone. “It’s right on Virginia Avenue. Have you been there before?”
“No, but I’ve heard it’s good.”
And pricey.
“I was thinking we could also go to this new club, Nami. I went with some of my friends, and I promise you’ll like it.”
She treasured his efforts, yet the doubling-down with another Japanese recommendation upset her further; it was something she’d grown accustomed to throughout her whole life. His lack of uniqueness disappointed her, but she’d suck it up for the greater good.
“I don’t know about the club.” Sakura pointed to her cast; at least it gave her a perfect excuse. “But I’m always down for some good sushi.”
Disillusion flashed across his face, but he recovered quickly. “Fair enough. Just sushi,” he agreed, tapping on his phone screen before handing it to her. “May I have your number?”
She nodded and took the device, typing her name and number into his contacts. A cherry strand slipped and covered her cheek as she worked on the screen, and Gaspar brushed the piece of hair back to her ear―soft fingers grazed her skin.
Her heart skipped a beat, for the wrong reasons. Her composure cracked slightly. His touch burned—not unpleasant, yet wrong, unfit for her. She should’ve stopped him and cancelled everything.
“Sorry,” he hurried to apologize, grabbing his phone from her cautiously. “I shouldn’t have.”
Apparently, today was a day full of should-haves for them both.
“It’s fine," she dismissed, already creating some distance between them as her gaze dipped to her shoes, evading him.
“Let’s discuss the details in…” Gaspar showed his phone, shaking it as he stepped away, walking in reverse. “I’ll send you a—” Someone bumped him.
Sakura choked on a restrained laugh seeing him rush quick apologies to the scorning student behind him. She found his clumsiness endearing, and his advances a tad sloppy and straightforward for her liking.
Or maybe it wasn’t about his methods—it was about who they were coming from.
Letting her know the message was clear and well received, she waved him off. He smiled at her one last time before vanishing into the busy halls. As he disappeared, the faux jollity faded, and her arm dropped to her side.
If this wasn’t a betrayal, and she didn’t owe Itachi any loyalty, why did she feel so empty while accepting Gaspar?
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
Tsunade had managed to secure two flight tickets to Atlanta and Chicago, both leaving almost at the same time, with a gap of ten minutes between.
Even with separate flights and gates, Sasuke remained beside him―bouncing his foot and staring into blank space with folded arms.
Itachi, striving to stay calm, had pulled out one of his notebooks and sketched an elderly woman knitting in front of them, unaware she was being drawn.
“What’s the plan?” Sasuke asked at last. “You cannot just show up and question every student. It’ll be weird.”
“Why?”
Sasuke looked him up and down. “You don’t necessarily look in your early twenties.”
Itachi blinked and sighed, taking the blunt insult with Olympic patience. His brother was under high pressure.
“I don’t look forty, either.” Itachi kept sketching and correcting the lines with a blurring marker. “I’ll just fish around to see what I can find.”
As if she had heard them, the elderly woman’s gaze lifted, falling on Itachi and Sasuke. He offered her a courteous smile and nod, which she reciprocated before resuming her knitting. His brother huffed next to him, impatience flaring.
“What happens if you don’t find her?” Sasuke questioned again. “What are we doing?”
“Then we’ll take turns finding her, or hire an investigator,” Itachi stated in a hush. Though they had resorted to English, they couldn’t risk someone hearing their conversation. They were at an airport, after all.
“Take turns? Hire an investigator?” Sasuke echoed with a hiss. “I cannot spend the rest of my days trying to find a woman.”
“You should’ve thought of that before hitting someone with your car,” he shot back, and the man sitting next to Itachi turned.
Itachi had spent years searching and investigating Sakura; they could easily do the same for his victim. He wasn’t going to allow Sasuke to abandon his life and responsibilities. The sense of danger crept through him, regardless.
“I’d appreciate if you didn’t make any comments about my return to anyone,” Itachi added in a whisper. “I don’t want to be involved in any family drama.”
Sasuke rolled his eyes and hummed, focusing on his phone. They had an hour left before parting ways, and all they’d done was bicker or discuss the accident matter, preventing them from bonding with one another or addressing the elephant in the room.
“How’s life with Madara?” Itachi asked, leaning back on his chair and flipping the notebook to a different angle over his knee.
“Not as bad as you think,” Sasuke answered after a pause. “He might be strict, but—”
A woman spoke through their airport’s speaker, announcing the boarding and departure times for their flights. Sasuke and Itachi quieted down to listen. Once done, Itachi stared back at Sasuke, hoping he’d finish his idea.
Sasuke’s focus diverted to a kid sitting in the gate seats in front of them, running around and playing with a boat toy. The sight stirred an ache, recoiling at the memory of Shisui.
“But?” Itachi uttered.
“He cares,” Sasuke admitted finally. “He cares about all of us.”
Itachi suppressed a scoff. Madara only cared about his wallet, power, and whoever he deemed worthy of his attention and fortune. He’d gone through this phase as well as Shisui did. Not that Sasuke didn’t deserve trust and consideration, but such things never came for free with Madara—free wasn’t even in his dictionary.
“Maybe one day I can meet that side of him,” Itachi conceded. “For now, though, I think it’s best I stay away.”
Sasuke nodded, taking his words in. The moment to discuss their family would come another day, when they didn’t have a clock ticking over their heads, or a crime to cover up.
The airline woman spoke again, and Sasuke rose to his feet.
“I need to get going,” his brother said, collecting his carry-on bag. His grip on the bail fastened as his gaze fixed on Itachi’s. “Thank you for helping me.”
Without farewell, Sasuke departed through his gate. Itachi felt nothing but guilt for lashing out at him. The vivid pressure of a misdeed hovered over him. It would’ve been easier if the kid had accepted his fault and come forward—it was too late now, and he was no one to blame.
All Itachi could do was to help his little brother and guide him to do better.
The gate beside him opened wide, and passengers deboarded the plane―his departure time would soon come.
Itachi considered Sasuke’s opinion for a moment. He couldn’t find it within himself to believe his version, to trust Madara one bit. Still, he wanted to go back to his family―Kagami and Otohime. All of them were owed a last conversation, a much-needed closure.
Yet, wouldn’t they have looked for him if they wanted such a thing?
Boarding began, and the first seating group was called. He stood, and only two men joined him in the line.
The female gate agent greeted him with an artificial smile and bow. “Have a pleasant flight, Mr. Uchiha.”
He bowed back and whispered a ‘thank you,’ showing his boarding pass on his phone. The machine beeped, confirming his ticket, and the agent signaled for him to proceed to the ramp. With each step, he felt like he was walking to his own demise, and for a quick instant, Itachi regretted having asked his brother for the truth.
He could’ve been in his house, safe and distant from the growing tensions in his home country.
What was done was done. Turning back wasn’t an option anymore.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
Fourteen excruciatingly long hours went by. Sasuke’s remark about his age resonated. Itachi not only didn’t look in his mid-twenties, he felt like a fifty-year-old man. Real or not, his other self would be recoiling in his grave seeing him struggle. Although he’d spent hours working on paintings while sitting, this was nothing in comparison.
When working, he could stand up, stretch, kneel, or do anything one could imagine to reach the perfect angle. Whereas on a flight—no matter how comfortable the deluxe seats were—the space didn’t suffice. Not to mention his lack of sleep during it. There was a je ne sais quoi that didn’t allow him to rest. A natural instinct to stay alert, and not sleep in front of strangers.
Itachi searched for more news about the mystery girl on the internet―scrolling through forums and local media groups—but the incident went without shame or glory. Most commenters had replied with blessing GIFs and sympathy messages instead of actual information. He wondered if it was due to the commonality of similar accidents or his lack of interest.
The frenzy of America yawned before him as he disembarked from the plane. As he walked through the ramp, airport employees greeted him with humble waves and nods—a sheer contrast to the service he’d received on the other side of the world.
Itachi paced through the terminal, dodging hurried travelers and airline crews along the way. Agitated bustle bounced through the glass walls that showcased the incoming crafts. He couldn’t avoid the nostalgic feeling that invaded him despite the loudness.
He’d missed this. Itachi loved Kamakura and its intimate energy, the secrecy it enveloped him in. The diversity and chaos that characterized his homeland remained priceless.
A short, pink-haired girl passed by him, bringing him to a halt, and he followed her trail. The image was enough to distract him. She wore tattoos across her arms, and charcoal roots of her hair demanded a retouch of color. A tall man walked alongside her. For a second, she turned, and brown, deer-like eyes met his.
She wasn’t Sakura.
Itachi resumed his stride—the elusive muse eclipsing his notions. The last twenty-four hours had been a rollercoaster of emotions yet undefined, leaving no second to think about her. The decision was made: throughout this trip, focus would remain solely on Sasuke and the incident. Too much indulgence already.
“It seems pink has become popular,” Itachi uttered as he joined the customs line after retrieving his bag from baggage claim and noticing a herd of girls and women wearing distinct shades of pink in highlights or completely dyed hair.
Then again, his thoughts betrayed him when images of a modern Sakura unchained in his imagination. Itachi pondered over how her style would be, or if her personality would be as impatient and stubborn. However, his cheeks blazed when he pictured her in a short, crimson dress.
How was he supposed to stop thinking about Sakura when he could see everywhere?
Itachi was next in line, and a bald, bearded white man received him with small talk. Itachi offered his passport, and the agent questioned him about his destination and plans in the country. As honest as reality allowed him, he responded with a fake plan to meet with an art gallery owner.
Somehow, the agent believed him and let him go with a charming grin. Itachi wore his best bogus smile and passed the customs check, as if he hadn’t just flat out lied to a federal worker—dissolved once he passed security, abandoning the pretense. He massaged his cheeks and jaw after his performance of congeniality.
“Finally,” Itachi muttered while guiding himself to the parking lot area
“Itachi?” A hoarse, masculine, familiar voice called—like nails grating against a chalkboard. He stopped and closed his eyes, begging to be mistaken.
“Itachi!” The man shouted again; footsteps approached from behind. “I cannot believe it!”
He pivoted and met Obito―his distant cousin. He radiated honest excitement, one Itachi couldn’t share. Out of all places on the planet, he had to meet his family here, right after warning Sasuke not to mention his presence.
His signature scarred face wrinkled more with his bright smile, and his arms opened and wrapped around Itachi in a tight, overwhelming hug―his suit rustling against his ears. “It’s been so long!”
Obito eased two steps away, measuring Itachi with his palm hovering over his head, comparing heights. “You’ve grown! You were just a boy last time I saw you.”
“Yes, at Shisui’s funeral,” Itachi deadpanned. His body tensed, and his defenses snapped up.
He didn’t hold any grudges against Obito; he was a good man. Meeting anyone from the family carried the risk of the news traveling faster than a missile.
Obito clicked his tongue and rubbed his short hair. “I guess you’re right. What a shame…” His voice lowered, grief clipping through the edges. He spotted his suitcase, and his expression lit up once again. “Where are you staying?”
“Clermont,” Itachi lied instantly.
