Chapter Text
Your hands hover just inches above Tanaka's chest, fingers trembling with precise control. A soft, seafoam green light glows from your palm, pulsing in time with your breath. The chakra swirls, controlled due to your focus, until it begins to seep into the torn muscle, closing the ragged edges of the wound beneath his skin.
Sweat forms at your temple. The light brightens slightly, then steadies. Beneath your hands, Tanaka's breathing begins to even out. His torn skin knits itself back together, slow but sure, like time is reversing in that one spot.
"You really ought to take care of yourself during battle, Tanaka," you say when his skin is finally patched up. You wipe the sweat off your forehead with the back of your right hand and lay back, your palms resting on the rubble. "And look at all the mess you made." You eye the destroyed building which is now in ruins, adding on to the already damaged road.
Tanaka lays back, placing his arm underneath his head, and looks at the sky. "You say this knowing my technique requires destruction," he says, sighing.
"You could work on it, you know. Try to be more like Itachi-san. He's careful with his surroundings." You roll your eyes, standing up and patting the back of your pants to wipe off any excess dirt.
"Do you ever not talk about him?" Tanaka says, his tone serious now. "Seriously, I'm starting to wonder if I can spend a single day with you when you don't utter a word about him."
You offer him a hand, and he takes it, pulling himself off the ground.
"Absolutely not," you say, your eyes narrowed. "You've known me long enough to know that's impossible."
He raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, only somewhat over a decade, and you have never complimented any of my work like you do his," he says, shaking his head.
That's when you spot a crow flying towards you, holding something in its beak. You bring your hand up, and stick your index finger out, giving it a place to rest.
"Speak of the devil," Tanaka mutters.
The crow lands lightly on your finger, dropping the letter into your palm. Before you can speak, its wings flare, and it lifts off in a rush of air, disappearing into the sky.
"You should go home, Tanaka," you say, not knowing exactly why you don't want him to be here when you read the letter. "It'll be a long day."
Tanaka only nods at you before disappearing into the air, leaving no trace behind of himself.
You take a second to yourself before finally opening the letter.
Your eyes scan the words written messily with ink, hinting the hurry in which you are needed.
You fold the paper back up and gather your small box of herbs and medicine before taking your leave.
"Itachi-san? It's me. You called?" you say, your fingers brushing against the loose concrete of the walls. "Itachi-san?"
In a distance, you hear his familiar cough. You've heard it so many times before that it's almost engraved in your brain.
Your pace fastens without you even noticing as you run in the direction of where you heard his cough, only slowing when you see him crouched on the ground, his hand covering his mouth.
You see the stain of red on his sleeve, and the blood rushing down from his mouth into his hand.
You rush towards him, taking hold of his body in your arms, as you gently pat his back.
"You're okay," you say, trying to convince yourself more than you are him. "I'll fix this. Don't worry."
You guide his head to your lap, and this time, unlike all the times before, he gives in without hesitation, letting it rest cozily on your legs. His eyes are closed, making it unable for you to see if his Sharingan is on or not.
You hold his head lightly as you reach for your box of medicine. You sit back into place and open it, your eyes moving back and forth between the many small bottles of medicine you have.
When you finally spot the bottle made for him, you pull it out.
You open the bottle with a small pop. "Please open your mouth."
Itachi obliges and you slowly pour the liquid into his mouth, immediately seeing the relief spread across his face once he swallows. His eyes, which were clasped tightly shut, now have a soft hint of ease to them.
His lashes flutter as he opens his eyes, his gaze locking on to you.
His dark irises, which are usually painted crimson due his Sharingan almost always being on, rest on yours.
He lazily blinks at you, and you see his lips twitch.
Time stops for a moment when your eyes drop to his lips, and you notice the position you're in, your brain alarming you that this is too much all at once.
The reality of it all hits you too soon.
Itachi is in your lap. His head is resting on your legs. This is probably the closest you both have been except when you are inspecting him.
It's like the realization hits you both at once, because his eyes go wide and he rips his head away from your legs as you stumble back, trying to give him a respectful distance from you.
You clear your throat, trying to rid yourself of the thickness in it. "I—I shouldn't have been so close."
Itachi shakes his head, his eyes still wide. "No, it's my fault," he says. "I should have put up more of a fight when you—when you…" His voice dies down.
You wait for him to finish, but when he drops his head to the floor, you just smile as you bring your hands down to your pants, pulling out a cloth from the small brown pouch attached to them.
"Give me your hand, please."
Itachi hesitates before finally bringing forward his hand for you and you take grasp of it. You brush the cloth lightly against his palm to wipe away the blood on it.
"Have the effects been bad lately?" you ask, sadness lingering in your voice.
Itachi's gaze remains on his hand which you are tending to. "I'll be fine."