“Such a coincidence!” Obito exclaimed, wrapping his arm around Itachi’s shoulders. “My club’s right around, just a few blocks away. I could visit you!”
“I don’t think it’s a good id―” A hand slid through his jacket pocket, and he turned. “What?”
Obito had confiscated Itachi’s phone and pulled out his, tapping the phones together. The screen flashed his name and contact information on the device. Before he could stop whatever madness his cousin was about to commit, it was too late―he had stored his information.
“Okay.” Obito passed the phone back to him with a mischievous smirk. “I’m not visiting, but you definitely are. I won’t accept a ‘no’ for an answer,” he enunciated before Itachi could protest.
In front of Itachi’s bewilderment, Obito continued as he retreated to the parking lot, “I’ll see you at Nami on Saturday. Wear your best outfit—9 P.M.—don’t make me drag you out of your hotel.”
“Nami?”
Itachi sighed. His cousin had left with him nothing but another layer of acute worry. Sasuke hadn’t been the one to mess up this time. It had been him, all credit due. He rubbed his temples as a throbbing migraine reverberated through his peace—the sum of issues and slips piling up on him.
“How did he even do that?” he complained while pulling up a ride app on his phone, having had enough of the day. Luckily, a driver popped up with fast efficiency, merely five minutes away from the airport.
Itachi withdrew outside and found refuge against a stretch of wall, watching for his ride. He plotted numerous reasons why this obtrusion could benefit his goal. Perhaps he could extract some information from Obito, though he highly doubted the man, with his age and busy lifestyle, kept track of the news.
No silver lining came through, nor a key to the door of incertitude that locked him out of ideas.
If Obito were to tell Madara, he’d do so regardless of his appearance at the club. His decision didn’t matter anymore.
Fine, he’d work with what he had.
Notes:
I give, but I take away lol
Itachi right after telling Sasuke not to say shit🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡 insert “well fuck me in the ass” audio
Hope you enjoyed
Chapter 8: Inescapable Contrast
Notes:
I'd like you to check the fic tags before you start reading lol
Disclaimer: A lot of food will be mentioned—I tried to tone it down, but it's important.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
VIII
Inescapable Contrast
“You need to eat,“ Itachi enforced, sitting across from her on the floor. “Don’t make me hand-feed you.“
Not these two again, Sakura cried in her thoughts. She’d fallen asleep. Recognition assaulted before her consciousness solidified—that familiar ache of stone walls and the devastation his company entailed.
She sat still, rejecting the plate of food placed on her lap. Itachi observed her from his position, his countenance reflecting its usual unflappability. His back rested against the bed frame, one leg folded and the other extended, arms crossed.
Sakura couldn’t discern if this was an aftermath of their previous heated session. A piercing pain lanced across her abdomen as her body shifted in her seat—one she hadn’t identified in the past, like thorn silk beneath her skin.
“Touch me again,” she threatened, “I’ll break each bone of yours and feed you the food through places you have no idea of.“
Her barbs found no mark.
“It’s rude to play with food.“
“So not only do I have to accept you holding me hostage, but I also have to endure your lectures,“ Sakura huffed, setting aside the plate on the floor. “Wonderful.“
“You’re welcome to leave—but my courtesy ends here,” Itachi countered. “I won’t intervene if you step out of this room and encounter those rogue shinobi again.“
“Don’t need you to. I can take care of myself.“
Itachi crossed his legs, expectant, challenging her to follow through on her word. The weakness in her clenched fist confirmed what she feared—the man was right. She tensed, urging her body to funnel the energy she had once felt, but her efforts proved futile.
Sakura noted his mention of rogue shinobi and wondered if they were related to, or responsible for, this condition that bound her.
She rolled her eyes, evading his presence. Her head fell back against the unforgiving wall where Itachi had trapped her in the past.
Contrary to the past, daylight pierced through the window, bathing the room in natural radiance—ripping them from the intimate dimness that had enveloped them once. Three cloaks hung by the window: one white and two black, one of which bore red clouds. A copy of the ones she’d seen in her first vision.
The smell of fish and rice tempted her, toying with the burning hunger. A loud, embarrassing rumble erupted from her stomach, betraying Sakura.
“You’re clearly hungry,“ Itachi argued again, his voice stern. “Eat.“
“Could you shut up? I don’t even understand why you care,“ Sakura snapped, impatience mingling with hunger.
Itachi rose, ambling toward her without breaking eye contact. Instinctively, Sakura pressed against the hard surface, defensive. He knelt before her, drawing closer. Anxiety spiked, raw and overwhelming. Desire and lust utterly absent.
"I don't," Itachi said as he picked up the plate beside her, his nearness unsettling. "I simply don't like wasting food."
Careless and unfazed by her visible apprehension, he stood again—confiscating her food and settling back into his original seat. Sakura cursed the multidimensional stubbornness that had brought her to such lengths.
How long could she drag out the pretense when the stakes meant losing?
Itachi sat and examined the meal briefly before picking up a generous portion and taking an unapologetic bite. Sakura’s lips parted, but nothing came, unbending pride forbidding her to act on her needs.
He took another bite, chewing, and relishing it. Her entrails growled in protest. “You could at least eat in silence. The sound’s going to make me sick.“
The request, despite its defiance, surprised Sakura. She did loathe chewing noises.
Her disgust had reached the point that her own friends and family had conditioned themselves to eat quietly around her. But his eating wasn’t even that loud for her to criticize him, and she knew her other-self was doing it out of pure spite.
Sakura minimized the consistency of this trait migration, attributing it once more to neural firings and coping mechanisms.
“Such a peculiar weakness for a kunoichi,” Itachi murmured. “Interesting.”
Her resistance wavered when he rummaged through the food with chopsticks, testing her willfulness. Only half of the initial portion was left.
“Okay!“ Sakura exclaimed. “I’ll eat.“
Itachi stopped in an instant and set the half-filled plate on the floor with care. With a swift impulse, he slid the plate across the floor, sending it to her—as if she were a dog, condescending. Sakura didn’t grab it right away. Instead, she stared at it for a pause. She wondered if her hesitation came from his having used the chopsticks.
An absurd reason, Sakura considered, since in futures yet to come they would compromise in moister affairs.
She retrieved the plate and began to eat—ignoring the slight wetness on the chopsticks. The buttery flavor of the salmon melted on her tongue, its tenderness embracing her taste buds easily and gently.
Sakura let out a satisfied sigh as she delighted in the mundane meal like a Michelin-worthy blessing, excluding Itachi from her self-assured victory amid her larger failure to protest him.
“I thought you were lying,“ he commented. “But you are indeed a quiet eater.“
She didn’t answer, limiting herself to continuing her meal and not allowing him to disturb her short-lived peace. Sakura found their dynamic amusing, how they could go from zero to one hundred in a span of sequences, complicating her theories and conjectures about the pair.
Itachi moved to collect the black, plain cloak from the window, then wandered to the door. She tracked his every movement. “I’ll try to find a doctor. Anything else you need?“
Now finished, she set aside the empty dish. Sakura watched him. “You could just heal me.“
“They’ll detect me if I make use of my chakra—and I didn’t come here to engage in a fight,“ Itachi argued.
Sakura had a hunch he wasn’t being exactly honest, and she suspected this version of herself knew as well. Yet she didn’t pry further.
She accepted his argument, and Itachi retreated, wrapping the robe around him—wordless and poised.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
To “create” the mood, Ino had assembled a whole playlist—jamming it out loud as they both sat in her dorm room, facing the full-body mirror.
Her friend, more excited than Sakura herself, had offered to style her once the news of her date broke. With her immobility, she wouldn’t have been able to fend for herself. Not that Ino would have let her otherwise.
“You have to kiss him,” Ino declared, wrestling another strand into submission.
“I’m not kissing anyone tonight.”
Ino’s reflection scowled in the mirror, and her friend mouthed a couple of insults. Gaspar was the goal of many students across campus, who coveted his boy-next-door charm. Sakura herself had shared similar feelings not long ago, but acute remorse shadowed any possibility of enthusiasm within her.
Days had passed, and she’d barely slept—except for last night, when her body had relented to its needs. Sakura had maneuvered a trick not to visit Itachi, paying the steep price of insufficient sleep. She’d programmed sporadic naps throughout the day, half an hour each. Sufficient to rest and survive through her finals, but avoiding the depths of REM cycles.
“Have you been sleeping at all?” Ino worked on her makeup. “Your eyebags—”
“I have a mirror, Ino.”
Ino smacked her with a skinny brush. “Can’t a friend be worried?”
Sakura meditated for a moment—musing over whether to admit her latest mania to her friend or lie her way out of the question.
Embarrassment forced her to favor the latter. “My cast’s been bothering me at night. You know, they tell you to sleep in a certain position.”
Ino pouted in response and offered her a comforting stroke. The accident had become a taboo topic for the entire group, as if they’d distributed some sort of unwarranted blame among themselves. The event infuriated Sakura for sure. Her everything had been engaged in wicked manners. But no one bore responsibility except the reckless driver.
“We’re worried about you—close your eyes,” Ino ordered, applying eyeshadow. “You’ve been quite out of it since the incident.”
“Do you blame me?” Sakura peeked with one eye. “Who wouldn’t be a bit ‘out of it’ after being hit by a car? And right before finals, mind you.”
Ino drew closer, examining her work. “Well, you’re not wrong.” A fingertip cleaned under Sakura’s eye. “I just want you to know that you can count on us, especially on me.”
Sakura feared that if the conversation continued, she’d falter and admit her frustrations. This night wasn’t the time to discuss the matter. She would, when the appropriate timing came—not when she was about to meet the antithesis of Itachi.
Despite her endeavor not to compare them, she couldn’t help the impulse. Itachi had become a standard, a point of comparison no man seemed able to achieve. Sakura couldn’t find it more pathetic. A man who didn’t exist had become the rule for all others.
Per Sakura’s request, Ino kept chatting about anything, and everyone. A special talent of hers. Otherwise, Sakura would have fallen asleep beneath her friend’s delicate attention. The graze of the brushes against her skin didn’t help.
“What would you do if he tries to kiss you?” she insisted. The image was the final nail in the coffin of her already meager thrill.
“I don’t know, but I highly doubt he would dare.”
“Playing hard to get?” Ino cooed. “Guys like that.”
Sakura drifted their conversation to other matters, clawing at anything that wasn’t Gaspar. It was too late to retract her decision, and she didn’t want to recoil from the consequences of her pride-influenced choices.
A bad feeling built inside, and she pondered the idea of canceling at the last minute. The guy didn’t deserve to go on a date with someone whose sanity was beyond this world’s domain.
Half an hour later, Ino had finished.
“ Voilà !” Ino exclaimed as she moved aside, allowing Sakura to see her reflection in the mirror.
She studied her friend’s dutiful, charitable artistry. Keeping her technique modest, Ino had done an amazing job covering the green and purple fading undertones of bruises. If it weren’t for the cast, no one could tell she’d been mangled.
“I always knew you were a witch,” Sakura joked, earning a playful push from Ino. “Really, this is perfect. Thank you.”
“Save your thanks for later; we’ve got no time. You need to get dressed.”
They hurried to the two dresses hanging from the bunk bed frame: one green and the other wine red, both styled short.
The first, sophisticated and perfect for springtime, shaped with two straps and a Queen Anne neckline, looser, flowing and gentle. Whereas the second seemed tighter around the silhouette, with asymmetric straps. A decorative flower loomed on one shoulder, with a sheer strand draping from it.
Sakura contemplated them. Before the accident, she would’ve chosen the easiest, most logical option: the green. Still, the red dress innately allured her, ripping her focus from the other, evoking scarlet-tinged fantasies.
It infuriated her how much she yearned to honor her loyalty to the man who haunted her―to be honest with herself. She didn’t want to match Gaspar, not now, not ever.
“I’m wearing this one,” Sakura declared, collecting the dress and untying it from the hanger.
“ What? Green’s your favorite color; just imagine how cute it would look next to Gaspar.”
“Don’t care to match with him. Red it is.”
Ino hissed in exasperation but helped Sakura get into the dress and heels, with subtle protests and dramatic sighs. The choice fit with effortless harmony, as if she’d been destined to wear it, accentuating her legs.
“Okay, I gotta admit it—you do look good,” Ino conceded as they both admired her reflection.
The vibration of her phone startled them. It was time. Sakura didn’t react, vacillating and afraid to acknowledge what was about to happen. Ino picked the phone from her bed, checked the screen, and extended it to her.
“It’s him.”
She inhaled, letting the air fill every corner of her lungs, and taking the phone from Ino, Sakura accepted the call―and her mistake.
“Yes?”
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
The fruit of his plan had blossomed rather underwhelmingly. After a day and a half of haunting Emory’s surroundings, dedicated to the school of business and library, Saturday had arrived with nonexistent results.
Neither Sasuke nor he had calculated that most students were going through their finals. While he attempted to converse with students, most evaded him, consumed by their own frenzy. He had talked to only four students, who provided conflicting intel—confusing her appearance, names, and majors.
One said her hair was blonde with pink strands; another had speculated it was red; the remaining two didn’t even bother offering physical details. As he searched through the college online chat rooms, most members complained about the campus’ lack of social life.
Itachi had forgotten how unattached and dismissive American culture was, everyone submerged in their own problems, in blissful ignorance of events unraveling around them, especially in a city like Atlanta.
However, it had only been a day and a half. He wasn’t giving up, though the strange stares hadn’t escaped him. Itachi noted that he had to be careful with his approach. In the end, Emory was on private property, and if he lurked much longer, he might attract security’s attention.
“Are you ready to order, sir?” a server asked beside him.
He hadn’t even thought about his order since he’d arrived at the hotel’s restaurant. Unfolding the menu and scanning its contents, Itachi decided on the simplest, hardest-to-mess-up meal.
“I’d like the Citrus Salmon.”
“Sure thing,” the lady scribbled on her notepad. “Anything else I can offer you in the meantime?”
If Itachi was going to meet Obito, at a club of all places, he’d need alcohol in his blood.
“Another glass of wine, please.”
The server left, and Itachi was alone with his thoughts. Except a noise irked him. A couple sitting behind him, chewing too loudly. Her influence, he registered, as the sound grated against nerves he’d never possessed before—another thread binding him to her.
The girl returned and placed a newly filled glass before him, seizing the empty one from his table, offering nothing but a smile.
He took a noble sip of the drink, forcing himself back to the present. Itachi searched for Obito’s club, Nami. His cousin had sent him the address and information from Maps, and his curiosity itched. The photos showcased a two-floored building, most pictures with overflowing crowds. He had to give credit where it was due; the man seemed to have succeeded.
Interrupting his train of thought, the waitress emerged with his order, laying the meal before him. He muttered his gratitude. With a glance at the fish, the old memory of Sakura rewound, where her obstinacy and feistiness refused his pursuit to care for her. It had been one of the first visions and a favorite as well.
As he cut through the salmon, a chuckle edged. Regardless of intention, Sakura embedded herself in everything—from dawn tales and midnight surrenders to the mere sight of a salmon and the sound of munching. Forever immune to his denouncing.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
The cool evening breeze of spring collided against her skin, sending a shiver across her body as she stepped out of Gaspar’s car. Outside, the grill restaurant transmitted an inviting aura. Her date walked ahead of her, clearing her way as he held the entrance door open for Sakura.
Despite its small space, the restaurant was well-decorated and furnished, with black leather booths, asanoha patterns, and bohemian artistry—themed in white, red, and black. Separated by a narrow hallway, the bar was located next to the tables.
A hostess greeted them, welcoming them to the restaurant and seating them at the furthest booth at her date’s request.
The car ride had been surprisingly pleasant, with simple conversations about college and finals. Sakura had noticed his nervousness throughout the trip as he squirmed in the driver's seat and gripped the steering wheel, and she found it sweet—diluting the dread she’d felt moments prior to their meeting. Perhaps this date wasn’t such a terrible idea.
Gaspar’s cheeks reddened as he regarded her from his seat. A server joined them, and after taking their drink orders, they were alone again. Awkward silence ensued, and Sakura focused on the jazzy melodies bouncing across the place.
“You look beautiful tonight, Sakura,” he said, at last.
“Does that mean I wasn’t before?” She teased with an old-time joke.
“No—I didn’t mean that!” Gaspar rushed to stammer.
Sakura laughed, covering her mouth. “It’s fine. I know I haven’t been at my prime lately.”
The server interrupted on cue to shut his protests, placing the drinks in front of them. Gaspar requested additional time.
“You’ve always been beautiful,” he clarified the second the man withdrew. “Always.”
Shame replaced her smugness at Gaspar’s visible distress. She treasured his compliment and his worry, realizing her jest might’ve struck a nerve.
She gifted him a timid smile, bearing his strain. “Thank you,” she whispered, and his shoulders relaxed.
He brought them back to college topics, asking what her plans were for the break, and if she was joining the summer sessions. She couldn’t provide him with a definite answer.
Her doctor had predicted four weeks for the cast, with the possibility of two additional weeks, depending on her X-ray results. Wariness peaked, and she simply glanced at her immobilized arm.
“Oh,” Gaspar murmured, reading between the quiet lines. “You’re right. Sorry.”
At the sting of his innocent slip, he gestured to the server, seeking an escape. The man approached and recorded their appetizer order—YellowTail Crudo.
While he spoke, Sakura gave him a lengthy stare. His beige polo shirt and dark pants granted Gaspar a cosmopolitan appeal, yet with a fabricated essence she couldn’t dismiss. From what she recalled, he was in her age range.
The chosen palette seemed out of character for him, but the same could be said about her and her reddish outburst. After all, she’d enjoyed their encounter so far.
Her initial deterrent toward Gaspar’s suggestion of the restaurant slowly faded, anticipation building as she looked forward to trying the food.
He caught her stare, and his lips twitched. He had misinterpreted her intentions.
“I wish I could take you to Nami,” he confessed, fidgeting with the glass in his hands, olive eyes fixing on her. “That dress demands more than a dinner date.”
Brow arched, Sakura let his compliment sink in, remembering the sourness she’d subjected him to earlier. Perhaps what she needed was an excellent distraction, and his charm had worked until now. His gallantry was achieving its goal, maybe not in the way he was thinking, but it was cracking her reluctance.
He mirrored her expression, ambitious, no longer the withdrawn Gaspar.
Fuck it.
“Okay,” Sakura accepted. “But only two hours. And if I don’t like it, we leave.”
He tilted his head and gave her a mock salute. “Your wishes are my command.”
A sly grin escaped him, gut-punching her when the motion triggered an unwelcome mosaic of lewd images: Itachi’s sneer at her urgent leg over his shoulder, calibrating her fortitude back then. A knot wove inside, and a disgraceful flush threatened, her skin blazing.
The appetizer arrived to liberate her, laid in the center of the table by the runner. She exorcised the indecent picture, focusing solely on the sushi pieces. She opted for a fork, not in the mood to test her chopsticks skills.
“No chopsticks tonight?”
She halted before picking up a piece, searching for a note of sarcasm, but his seriousness indicated otherwise. Was he really asking her such a stupid question, when she obviously could not use her dominant hand?
His second blunder of the evening, neglecting her temporary difficulty.
“No, I just decided it’d be funny to experiment eating with my left hand.” The acid reply splashed instantly.
He fractured, hushed. This time, Sakura didn’t bother to apologize or compensate for her curtness. She wasn’t blessed with infinite patience, and it wasn’t like her cast was invisible.
Unapologetically snubbing his catatonic state, just as he overlooked her needs, she selected the first piece and took a bite.
“It’s good,” Sakura assured casually, offering a nod and pointing with her fork, as if nothing had happened. “You should give it a try.”
Although Gaspar had faulted, she was determined to follow through with the date and enjoy it. These were her last days in Atlanta before returning to her home in Holly Springs, and she’d exploit them to distract herself from her torments. Even if it meant tolerating the boy sitting across from her.
For a fleeting, microscopic millisecond, Sakura thought it couldn’t go worse, and she doubted her own judgment, thinking she might’ve exaggerated.
However, the indecision went down the drain when grotesque munching pierced through her ears after Gaspar sampled the appetizer—the disgusting, clammy purse of his lips maddening her.
Two hours and you’re done, Sakura repeated as a mantra.
An eternity stretched before them both.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
The only Japanese element Nami honored was its name, and Sakura couldn’t decide what to make of that fact. Gaspar guided her through the reckless crowd with professionalism, for which she was grateful.
Sakura pressed her cast against her chest as she followed him, weaving through the dancing crowd. Blackness swept across the two-floored building, allowing the laser lights and blinking colored lamps to guide them through the hysteria.
In the far center of the ground floor, a DJ performed with absolute control over the tempo, shooting deafening beats. Sakura’s hold tightened around Gaspar’s as they traversed, and between the flashing lights, she glimpsed his furrowed brow, etched with concern.
After minutes of navigating around the club, he secured them refuge in an abandoned corner. They paused—Sakura perched against the wall, her date standing beside her. A year ago, she’d have loved this adventure, but a mixture of factors had butchered any eagerness: her lesion and scarce sleep had fogged her vitality.
“Are you okay?” he shouted above the music, drawing closer to her. She managed a sloppy thumbs-up and forced a smile.
Putting the mid-dinner tension aside, no further conflicts had arisen. Through jokes and anecdotes, Gaspar had matched her energy and recovered swiftly from his mistake, and she’d acknowledged his efforts, her apprehension gradually easing.
“It’s packed,” Sakura affirmed.
“I knew you would like it,” he concurred. She didn’t dare agree. The high demand wasn’t necessarily a mark of quality. For her, it was another ordinary club.
Gaspar’s shoulders and head jigged with the rhythm next to her, and the wave spread to Sakura, echoing his subdued fervor. He noticed, and winked at her, coaxing a chuckle out of her.
They watched the people hopping and twirling before them. Both caught sight of a few hopeless cases, whose abstract techniques made Sakura and Gaspar exchange amused glances.