You scoff, shaking your head. "I didn't ask if you'll be fine. I asked about your effects."
A shallow breath escapes him. "Yes, they have."
"Have you been regularly taking the medication I prescribed?" You narrow your eyes at him.
Itachi avoids your gaze as he slowly shakes his head. "I try, but with all the missions, it's sometimes too much of a hassle."
"It's too much of a hassle to take care of your health?" you say, your tone clipped. "Itachi-san, I don't risk my safety to come give you medication just for you to not take my procedures seriously. If you are not going to listen to me, I'm afraid you're beyond saving."
The guilt settles on his face, and for a moment, you wonder if what you said was too hurtful. But at the same time, you're tired of telling him to take care of himself. His lack of concern makes it even easier for his illness to catch up to him.
Itachi's gaze stays towards your hands as you keep wiping.
"I won't be here much longer anyway."
You sigh. "You're still going on about that?"
You finish cleaning up his hand and loosen your grip, and he hesitates before pulling it back, letting his hand linger in yours for just a moment too long.
"What makes you think I wouldn't be?" he asks, genuine curiosity lingering in his voice.
Your eyebrows furrow together. "Never mind. Just lie back."
He slowly slouches before finally letting his head rest against the floor.
Your hands hover over his eyes before your chakra makes its way back out, the green glow reappearing like it did just a few hours ago.
Itachi sighs as you heal whatever smaller wounds he has on his body.
You only stop when the weakness finally hits you, and the green light of chakra has finally faded.
"I did the best I could. The rest is on you, Itachi-san. I can't do much more if you don't take care of yourself," you say, waving yourself with a hand to rid yourself of the sweat that has formed due to the immense focus you were putting in.
"I'll get going now. Take care." You stand from your spot and turn around, and just when you are about to leave, you feel his warm hand take hold of you.
"Don't go," he murmurs.
You turn to see his eyes closed. You're not sure if he's sleeping or just resting his eyes, but his hand clings to you like it's the only thing that matters.
That's when you notice he's warm.
A little too warm.
One thing you're certain about is that Itachi never gets warm. The few times his hands have brushed against yours, you've never failed to notice that he's extremely cold.
You quickly sit back down and bring the back of your hand to his forehead.
"You're burning up."
A soft groan leaves his lips, and your eyes soften.
You can't even imagine how much pain he must be in right now. It aches you to see him like this when you can't do anything but extend his life just a little longer.
In the end, his destiny is settled. This illness will take him, no matter how much care or medication you give him.
Your lips tremble.
Because you know Itachi.
He won't go down without following through with his plan.
You're not even supposed to know about it. But the heavy herbs and drugs in the medicine you had given him had caused his mind to become too hazy for him to think, and he spilled almost everything.
You didn't tell him about it all, though.
Just bits and pieces.
You didn't tell him you knew the truth about why he massacred his clan.
You didn't tell him you knew how guilty he felt about everything with Sasuke.
You only told him you knew about his plan to end his life by Sasuke's hands.
And he never denied it. He just nodded in that way he always did, and told you that's why he needed you.
He needed you to prolong his life just long enough so he could go down from his brother's hands.
And you pretended to play along.
You pretended that's all you knew. Because in the end, it's not your place to tell others about how kindhearted of a person he actually is.
If he doesn't want anyone knowing, you won't go against his wishes.
You made a promise to yourself that you'd die protecting the truth he so innocently told you without even knowing.
"Let's get you to bed." You take hold of his arm and tuck it over your shoulder, helping him stand up.
You know the strong medicine has pulled him under once again, and soon enough, he'll start talking about all the moments he regrets and all the pressure he's put on himself.
Part of you wants to listen, but you know better.
You know better than to invade his privacy.
Itachi drags his feet as he grips onto you for support as you drag him to the small bedroom in his hideout.
You walk over to his bed, and slowly help him down. He quickly lays down and you make your way out of the room to get some cold water to help cool him off.
I'll leave soon, you think.
You grab a clean cloth from your pouch and soak it into the cool water, placing it on Itachi's forehead.
You've used too much of your chakra today, so you have to use other remedies to help heal him.
You apply pressure to the cloth, ringing it several times before soaking it back into the water and placing it on his forehead all over again.
You can tell he's asleep, but even with sleep taking him under, the tension in his eyes never leaves.
You wish you weren't so helpless. You wish you could help change his mind, or at least make him believe he isn't the monster he himself, and the others have made him out to be.
You stare at his closed eyes that hold too much weight, too much responsibility.
You've never felt this way before, never felt so helpless.
You have always been a smart kunoichi. It takes you one look to see what someone's illness might be. It takes you one look to come up with remedies to prevent the symptoms of one's disease.
But now as you stare onto the man who is feared by nations, you realize he is just as utterly helpless as you.
Several hours pass and you change the cool cloth several times to keep his temperature down. When even a little bit of chakra builds up, you switch to helping him with your medical ninjutsu, before switching back over to the cloth.
And as these hours pass, you realize you won't be going home tonight.
You occasionally hear him mutter something in his sleep about how guilty he feels, and how sorry he is, but you try your best to ignore it, because it isn't your place to listen.
You don't even know why he keeps you around.
You don't even know what you mean to him.
All you know is that you are to protect him.
You don't know if you do it out of instinct built from all the medical training you received, or the genuine connection you've built with him ever since you met him three years ago.
You press the cool edge of a cloth to his forehead, and tell yourself it’s just what any medic would do.
The fever’s down, but he’s still far too pale. The kind of pale that looks permanent, like the color has been scraped from beneath his skin and won’t ever return. His breath is steady now—steady because of you—but that doesn’t mean anything. You were trained to do this. Heal the wounded. Stabilize the dying. Harden your heart when necessary.
So that’s what this is. Compassion. Duty. A sense of responsibility. That’s all.
It’s not love.
It’s not love, even when your hand lingers too long on his cheek. Even when you catch yourself memorizing the pattern of his lashes, the slope of his brow, the shape his mouth takes when he’s asleep and unguarded.
It’s not love when you wait for his eyes to open just to be sure he’s still here. When you stop breathing every time he coughs. When you sleep sitting up, just in case he needs you in the night.
That’s worry. That’s instinct. That’s normal.
You bite the inside of your cheek, a little too hard. A punishment, maybe, for the thought that dares to slip through.
What happens if he never comes back?
You shake your head. "Don’t be stupid," you whisper. "You knew this was coming."
Because you did. You’ve always known he wouldn’t stay. That this—these quiet nights by the fire, this ridiculous rhythm the two of you fell into without ever talking about it—was borrowed time.
You knew his eyes were always looking somewhere else, even when they were looking right at you.
You knew his heart was spoken for—by vengeance, by guilt, by the weight of everything he’s never let you carry.
So you don’t love him.
You can’t.
Because if you do, then this is more than just another goodbye. If you do, then he’s not just another broken body passing through your care. If you do—if you really do—then you’re going to lose something you’ll never get back.
And you’ve lost too much already.
You glance at him, lying there with his hand curled slightly toward your side of the bed. He always does that. Reaches in his sleep. But never when he’s awake.
Your chest tightens, slow and hollow.
No. Not love. Not that.
Something else. Something softer. Something easier to live with when the dawn comes, and he walks away from you for the last time.
You tuck the cloth back into the bowl and whisper to no one, "It’s not love."
But your heart doesn’t believe you.
When the sun starts to rise, and your hands begin to ache from all the times you've used your healing jutsu, you finally sit back in a chair, just to rest your eyes.
I'll leave soon, you think again.
You're just resting your eyes for a bit after spending all night taking care of a man you do not love.
You're not sure when sleep pulls you under, but you know that your eyes close a little too easy and your mind rests a little too much.
When you wake, the first thing you notice is the blanket draped over your body, and the fact that you are no longer on the chair next to the bed, but in the spot Itachi slept on last night.
The second thing you notice is that Itachi is gone, leaving no signs of him being here in the first place.
You know the next time you see him will be in another location, for his and your own safety, of course.
Will you even see him another time?
You shake your head as you stand from the bed. You fold the blanket and place it in its rightful place. You kneel down near the chair to gather your things when something catches your eye.
A note is placed neatly on top of your medicine box.
You carefully grab it, opening to see Itachi's handwriting. It's neat this time, unlike the letter from yesterday. You read the note, hoping what's written on it isn't anything that will make you worry.
Thank you for everything last night.
It's minimalistic, but it means so much more than you could ever let on.
It means that he knows you care about him. And even though he may not know how much, at least he knows there is one person in the world who will stick by his side without expecting anything in return.
You fold the note and carefully place it in your pouch, leaving the hideout after gathering your things.
You walk until you see the familiar sight of the forest that leads you to your house.
Jumping up, your feet land on a branch of the nearby tree.
You speed up, the forest blurring past in streaks of green.
Your sandals barely skim the surface of a moss-covered branch before you’re airborne again, sailing through the canopy with the grace of a hawk in flight. Wind lashes your face, snapping strands of hair across your cheeks as your eyes lock onto your next foothold—a thick bough jutting from an ancient tree, slick with dew and dappled sunlight.
You land without a sound, chakra concentrated in the soles of your feet, anchoring you just long enough to coil your body and launch off again. The leaves tremble in your wake.