The rising heat suffocated her, and she fanned air to her sweating neck as she searched for the bar.
“Would you like some water, anything?” he asked, whatever he'd bathed in assaulting her nose—closer than she would have preferred.
Sakura didn’t oppose his proximity, not deeming it threatening enough. “Yes, where’s the bar?”
“Upstairs.” He pointed above them. “I can go and get us some drinks.”
Sakura felt no goodwill toward the club’s owner, considering the bar’s location impractical rather than favorable. Besides, she felt a rush of timidity about waiting alone.
“We can go together.”
Gaspar shook his head in response, his knuckles gently grazing her cast as he rejected her suggestion. “Someone might bump into you.”
Incapable of finding fault in his logic, Sakura let him go, reflecting on his touch. His attempts, though docile, ignited nothing inside her. She wouldn’t call it unpleasant, but the underlying transgression rooted her in an unwarranted sorrow.
She pulled out her phone, craving a diversion from her mixed feelings. Ino had messaged her a considerable number of check-in texts through their group chat, and Sakura took her time to answer her friend with a quick summary―receiving an array of GIFs and innuendo-laden emojis from Naruto and Ino.
A private message popped up at the top of her screen. Shikamaru. “Let me know if you need to ditch him.”
Before she could reply to him, Gaspar poked her shoulder with a cold, wet finger. She faced him and tucked her phone back into her crossbody bag. He balanced three plastic cups: one with water, the other two containing something she couldn’t make out.
Her eyes narrowed. “I thought you said water.”
“And anything,” he added with a smirk. “Try it. I think you’ll like it.”
Sakura remembered her friend’s offer after Gaspar’s audacious assumption about her boundaries, but she figured trying wouldn’t hurt. She picked one cup and brought it to her lips, taking a reluctant, chaste sip.
The immediate, swamping taste of alcohol burned her throat, sending a lightning ache to her head, the mediocre citrus flavor following after an endless pause. She winced, shaking off the crushing sourness.
“Yeah. I’m definitely not drinking that,” Sakura said between coughs. “Give me the water.”
Gaspar shouted clumsy apologies as he juggled the cups to abide by her demand. “I thought you’d like it―it’s my go-to at clubs.”
“Your go-to,” Sakura highlighted aloud over the music. “Not mine.”
His lips parted, but nothing came. Defeat was written all over him. She stifled the regret raking from within, chugging the water as her throat demanded relief from the alcoholic scrape.
Perhaps it was time for them to call it off and go back to the dorm, she pondered. She peered at Gaspar, assessing his mood. He was already halfway through one drink. The joy that once lit his shoulders was long gone, and his forehead wrinkled in disappointment.
The night had been a cataclysm, certainly. His inexperience and her exhausted irritation were a pairing orchestrated in the ninth circle. Sakura had two options now—leave, or make gold out of her sorrow. And with Gaspar’s grounded puppy-face, her resolve was bending to his tactic.
She stopped him from bringing the second cup to his lips. “You don’t have to drink that.”
“Would hate to waste it,” he responded, omitting her request and sipping the drink.
Sakura bit the inside of her cheek, his answer resonating through every tapered corner inside her and conjuring Itachi’s words from earlier—his stern voice bleeding until it cracked the reality glass that separated them.
Why was it hard to get some peace?
She decided. If the heavens were not to lend her any triumph amid the endured kismetic events as of late, she would force her way in.
Sakura grabbed the cocktail from Gaspar’s hold and gulped the rest of the drink, choking down the aggravating flavor. She let out a loud sigh after emptying it. Her date glared, flabbergasted at the unexpected twist.
Piling up the empty cups and setting them on a ledge rising from the wall, Sakura kidnapped Gaspar’s wrist and ushered him to the center of the dance floor, ensuring to maintain a two-foot gap between herself and him.
She caved to the madness, the bass pounding beneath her feet―burying her worries to the nucleus. Gaspar’s laughter brewed around her, blurred into a buzz she couldn’t discriminate from the surrounding noise.
Bodies jostled her from every angle, accidentally jostling her forward. Sakura succumbed to the current, reveling in newfound glee until someone tapped her cast, making her twitch.
Gaspar dawned near, and caged her waist, luring her closer―shielding her from strangers. Sakura didn’t push it, allowing herself to bask in the invasive grasp. A smile broke across his face, enchanted by her deference.
“See? You just had to give it a chance,” he raised his voice over the music, bending to her eye level. Too coy. She eased him a few inches away, forbidding him to cross an unspoken boundary.
Songs passed, and his connection grew steadier, striving to fight through her reticence. Once more, Sakura traced a block between them, one he continued dismissing. She couldn’t define who was to blame: her for gratifying despite his evident urges, or him for misreading her the entire evening.
Her forearm restrained him, but her battle seemed to encourage him further. “Relax,” he insisted above the loudness. “Let yourself go.”
Sakura almost gagged. She wanted to let herself go, just not with him.
The oppressive confinement of the crowd and Gaspar engulfed her senses, the flash of the lights distorting her field of vision. The entrapment roused her mortification.
She summoned plans to escape him, plotting excuses to reach for her phone and dial any of her friends. In her momentary distraction, the boy cupped her nape and dragged her in.
Sakura tensed beneath the transgression, whimpering as Gaspar’s lips disobeyed her panicked orders—lining the curve of her chin and jawline.
She must make haste. Her body prompted Sakura to act fast. Another beat and he would annex her. Sakura appraised any open opportunity, his neck emerging as an easy target.
“Fuck off,” Sakura barked as she collected momentum and went after his carelessness, pushing him with full force.
Gaspar staggered away, bumping into people around him as he ineptly tumbled to the floor. Multi-colored beams glistened on his stupefied face. Her chest heaved in urgency, yet not an ounce of guilt pulsed through her.
Before he could squeal his manipulations, she stomped out of the crowd. Sakura yelped apologies to the scorning people she’d bumped into as she carved a path through the madness. Adrenaline throbbed in her temples, constricting her throat. A hoarse voice shouted her name behind, but she didn’t yield.
She spotted the entrance, and the view allayed her. The bouncers must have noticed her dismay, since they tried to halt her with nurturing words and questions, which she dodged―kindly shoving past them.
She stepped out of the club, escaping the danger drifting behind her. She searched for a place to hide and plan her ride, and a hotel came into view across the highway.
For the first time in weeks, the stakes fell in her favor when the walk signal flashed green. But as she attempted to cross, a déjà vu hunch settled within her, paralyzing her.
Images of her accident flooded mercilessly, and she groaned in exasperation. The muffled voice called again. Crossing her heart, hoping not to die, she lunged to the other side.
The sound of her heels against the pavement echoed on the oddly calm road as she rushed toward the hotel, not stopping until she reached safety. The theater-themed hotel entrance finally appeared, and Sakura stormed inside without thinking twice.
Two front desk agents—a man and a woman—turned their heads when she barged in. Sakura glanced at them once and hurried toward the lobby’s restroom. She nudged the double-acting door with her shoulder, her steps stiffening and heavy as she ambled toward a stall.
Once inside, locked and secured, she plummeted against the cubicle’s door, biting into her palm to suppress a wail. Raw fear and hysteria entrenched the prime bravery she felt seconds ago. Sakura kicked the metal surface behind her―the severity of Gaspar’s belligerence hovering fresh.
She should have had fun. This evening was for her to find liberation. Still, the only thing she’d gained was another layer to her ache.
A bitter, dumbfounded laugh escaped her lips. “I’m so stupid.”
The opening of a door outside startled her, and footsteps crept closer, halting before her. Someone knocked on the door behind her; the weak tremor sent another tide of dread through Sakura as she considered the possibility Gaspar had found her in there.
“Ma’am?” A soft, feminine voice spoke from the other side. She didn’t respond. “My name’s Amber, from the reception. We just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“I…” Sakura trailed off, clutching her bag.
She was not okay, and doubted she’d be for a while. Warily, she turned the knob and met the young, brown-haired lady from earlier. The receptionist’s eyes widened; Sakura assumed it was her disheveled appearance.
Sakura choked on a sob, and her barrier came undone right there, in front of a stranger. She covered her face, letting her hair shelter her sadness away. Strangely, arms wrapped around her, gratuitous and benevolent.
She let it out in what could’ve been the first act of honest tenderness after hours of deceit.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
Obito welcomed him through the back entrance of Nami, avoiding the line of people trying to enter the club. He gave Itachi a tour backstage and of the extensive storage area, explaining the layout. Employees greeted them with respectful bows, and his cousin stopped to smile and thank each one—a foreign trait for Uchiha DNA.
“I can see it’s quite popular,” Itachi commented as they headed to the first floor through the back stairs.
“Security’s everything,” Obito explained. “We’ve got zero tolerance for trouble. Can’t really afford to have incidents—bad for business.”
He nodded, appreciating his cousin’s bid to guarantee his clientele’s safety. Nowadays, drink spiking and fights erupted easily in places like this. Obito cleared the path for him, swinging the door open.
The loudness dazed Itachi, and the bustle fatigued him, but he squashed the impending feeling.
They walked through the crowd, passing filled white-leather booths with clients and bottles of alcohol. The wildness distracted him for a second, as youngsters made out in different corners of the section.
“Oh, what would I give to be young again?” Obito patted his back.
Itachi felt tempted to recommend he get a concussion, so he’d start hallucinating similar scenarios. “Disappointing love life?”
“More like nonexistent,” his cousin laughed. He tilted his head toward the bar in the center of the division, and Itachi followed him.
Three bartenders waved at them, and Obito ordered whiskey neat for both of them against his protests. He’d already been drinking at the restaurant, and he ought to stay sober. The music dulled around the counter, which gave him an infinitesimal moment of clarity he appreciated.
Obito talked about distant family members Itachi had no idea about but pretended to for the sake of his search. However, given his limited time at the business, he needed to cut right through and go straight to the accident topic. Emory was mere minutes away; his cousin would likely have heard the news. When Obito changed the topic back to his venture, Itachi took the chance.
“Isn’t this area a bit chaotic, though?” Itachi asked, raising the glass and leaning into the counter.
Obito made a so-so gesture, waggling it back and forth. “Sometimes, it’s downtown—what you would expect.”
“What about the students?”
“Good business, I guess.” Obito misunderstood his question.
Beating around the bush wouldn’t work. “I’ve heard some tragic news lately.”
Obito’s lips pursed in confusion. “Here?” He pointed down. Itachi nodded. “I actually thought we were having a clean streak.”
“Yeah, I heard there was a nasty car accident a week ago, around Emory.”
“Daily bread, unfortunately.” Obito paused, studying Itachi’s face with interest. “But why would you care about some random accident?”
The scrutiny made his skin prickle. He’d pushed too hard, too fast. His cousin interrupted before Itachi could rationalize his question, his stare narrowing. “Is it, perhaps, that you want to do business with me?”
Somehow, Itachi was thankful for the direction he’d taken. From his answer, Obito probably didn’t know much about the incident. “No.”
Obito pouted and pressed. “Why not? Is it an ‘it’s me, not you’ kind of thing?”
“It’s your last name,” Itachi retorted, cutting through pretense.
The man burst out laughing again, as if his truth had been a joke. “I guess everything good makes itself worth the wait.”
Something surprised Obito, and he swept across his torso and pockets frantically until he located his phone. His cousin excused himself, announcing he had to take a call and retreating to a private corner.
Meanwhile, Itachi remained at the bar, studying the amber liquid in his glass. Jet lag still weighed on him despite nearly two days since his arrival. He drained the whiskey, ready to wrap up their conversation once Obito returned, but minutes expanded. When the bartender offered another round, he accepted—no reason to refuse when he’d be leaving soon, anyway.
Someone bumped into him, and he glanced over. A curly-haired boy pushed through the crowd toward the bar, gesturing for the man behind the counter to approach.
“Two Long Islands and a water, please,” the boy ordered. Itachi couldn’t help but think it was a poor choice for someone so young, probably around his brother’s age.
Then again, who was he to judge when he’d poured Sasuke drinks himself?
“Bold,” Itachi remarked to the young man as the server prepared his order.
He beamed at Itachi, picking up three cups from the employee. “The best way to start the night.”
At least he ordered water, Itachi thought as he watched him leave with his drinks. He discarded the interaction quickly. If the boy said it was his favorite, he must know his limits.
Time went by, and his cousin had yet to return―Itachi found him among the maze of figures, stuck in the same phone call. Rejecting another round of whiskey, he paced around, ultimately claiming a spot against the metal railings that framed the upstairs area.
Itachi squinted against the flashing lights of the stage. He’d only been to clubs twice in his life, both times with Shisui, and he hadn’t enjoyed either occasion. Bars like AIX were more to his taste―reserved and intimate.
He observed small groups of women spinning and whirling together, couples swaying within their own bubbles. All that ravishing fun among the sweaty, tumultuous mob. His gaze wandered further toward the center, where a light-haired woman danced with her partner. The unusual aspect was that she kept creating distance between them, unlike the other couples. He could only see her back and a glimpse of her dark dress.
From afar, with the mix of hued lights and darkness, he couldn’t really ascertain what was going on until the woman struggled against her date’s hold. Itachi witnessed her shove the man away from her, making him fall to the floor.
In that instant, she turned slightly. A hint of her face was revealed under the flicker of a white bolt, and the tint of her strands became pink instead of what he had perceived as blonde.
His heart skipped a beat. Itachi knew that woman well.
"Sakura?" Disbelief colored his voice.
She retreated and vanished again into the herd of bodies. His legs moved by themselves, his eyes not missing the pink mat. He shouldered through the anarchic delirium of the club. People cursed at him and elbowed him from behind, but he ignored them—desperate not to lose this woman.
Itachi was halfway down the stairwell when he lost her. He quickened his pace, but the darkness didn’t aid him once he reached the ground floor. Now it was more difficult to find her among the numerous heads between them.
He yelled her name, cutting through the throng and walking toward the main exit. Itachi disregarded the bouncers guarding it and flung the doors open.
The avenue spread before him, and his gaze searched for her. He jogged around the building, still calling for her, but no answer came. His clamor diminished into vain quietness, the cloak of music behind him mocking his failure.
“Maybe it was my imagination,” Itachi strove to console himself, refusing to accept he might’ve lost the woman he’d been looking for years.
Someone touched his shoulder. He flinched and pivoted, arm swinging and slapping the palm away. Obito's expression distorted in confusion, backing a few steps.
“Easy there,” Obito appeased.
He scanned the alley one more time―the remnants of his dying hope possessing him.
“You look like you just saw a ghost,” his cousin joked behind him.
Itachi exhaled, and the defeat finally materialized.
A ghost, certainly.
Notes:
At least I kept my promise that he wasn't going to last, right?🤡
Save your tomatoes for your salads.
Also, I wonder if any of y'all are actually from Atlanta. I apologize for all mistakes and misrepresentations. :( I promise I try my best learning the roads and places; I even have my partner help me with locations, realism, etc.
Anywayyyy, I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter Text
Chapter IX
Veil of Inhibitions
A trail of smoke hovered before him, grazing his nostrils. His cousin’s insistent chatter muffled beneath his loud thoughts, transporting him to moments before.
It couldn’t have been her. Itachi tried to relieve his anxiety, reminding himself she wasn’t real.
He invented justifications for this phantom. Perhaps the alcohol had taken effect on his senses, showing him what he’d longed to see for so long. It had to be a mixture of all the coincidences he’d noticed since arriving in America—the salmon, the pink-haired women at the airport.
One thing was certain, though—he was more than finished with this day.
“I’m leaving,” Itachi interrupted Obito’s rambling.
His cousin made a confused sound. “What?” He peeked at his watch. “It’s still early! Clermont’s literally right there. Just one more drink.”
A curse almost escaped him. He’d forgotten his little white lie about his accommodations. His honest side urged him to tell the truth to his cousin, but Itachi remembered he didn’t owe anyone anything.
“I’ve got things to do,” Itachi declined as he tapped at his phone, ordering a ride.
“You’re no fun,” the Uchiha whined next to him, taking another drag from his cigarette. Itachi ignored him. He’d acquiesced to his cousin’s wishes to an extent, enabling himself to waver from his duty in vain, unable to rummage for any information about the incident.
From the corner of his eye, Itachi saw that Obito’s expression had hardened. “About what I said earlier—the business proposal. I meant it.”
Itachi organized his thoughts before answering, focusing on the flashing red letters on the lodge’s rooftop. “I belong in Japan. I’m not binding myself to this place.”
“You already did.” He threw the cigarette butt onto the ground, stomping on it and crushing it beneath his foot in circular motions. “Why else come back?”
Itachi feared he had a point. He was knee-deep in a mess—an illegal one. The rest of his family hadn’t caught wind of his arrival, and though he hoped it would remain that way, Obito was a factor that could interfere. However, he didn’t have it in him to ask his cousin to keep the secret. To do so would be to admit there was a weakness to hide, and he wouldn’t grant anyone such privilege.
The warning achieved its desired effect. His cousin wasn’t threatening him, but neither was he offering help. He worked and lived for his own benefit, regardless of the approachable facade he’d built.
A car came to a halt in front of them, and the passenger window slid down. “Itachi?” the male driver called, a hint of doubt in his tone. “Did I say that right?”
Itachi ambled toward the car, and the man beside him voiced no more objections to his departure until he’d grasped the vehicle's handle.
“Wait,” Obito interjected before he could enter the cab. “Before you go—who’s Sakura?”
His grip tightened and possessiveness flooded his reason, patience growing thin. He’d unleashed his panic on the world.
“No one you should concern yourself with,” Itachi replied, lowering himself into the cab.
He shut the door behind him, settling into the leather seat without bidding goodbye. A glance back revealed his cousin appraising him, arms folded, tracking the car’s movement as the driver pulled away.
Once Obito had vanished from view, Itachi relaxed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, the strain of the exchange throbbing and stinging through his sanity.
The driver bombarded him with questions about the club they’d just left and comments about the weather. He managed a few polite answers, his social battery depleting with each syllable. After long detours, and moving through the center of the city, they’d finally arrived at his hotel.
“Have a good night, sir!” The man waved as Itachi stepped out. Itachi reciprocated with a gentle smile.
City lights beamed against the tinted glass curtain walls of the Forth. A concrete, cross-shaped trellis veiled the sixteen-floor edifice, standing tall across the entire building. Its brick-covered lower floors—where restaurants and amenities were located—contrasted with the clean, abstract aesthetic of the higher ones.
He received greetings from the front desk agents. Despite the hour, people paced around, disturbing the sterile ambiance. As he headed to the elevator, the cadence of his footsteps against the ebony tiled floors mingled with the dim melodies playing across the halls.
He’d acted on impulse, Itachi realized as he waited, but Sakura’s mention was the least of his worries. One cannot find what doesn’t exist, much less when armed with nothing but a name. If his cousin attempted to pry into who she was, he would prove as unsuccessful as Itachi himself. His unease gravitated more toward the tacit message Obito had given him.
Itachi couldn’t gauge what outsiders understood about the family’s tension. The man wasn’t dumb. He must’ve probed into his absence as much as the other members had. The man’s distance from the Uchiha roots wasn’t to be underestimated—his claws gripping onto their clan with feigned blitheness.
The elevator had arrived, and he slipped in, letting it carry him back to his suite. Downtown Atlanta stretched through the glass as he ascended through the floors, the obelisk roof of the highest skyscraper soaring through the darkness with its magnificent beam.
Itachi might belong to Japan, but the way this world expanded before him agitated everything he believed he had known for years. It could be the desire to possess something out of reach or to regain agency over the life he’d forsaken. He’d never explore it—none of that elation was for him to deserve.
In the pool, a couple swam within its confines, splashing each other and cornering one another against the edge—too intimate. The banter rewound what had happened earlier at the club, circling him back to Sakura.
Regardless of whether it was her or not, the sequence of the scene caught up with him. She’d been there with another person. The bitter notion that if she were to wander into this reality like him, she might have a lover already, invaded him.
Envy welled up inside, the possibility savoring sour and abrading any pride he’d had left, along with the failure of not having protected her—as inept as the alternative-self Itachi resented.
His mind was toying with him; he strove for self-conviction. The conveyor opened, landing him on the tenth floor—the march toward his room dense and wary as the strenuous weight of the day collapsed his stamina.
Upon entering the room, he undressed bit by bit, his eyes locked on the pills sitting on the kitchen counter. Not in the mood to test his luck, Itachi retrieved the orange container. But the instructions struck him cold and merciless, ruining his plans.
“When taking this medication,” Itachi read aloud, “do not drink alcoholic beverages.”
He gripped the granite countertop, slamming the vessel against it. Itachi had sabotaged his only source of solace for the evening. Apparently, he was bound to meet her again—on his terms, or despite them.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
His arm lunged reflexively, capturing his lover’s wrist. Caught off guard, her gaze widened at the abrupt restraint. She hid her nudity under the sheets atop them. The memory settled, and he discerned what scene was about to unfold.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Itachi asked, sitting up and looming nearer, his silhouette darkening the flickering light that gleamed across her features.
She didn’t respond. Her lips formed a tense, straight line, unyielding to his intimidation. Itachi pulled her in; mere inches separated them.
“Sakura,” he pressed, his voice hoarse and demanding. She saught to jerk out of his hold, but Itachi didn’t let her.
“I don’t think I have to answer that question,” she spat. “You seem to know what my intention was.”
“I thought the conditions this union entailed were clear.”
“And I don’t remember accepting any.”
He straightened his shoulders and filled his lungs with air, composing himself. Itachi found her wit appealing. Always rebellious, even in the secrecy of their entanglement, she never bent to the powerful man before her, unnerving this version of him.
“I don’t need you to accept them, nor understand them,” Itachi retorted. “Your efforts won’t change my decision.”
Fury blazed in her eyes. “Are you saying my company isn’t worth a try?”
It was. He would have given her everything—just not in this lifetime, one where he had no option but to watch.
“It’s me who isn’t worth trying.”
His forehead tapped hers, but the delicate touch had yet to appease her as she kept fighting him.
“I won’t allow these hands that provide life,” he asserted, stroking her short, disheveled locks, “to be complicit with a criminal.”
“I became complicit the day I chose to lie bare with you.” She eased from his embrace, retreating to the edge of the bed. “Every day I wake up thinking I’ll hear of your death. Is that living?”
She freed herself of the covers, displaying her dishabille unapologetically. Itachi observed, focused on the aggressive rustle of her clothes skating across her skin.
Dressing his lower body with the pants thrown on the floor, he crossed the threshold toward Sakura. Her back faced him. Although he was approaching, it didn’t stop her from kneeling to zip her boots. She rose, and Itachi shadowed her from behind.
“You had a life before you met me, and you will continue to do so after I die.”
Sakura froze at his boldness, still holding onto the strands of her red headband. The first sob escaped—she was crying.
The gnawing futility of his endeavors to be in control—to bestow upon this woman what she needed, at least one chance to console his lover instead of witnessing her shred.
“You’re right.” She nodded, sarcasm laced in her words. “I’ve already lost once to this revenge. Why not add another one?”
His jaw tightened, and she continued, her voice breaking. “My love wasn’t enough back then, and it won’t be now.”
The hint to her past zapped him. Neither moved for what felt like an eternity. Then, the dangerous implications of her declaration sank between them.
“Love?” Itachi echoed, the syllables skidding like a sacrilege.
The paralyzing trance broke. She zipped her sleeveless top and adjusted her pouches around her thighs.
“Sakura.”
She ignored him.
Sakura pivoted and maneuvered out of his proximity, eluding his scrutiny. She paraded across the room and collected her backpack, setting it on the bed and checking its contents. He closed in, claiming the bag from her.
She stared at the ceiling, refusing to acknowledge his presence.
“Did you mean it?”
“Why would that matter?” Sakura argued. “Is it going to change anything?”
It would not. Both of them knew it. His silence confirmed it.
She scoffed and snatched her belongings from him. He didn’t strive to chase after her. This dream never failed to enrage Itachi—the lack of action and initiative that cauterized the intimacy they’d shared in that moment.
“Where are you going?”
“Anywhere but here.” She headed toward the entrance. “This room’s turned too small for the three of us.”
“Three of us?”
“You, me.” Sakura adjusted her black gloves. “And your altruism.”
She slammed it shut in her wake, storming out. Itachi lingered there, like a ghost arriving in its limbo. It was the beginning of his descent. To deny oneself to live and risk it all was to be doomed to walk dead on Earth. Yet, this man, who directed them both, seemed to embrace the condemnation.
He plummeted onto the bed, burying himself in the mattress. Itachi inhaled the linen beneath him, immersing himself in the scent his lover had abandoned him with.
A cough pierced through his throat. Itachi sat up, covering his mouth. The restless cough began, his chest heaving as the ache scorched the canal. A strident rasp came; an iron taste glided across his palate, and thick liquid pooled on his lips. Blood spilled onto the pale material below him, staining the memento of his woman.
Emptiness consumed him, mocking Itachi’s desolation. The brink of the end lurked near, and his demise would shatter all he held dear.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
She toyed with a grape she had plucked from the fruit mix Ino had brought to her dorm. The group hadn’t discussed Sakura’s disastrous date until now. Not to concern her friends, she had wrapped up the evening by ordering a ride once she felt calm enough to leave the hotel.
“What a little piece of shit,” Naruto criticized as he packed some of her books into a cardboard box. “I don’t see the appeal.”
“Naruto,” Sakura scolded. “Stop.”
Shikamaru stacked taped boxes in a corner of the room. He turned and regarded her with disapproval. “You’re not defending him, are you?”
Sakura didn’t answer, and Shikamaru huffed, incredulous. “You cannot be serious.”
Her quietness wasn’t in favor of Gaspar. But he hadn’t been the only one at fault that night. Her series of mistakes had run loose the day she’d agreed to that date, knowing she wasn’t in the proper headspace for such ventures.
Fortunately, Sakura was done with her finals, and a portion of her stress had dissipated. She had maintained her system of timed sleep, evading Itachi at all costs—not ready to confront him until she returned home.
Sakura brought the grape to her mouth. Ino, who sat beside her on the bed, cupped her hand within hers, squeezing it. Her friend had been at a loss the entire meeting, listening to the tale of her calamity—granting the judgment role to Naruto and Shikamaru.
“Hey, at least you got a free meal,” Naruto cut through the awkwardness, joking. “And half a drink.”
The jab fell flat. Sakura blinked, unable to see the brighter side. She needed nothing except sleep and a semblance of normality. Not an overpriced meal and a gasoline-tasting cocktail. There wasn’t a moment of the day she didn’t think of her accident and her rest deprivation—no other options in between.
She couldn’t even cross a road without her body doubting, tautening at the idea of being hit again. She worried this was her new life. The cast might be removed in a span of weeks, but the damage and whispers would not release her.
“Speaking about drinks—why don’t you guys go get us some from the vending machine?” Ino requested, and Sakura couldn’t have been more grateful for her timing.
“You’ve got legs,” Shikamaru bickered. “Go get them yourself.”
“Can’t you be a gentleman at least once?” Her friend snapped.
“It’s like four minutes away from here,” Naruto added, whining.
Ino gave them a withering glare without a word. Sakura hunched forward, using her hair as a shield. Another time, she would’ve found the banter funny, but the exchange was too much for her to bear in her current state.
Shikamaru clicked his tongue. “Okay! What do you want?”
“Something fruity for me,” Ino said. A brief pause ensued, but Sakura didn’t interject. “Water for her.”
The door locked, and the room grew quiet. Sakura sensed her moving around. She didn’t lift her regard, still moping.
A kneeling Ino dominated her view once she parted Sakura's strands, her touch gentle and inviting her to open up. “Are you ready to tell me what’s going on?”
She pouted. There was no fooling her anymore. She knew Sakura well enough to perceive her shifts, as subtle as they might be.
“Look,” Ino started, “you don’t have to do it now. But there’s definitely something bugging you ever since the accident. Let me help you.”
Tears began streaming. “Only if you promise you won’t judge.”
“I promise.”
“Even if it’s the most fucked up thing you’ve ever heard?”
“Hey.” She pinched her thigh. “Could you have some more faith in me?”
Sakuraclutched her pants, wrinkling the thin layer underneath. She couldn’t take it any longer. And out of all the people she could trust, the one not to scorn her would be Ino.
Sakura wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “I’ve been having these dreams…” she hesitated.
Her friend motioned for her to finish the idea. Sakura sighed.
“C'mon.” She patted the space next to her. “Get comfy. It’ll be long.”
“Oh, man.”
With her confidant beside her, and mere minutes for Naruto and Shikamaru to come back, Sakura summarized the latest events. From the day of the accident to the horrific outing with Gaspar. Through her tale, her friend didn’t flinch nor interrupt once, taking every detail in―limiting herself to occasional shocked gestures with her brows or mouth. Especially during the heated moments.
At one point, Sakura leaned back and spoke to the ceiling, ashamed to make eye contact with her friend. Ino reposed beside her, resting her head on her palm. Though she hid it, she was probably basking in the ecstasy of the gossip and the action Sakura got to experience at last, even if it was in her sleep. This was gratis smut, much like the ones she liked to read.
“And that’s it,” Sakura concluded. “What do you think?”
Ino suppressed a chuckle. “I think getting hit by a car doesn’t sound too bad now.”
That earned her friend a smack, and her laugh broke free. Sakura couldn’t help but smile at her sardonicism, feeling the load of stress draining from her after voicing her troubles. She conceded it should’ve been done earlier. But how can one explain such idiocy?
She could not. And that’s why Sakura needed her. Two brain cells were better than one.
Ino idly picked an invisible hair from her shirt and shook it off onto the floor. “So… which one do you want first—logic or delusion?”
Sakura scratched her head. “Logic?”
Ino squirmed, lying on her chest, studying the wall before her as she organized her thoughts. “Okay…” she began. “I think therapy might do you some good.”
Sakura aimed to intervene, but Ino pressed her fingers against Sakura’s lips. “Hear me out—you had a concussion, Sakura. Things like this happen; they can help you figure it out if it’s an aftereffect.”
“All they’re going to do is medicate me with who-knows-what.”
“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. But trying at least once wouldn’t hurt.”
Sakura raked her hair. “Where would I even go? Therapists are expensive.”
Ino hummed, biting her lip as she mulled over her words, pensive. Something clicked, and her expression glinted. “Westminster has a counselor. He sees people on Tuesday and Friday afternoons before Mass.”
She loathed the notion of returning to their church. Sakura grimaced and brought the pillow to her face. Ino plucked it and confiscated it, tucking it between her knees.
“That’s disgusting. You better wash it later for me.”
The girl waved her off. “You’re leaving tomorrow. No more bratty behavior. Also, stop changing the subject.”
Sakura rolled her eyes. “Okay. I’ll think about it. Happy?”
“Very much.” Ino stretched her arms, cracking her knuckles up in the air. “Now, let’s go to the delusional part.”
She continued, “It’s weird you’ve been dreaming about him so often.”
“I know.”
“And you said you can feel everything as if it were real?”
“Yes,” Sakura blushed, reminiscing about the embarrassing scenes. “So much it feels like a memory. I’m watching through a glass, but I have no control.”
Her friend frowned. “And she shares your name, voice, quirks…”
“From what I’ve seen.”
Their last encounters had not provided clues further than their names, Sasuke, a massacre, and two unknown men that were adjacent at the moment of Itachi’s alleged death. So far, their conversations had centered on the complexity of their relationship and a hint about her injury.
The corners of Ino’s lips flickered. She was having a blast, and Sakura could predict exactly what she was about to suggest next.
“Maybe we could say…” She clung onto Sakura, excited. “This is your past life!”
Sakura pushed her away. “Nonsense. It must be from a book I read.”
“Okay, why don’t we do an experiment?”
She didn’t want to entertain any crazy challenges, but her curiosity won. “What?”
“Sleep and go back there, note each detail,” she suggested, “and see if one of them slips into reality, like… meeting someone you’ve only seen in those dreams.”
“I don’t have the energy to analyze everything surrounding me, Ino.”
“Oh, believe me,” her friend reiterated. “The signs would find their way to you. No need to be hypervigilant. You’ll know once you see it.”
Part of her negated Ino’s theory. Sakura was more than skeptical about spirituality, even of the religion her parents had imposed on her since she was young. Still, she didn’t perceive any harm except for visiting Itachi again. And though she’d built a barricade against him, she missed him. Summer classes would commence, but she wouldn’t join the sessions until late June, or perhaps skip them for this year. Regardless of the outcome, she could make it work until then.
Voices resonated outside her dorm. Naruto’s distinctive laugh drilled through the drywall. Sakura cast a glance at Ino. She would regret accepting, for sure, but there was nothing to lose.
“Bet.”
Notes:
Our parents are fighting, NAUUUURRRRRR
The flashback scene was heavily inspired by our Q-U-E-E-N Diana de Gales, so kudos to her for that iconic interview she gifted us years ago.
Kind of a short chapter, but we needed a breather after the last one; A LOT happened.
Anywaaaayyyy, hope you enjoyed!
EDIT: seeked was changed to saught per my partners correction💀 sorry
Eat well, stay "bratty."
XOXO
Chapter 10: Loose Ends
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
X
Loose Ends
Never in his life had Itachi wished for the Uchiha's corrupt influence as much as he did now. If his pathetic trawl continued down this path, he would have no other option but to hire a private investigator. His attempts to find the victim had proven useless. Students had begun to leave campus for break and were too disinterested to entertain his inquiries.
If this had been Kamakura, he would have obtained the complete story within an hour. The mundane nature of these incidents stripped any importance from them. They didn't faze the residents a bit.
Nothing could be found in public police records, which could be attributed to the lack of charges filed yet. The news websites hadn't updated about the case either. Not to mention the unwanted attention he'd been drawing from people.
Itachi didn't want to resort to outside help. Hiring someone could backfire on Sasuke. These professionals had no obligation to report their findings to law enforcement, but that depended on what kind of morals the agent had.
His judgment didn't matter though. Time was running out, and the campus bustle had dimmed. He had to report his embarrassing results to Sasuke and let him decide their next course of action.
He wasn't built for these kinds of problems. His ninja-self must be recoiling in shame. They were oceans apart in abilities and talents. When the past-life therapist had told him—about a year ago—that it could be a matter of reincarnation or whatever nonsense he'd spouted, Itachi hadn't believed it.
Itachi stared at his phone, scrolling through his contacts. Sasuke's burner number appeared on screen. He'd insisted on getting a new one once Sasuke stepped foot in the US. Madara must’ve noticed his temporary disappearance. Their grandfather wouldn't rest until he discovered the truth.
He didn't understand why Sasuke had reached out to him instead of the old man. Madara had more resources, expertise, and connections to deal with this mess. By association, his brother should have been able to make use of them. Itachi, in his exile, had lost access to all of that.
On the other hand, the detail of her hair stuck with him. It was an unusual coincidence. Every rumor he'd heard had something in common: dyed pink. Whether the accounts varied in style, they pointed to the same distinctive feature. What were the odds that Sasuke had hit a woman with that exact characteristic? Like Sakura. The irony was unsettling.
However, vibrant tinges were trendy, from what he'd observed during his time at the university. He couldn't miss the bold expression among the students. Still, it didn't make the connection any less disturbing.
The GPS app guided him to a cluster of three buildings. The café he was looking for seemed to be located on the left side of the compound. The dome-like structure stood prominent and sleek, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered clear views into its classrooms. A bridge connected it to an adjacent building, creating an integrated complex.
As he entered through the glass doors, a large sign with blue letters displayed the name of the business.
In dry mockery from the universe, a blue-haired barista greeted him behind the counter. He made his way over, noting no other customers were in sight despite the lunch hour. Another indication of the decreasing activity around campus.
“Quiet afternoon?” Itachi asked with a slight smile.
She giggled. “A bit. But it'll pick up a little once the Maymester starts.”
He nodded, his gaze sweeping across the food display. “Do you go to Emory too?”
“Yep. Computer Science.”
“How's it?”
“What you'd expect.” She shrugged. “Boring classes, and even more boring professors…”
He positioned himself in front of her, leaning forward. “It can't be that bad.”
“Oh, it is.” The barista asserted. “And don't even get me started on how dull it is around here.”
The girl was opening up to him, unlike the other people he'd spoken with in the past. If she thought of her routine as monotonous, perhaps she'd heard of the accident.
“Nothing ever happens.”
“Hard to imagine. There’s got to be some story to tell.” Itachi glanced over his shoulder. “If you have time, of course.”
The girl blushed, her nervousness showing through the shy smile she hid behind her hand. Itachi was aware of his effect on some women. He disliked using this aspect to his advantage, but the circumstances justified the means on this occasion.
“Well… There’s something.”
“Really?”
Her posture hunched forward, inviting him into the conspiracy. It made him uncomfortable. Whatever information she might have couldn't be intimate enough to warrant such secrecy.
With a quiet whisper, covering the sides of her mouth, she said, “Every day, right at 12, Bowden meets with his secretary here.”
He arched a brow but pretended to understand her reference. “And?”
“He’s married!” She hissed. “And she’s a whole decade younger than him!”
He out to be more direct. The girl had offered him some ‘drama,’ for sure—but to her standards, which fell short. Not only did he not know who she was gossiping about, he didn't care about affairs. But he could see how this, for someone as inexperienced as she seemed, might relieve her tedium.
“What about the accident on Clifton? Doesn’t that count?”
“That? Old news—you’d be surprised how often it happens in that corner.” Her forehead wrinkled, disappointed. “Nothing ever gets done about it.”
She continued, “Shootings, car accidents…” The girl tied up her apron. “We call it The Death Trap.”
Itachi didn't appreciate the macabre joke, but she wasn't lying. Multiple articles had surfaced in his searches. The frequency of these incidents was complicating his pursuit.
“Unfortunate, I know—I've heard she's good though.”
A ray of hope pierced through him; at last a consolation amid the series of misfortunes. Only for it to be crushed when he sensed someone's presence behind him. He ignored it.
“Do you know her?”
“Not really.” Her finger slid across the tablet. “Are you ready to order?”
He wasn’t willing to come back defeated again, nor miss this opportunity. There must be more than what she was telling him.
“I still haven’t figured it out yet,” Itachi feigned indecision, scratching his chin. “So this girl, what happened to her?”
An uncertain sound came from her. She was becoming more hesitant by the second, probably due to the pressure of the customer behind him.
"Don't have much to say. Just heard she's from biology or something like that.”
Someone tapped his shoulder, and Itachi turned. An elderly customer glared at him, expression displeased and impatient. Four others had formed a line—two women and a pair of boys at the end. A cruel interruption. After their entire exchange, were they truly going to be interrupted at the crucial moment? Where did these people come from?
“Some of us don’t have all day, sir,” the man reproached.
Itachi suppressed an eye-roll and muttered a tepid apology to the rude customer before turning his attention back to the barista. “An iced tea, please.”
She complied without many words, embarrassed by the delay, even though it wasn't her fault. The girl moved with quick precision behind the counter, collecting an empty cup and filling it with ice and the beverage as Itachi inserted his card into the reader facing him. Feeling sorry for getting her caught in the crossfire, he left a generous tip and took his order when she returned.
He retreated, the taciturn scorn stinging him. As Itachi was leaving, he found one of the boys tracking him—brown eyes surveying him with a frown. Rueful, he smiled at him, hoping it’d make up for the inconvenience he'd caused.
Itachi pulled out his phone as he exited the building, ready to resume his meander. The academic field and physical description were too vague for his liking. Resolving they must not waste another minute on such repetitive, impractical methods, he dialed his brother.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Naruto shook the vending machine with furious impetus. They had walked four minutes away from Sakura's dorm for the dispenser to steal his two dollars.
"Great." He slammed the glass. A strawberry electrolyte was stuck at the edge of its column, and the iron claw had frozen.
“What do we do now? Ino will eat us alive if we don't bring anything back.”
It wasn't the mere fact of returning empty-handed. Shikamaru had recognized the signal Ino had sent by asking him to fetch drinks. Sakura's apprehension and defensiveness hadn't gone unnoticed—the shift after his reproach. He needed to grant them more time alone.
“It's like ten minutes away! What's up with you guys today?”
Shikamaru sighed. He wasn't fond of wandering around to distract Naruto, nor exercising his legs. “C'mon. Let's get this over with.”
As they walked to the coffee shop, silence spoke for itself—strange for his friend beside him. The last weeks of this semester had taken a toll on all of them, but most importantly on Sakura. Her accident had shaken them. She would never know how desperate and scared they had been for her. During her unconsciousness, the possibility of death had clouded his mind countless times, even when doctors assured them she'd be okay.
And they had been right—she was alive, unharmed except for her injury and concussion, when such an event could've taken anyone's life in an instant. But the scar ran deeper, somewhere none of them could decipher, nor that Sakura wanted them to.
“Is it me, or has Sakura been off lately?” Naruto asked, as if he'd read his thoughts.
“Maybe it's just… I don't know, everything? The accident, finals―”
“No. That's not it.” His friend shook his head. “She looks drained. This isn't the Sakura I know.”
Shikamaru couldn't dispute his logic. Their Sakura would've managed through the adversities. Yet tragedies like this changed people, regardless of their severity. Accepting how fragile you were, and how close you'd come to being erased from this world was a hard pill to swallow.
“All we can do is be there for her.” He scanned the road stretching beside them and the cars moving across it without any idea of what had occurred there a week ago. His pace quickened, seeking to get out of Clifton as soon as possible.
“Funny you say that.” Naruto began to walk backward, giving him a reproving look. “You were pretty harsh on her earlier.”
“So were you.”
“Dude, no. I was pissed at that asshole, not her.”
He hadn't meant to snap at her. But Sakura's submissiveness was so out of character it had thrown him off. Shikamaru had made it clear he would've helped her ditch Gaspar if she didn't feel comfortable. Yet she'd let the guy pressure her into going to the club.
“Or maybe you like her?” Naruto teased. Shikamaru rolled his eyes in response. “Then why were you so grouchy?”
“You're starting to sound like Ino.” He nudged his friend. “You know damn well who I like.”
His protectiveness would spike when it came to both his girlfriends, more so with everything that had been happening around them. Though he was lazy and passive since birth, Shikamaru couldn't shake his concerns.
“Anyway…” Naruto trailed off. “Can't believe you're staying here.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. I'll see you in August.”
The Rollins building grew larger as they approached. As they accessed it, to his surprise, a short line waited by the counter of the coffee shop. Perhaps trying to grab a last bite before heading home for vacation. Their drinks and dishes, though simple, were far better than the other options that surrounded the university's campus.
Three people queued in front of them. Naruto read the menu aloud, discussing what to buy for their friends, while Shikamaru noted how some customers had their arms folded, tapping their feet, impatient. Someone even cleared their throat.
He tilted his head to get a peek at what was going on. A tall man with long black hair—tied in a ponytail—was at the front of the counter. Shikamaru wondered if he was taking too long to order and that's why the others were annoyed.
“We should get them some smoothies. What do you think?”
He didn't pay attention to his friend's question, focused on the man holding up the wait. Shikamaru watched him offer brief apologies before turning and revealing his face. He recognized him—he'd seen this guy roaming around the business school a few days ago.
He couldn't be a student, Shikamaru determined. His clothes, despite being casual, appeared quality. His navy blue button-down shirt and black dress shoes were too polished and pristine, definitely high-end. He remembered how out of place the man had seemed that day.
Or maybe he just had good taste; he countered his own assumptions. The man spotted Shikamaru's gaze and offered him a modest smile, along with an acknowledging tilt of his head.
Yeah, there's no way he's a student, Shikamaru thought, He looks older. Maybe a new teacher?
“Hello?” Naruto waved in front of him. “What are we getting?”
Shikamaru dismissed the feeling the man had left him with, though he decided he'd keep an eye on him. He checked his watch: 2:55 P.M.
“They must be hungry, so…” He studied the screen above the employees. “Two strawberry smoothies. Spinach quiche for Sakura. Sausage and cheese bagel for Ino.”
“Perfect. Go order.”
“Me?” Shikamaru squeaked. “I already figured out what they want. And it was my two dollars the machine stole. Your turn.”
Naruto whined and complained, but Shikamaru steered him toward the cashier. “Don't forget Sakura's water.”
As his friend ordered, he searched the ground floor trying to spot the lurking guy again, but came up empty. He shouldn't be that interested. Yet he was. If he was a professor hanging around campus, that could explain things. Maybe the visitor was some kind of creep, but no weirdo went around wearing shiny Oxford shoes.
“They'll call us when it's ready.” Naruto interrupted his train of thought, heading to an empty table. Shikamaru nodded and followed.
He had other matters to worry about, and the stranger was the least of his priorities.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
With Dolly out of her dorm and no one to wake her up, she'd allowed herself to oversleep this evening. It had been days since Itachi and Sakura's last encounter, before her date with Gaspar. And there they were, staring at each other. She lay on the bed, while he towered by her side in the black coat.
It appeared this moment was a sequel to the earlier dream, for which Sakura was grateful. She'd accepted Ino's proposal. She would note and document every detail of this vision, starting with his headband. The metal surface bore a bird-like symbol carved into it, with a straight line stretching across, disrupting the design.
Yet, the longer she analyzed it, her understanding of the emblem changed—she wasn't sure if the spiral pattern matched her initial impression.
“Take off your vest,” Itachi ordered, his voice emotionless.
She sat up and pushed herself to the center of the bed, creating more distance between them, clutching her top.
“Why?”
“I need to confirm something.”
“Can’t you do it without me stripping in front of you?” She argued. “Isn’t it enough to see me in this state?”
He didn’t care much about her reasoning. “You forget I’ve already seen you naked, ever since I tended your wound.”
She didn't budge at his request. Instead, she squirmed and entangled herself within the covers—hiding from him. Her cheeks burned. This confirmed Sakura's suspicions: she was witnessing the beginning of their relationship.
A spiking pain needled her abdomen, and she shrank into a fetal position. She winced when her skin stretched, squeezed together with a compressing bandage. It must have been the injury Itachi had referenced—he'd stitched it up.
“Just let me check your back,” Itachi attempted to negotiate.
“Not before you explain why.”
She heard him sigh. Sakura could feel a tiny bit of sympathy. She hadn’t forgotten his arrogance, but this woman didn’t help her case either. In no position to negate his aid, she remained intransigent.
“I don’t think it’s poison blocking your chakra.”
Sheets flew at his words as she untied herself from them.
“What do you mean?” She sputtered. He didn’t answer, and her voice broke. Sakura had a feeling the girl already grasped the underlying message beneath his insinuation.
His grimness advised bad news. “Do I need to say it?”
Her lips pressed shut, and her shoulders tensed. The question, though it didn’t sound like an accusation, implied something Sakura wished to discern.
“I don’t―”
“The only doctor in this village died not long ago,” Itachi cut in. “From a virus.”
She vacillated, and he added, “Along with the one nearby.”
Vanquished and demoralized, Sakura twisted on her seat, her back facing the stolid man. Her hands trembled as she unzipped her garment. The piece dropped from her upper body in a slow rustle, and the cold air sent a chill to her muscles. She closed her eyes, uncomfortable beneath his dissection.
Itachi inclined toward her, his breath grazing the unconcealed flesh as he examined it for a little too long. She wanted to know what he was seeing that she could not―was it like chickenpox?
“I have it, don’t I?” she muttered, resigned.
The nylon fabric slid upward along her spine, a finger slithering and draping it onto her shoulders―the trace languid and deliberate. Bold. A startled whimper escaped her, yet she didn’t lunge to physically oppose the caress.
“You do.”
A thud filled the gaps of quietness as Sakura composed herself. Once done, Sakura confronted the man sitting on the floor. Their gazes locked, and none of them dared to say anything. She used the extended pause, appraising his skin, which had paled, ripped of the warm undertones she’d admired before―making him look ill and exhausted.
Disregarding her ache and Itachi's scowl, she crawled out of the bed, her bare feet colliding against the wood beneath. Sakura pressed against her stomach, kneeling onto the floor. She bit into her thumb until it bled, her hands forming a mixture of signs.
“I would not do that,” Itachi's voice interfered. “You have little to no chakra left. Are you truly going to waste it on a summon?”
“I need to notify the Leaf.”
“It'll take them more than a week and a half to reach here—it'll be too late then.”
The girl stopped speaking after his statement. Whatever they were discussing, it sounded like he had a point. Otherwise, she would have countered him. Another moment passed. Sakura couldn't read this person's thoughts, but the grip of her hands showed her frustration.
Sakura rose, struggling to maintain balance. “You're sick,” she stated. “You cannot even use your chakra. Don't try to deny it. I've heard your cough.”
He didn’t bother to dispute her theory.
“That doctor...” Sakura carried on, “You’ve come to see him. Is that why you dragged us here?”
“I don’t remember granting you the right to question me.”
“I am not,” she reiterated. “I’m simply laying all the cards on the table.”
In the split of a second, he was standing before her. The sudden motion didn’t intimidate her; she remained undaunted in front of his threatening tactic. Blazing, red daggers glowered at Sakura. She would never grow tired of them, no matter this couple’s endless banter and polarizing stances. Even as the pinnacle of her hindrances, and in his own inanimacy, Itachi was the embodiment of prestige.
“I think we share the same goal.”
He tilted his head, still menacing despite his weak condition. “What is that?”
“To live,” she droned, as if to admit it was a sin. “I can help you, but I’d need to recover―overcome this illness and stabilize my reserves.”
“Quite intrepid of you to assume I don’t have other options.”
“You do not,” the girl retorted. “If that was the case, you’d have gotten rid of me. Yet, here we are.”
In front of his expectance, she said, “Let’s make a deal, and be done with this grotesque collaboration.”
Sakura wondered if this person had ever come to regret those words―the very ones that would steal her life away, and bury her morals beneath all layers of the Earth’s core. And as she lost herself in the flames of his crimson abyss, the weight of her offer struck her: she’d bargained with the devil.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Her father's laugh vibrated through her ears, snapping her out of her disconcert. She sat inside the car with the door open as her parents finished filling the car with boxes and suitcases. Her thoughts kept drifting to her dream, where some answers—despite their vagueness—had been given.
The terms of their arrangement had become clearer, advantages and losses schemed out before her. Both of them had been ill. Whether from the same disease or not was still to be determined. Sakura had documented each new fragment of content on her phone, creating a notepad she would later share with Ino according to their deal.
Sakura cast a glance at her dorm building. She wasn't going to miss it, not after the chain of misfortune she'd experienced. Except for Dolores—her roommate was pure sweetness, and she prayed to any god that could hear her to have the girl as her companion again. But such repetitions were like finding a needle in a haystack. And her luck had proven disappointing.
The trunk slammed shut, jolting her. Mebuki hopped into the passenger seat, while Kizashi took the driver's.
“Are you ready?” Her mother asked, meeting her reflection through the rearview mirror. “Aren't the guys coming?”
“We met yesterday,” Sakura replied, tightening her seatbelt. “Shikamaru’s helping Ino, and Naruto’s probably gone by now.”
Mebuki nodded. “I bet they'll be knocking at our door tomorrow morning.”
Her father made a comment in Japanese, which her mother chuckled at. Sakura almost changed her mind and demanded they turn around and leave her. Ever since she was young, one could only speak their mother tongue at home. Though she understood the language and could sustain a casual conversation, it was easy to miss the rhythm while talking with them. Perhaps her visions would force her to improve, instead of just igniting unwelcome sensations.
“Only three more weeks to get that thing off, sweetheart,” Mebuki chirped. “What are your plans? Are you joining summer classes after that?”
"Can't say I've decided yet. It all depends on how I feel once it's off.”
Her father grimaced at her thick accent. “You know, Mom and I were thinking it would be a good idea for you to visit Aunt Shizune.”
Sakura retrieved her phone from her purse. “Yeah… I'm not doing that.”
“Why not?” Mebuki turned around in her seat. “It would be fun! And you can practice—dust off your Japanese roots and learn. It's been so many years since we went.”
“Good luck having fun with a cast on,” Sakura huffed. “I want to see you try it.”
Not to mention the four-digit expense—flying half a day didn't sound appealing in her current situation. Impaired, haunted by a peculiar, devastatingly attractive man. Also, it’d been a while since she last spoke with her aunt.
“Just give it some thought, okay?” Kizashi insisted. “You’ve got plenty of time before the next doctor’s appointment. We can discuss it again then.”
Sakura let the matter rest, saving her energy for her interactions with Ino and Itachi. Despite not having any actual conversation with the latter, she would still reserve her mental strength for him.
Her parents switched to other topics, and she focused on her phone and her notes: leaf, virus, chicken-shaped emblem, Itachi, and chakra. In a desperate moment, she began searching them online. Not much came up for any of the references. Unsurprised, she tried the name. Millions of results appeared—she clicked her tongue and closed the browser tab. She refused to indulge this madness. Like everything else, Itachi didn't exist.
A notification flashed across the screen. A text message from Ino—a link to a video on another platform. Sakura tried to watch it, but the website wouldn't play until she downloaded the application on her phone. She typed back:
[ SH ]
Can’t see it. What is it?[ IY ]
Why?[ SH ]
Don’t have TikTok.
[ IY ]
🙄 🙄 🙄 🙄 🙄
I’ ll screen-record it but you really need to quit this anti-social media BS.
She would not. Neither her parents nor she were fans of it. In her case, Sakura had seen the horrors that could follow after a mistake. The online fingerprint was something she wasn't engaging in. Whereas Mebuki and Kizashi were simply not tech-savvy.
“By the way, sweetheart,” her mother called. “I forgot to mention Shizune's now living in Tokyo, and working with some kind of famous manager—” She raised her hands in surrender after a narrow-eyed Sakura glared at her. “Just putting it out there. It could make your summer interesting.”
Sakura hummed sarcastically and settled against the window beside her—Emory had faded into the distance as they drove farther from Atlanta, leaving the city and returning to Holly Springs.
Yet, the news about Shizune lingered, and her curiosity magnified. In reality, a trip didn't sound bad at all. She'd thought the same about her date with Gaspar. She needed to resolve whatever this obstacle was and bring her life back to normality, and then she could enjoy such adventures.
But what if she wasn't capable of it?
Notes:
“Take off your vest."
SIKEEEEEE I GOT YOU THERE
NEW POV UNLOCKED
And yes, I do think the Konoha symbol looks like a chicken instead of a leaf. Hashi and Madara needed to hire graphic designers before making any decisions
AND YES, both Sakura and Itachi are dumbasses in their modern versions.
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