Branches claw at your pants as you surge forward, body weaving through tangled limbs and hanging vines with instinctive precision. Every leap is calculated. Every movement honed. You barely touch the trees—only long enough to redirect your momentum. Birds scatter from your path. The forest murmurs with rustling leaves, the occasional creak of a disturbed limb, but otherwise, you’re a phantom—gliding.
Below, the forest floor is a blur of foliage and darkness. Above, shafts of sunlight pierce through the canopy in golden slashes. Your breathing is steady, synchronized with your chakra flow, each inhale pulling energy to your core, each exhale fine-tuning your balance.
Just ahead, the clearing flashes into view. You twist your body midair, flipping once before landing on the curved arch of a bamboo stalk that bends under your weight, creaking, then springs you forward like a slingshot.
Your house comes into view and you slow down, stepping off the branch and onto the dirt.
In the distance, you see Tanaka standing in front of the door, his arms crossed.
You know he's going to give you a lecture for not coming home during the night.
Your lips turn into an awkward smile, and you lift a hand, waving at him.
He doesn't wave back.
As you walk closer to him, you see his narrowed eyes and the disappointment in his expression.
"Where were you all night?" he asks bitterly.
"Itachi-san got really sick, so I just thought—"
He cuts you off. "He's not your responsibility. He doesn't even pay us," he says, his tone clipped.
You knew he'd get angry. Tanaka is overly protective over you ever since you both left the village.
And if it weren't for you, he'd still be at home, completing missions for the Leaf, living a much more comfortable life.
"Don't blame him, Tanaka." You drop your eyes to his calloused hands. "You know I told him to stop paying us. He never complained about the money. He always paid us on time."
Tanaka rolls his eyes. "And yet you still work overtime for him yet receiving nothing in return."
Shame creeps into the lower pit of your stomach, and you stay quiet, unsure of what to say.
"Are you in love with him or something?" Tanaka asks.
You lift your eyes to meet his, the disbelief in them certain.
"Tanaka—"
"Don't forget he's a criminal. Nothing more."
That strikes you in the chest. Because you can take Tanaka's words when they're directed at you, but when he speaks about Itachi this way without knowing a single thing about him, it hurts you.
"You don't even know him," you mutter.
"I know enough to know he's not good for you," Tanaka says, not letting you win.
"Yeah? Then who is?" you say, raising an eyebrow.
Sometimes Tanaka gets on your nerves. Though he's a great friend most of the time, he's too overprotective.
And it makes sense, to an extent. But when he tries to make decisions for you, it irritates you.
Tanaka's mouth opens, then closes again, like he's thinking of what to say next. His eyes drop to the ground, avoiding eye contact with you.
"Just come inside and eat," he says, turning around to face the inside of your shared home.
He starts to walk inside and you follow, not letting him leave without a fight. "Then who is, Tanaka?" you say, your voice raised. "Come on, tell me!"
Tanaka keeps walking, ignoring your question.
"Tanaka, you know I hate when you do this. Answer my damn question!" You grab his arm and force him to turn around to face you.
Though he tries to put up a fight, you continue to pull him towards you.
"Me, okay?! I'm good for you!" he says, stumbling back from your touch. "Are you happy now?"
You drop your arms to your sides, and look up at him.
His eyes have a defeated look in them.
"Tanaka…" you start, and then your voice dies down, because you don't even know what you were going to say.
"Just come eat," Tanaka says, turning back around and walking towards the kitchen.
You follow him, your steps slow, your gaze set on the floor.
Tanaka pulls out the dishes from the cabinet and sets them down, bringing a pot of cooked food immediately after. He picks up the wooden spoon from the pot and drops some curry into the plate.
"Come, sit." Tanaka pulls out the chair from underneath the table and you walk to it, slowly taking your seat.
You don't know what to think.
Tanaka has been your best friend ever since you were a child. You both did everything together after the tradegy that occurred in both your lives brought you together.
You love him so much, but not having parental figures in your life in so long made you unsure of what feelings like love meant.
You don't know what you feel for Tanaka is care or affection.
And you don't know what you feel for Itachi is love or admiration.
All you know is you want them both in your life, and if too much time goes by without seeing either of them, you'll start to worry.
Tanaka walks away from the chair, and starts to make his way towards the living room.
"Are you not going to eat?"
He stops, just to resume walking right after, not even looking back at you to answer. "I already did."
He closes the kitchen door behind him and you are left alone with all the thoughts your mind has occupied you with.
What do you feel for Itachi?
Do you love him?
Is Tanaka right?
You never understood why you suddenly wanted to start meeting Itachi more often at his hideouts. You just thought you wanted to do everything you could to help prolong his life.
But now, it's like Tanaka has opened a whole another door, making you doubt everything you thought you knew.
Notes:
this idea took me so long to get around because I didn’t want to mess it up at all, and now I feel like I’m finally in the right headspace to write it. I hope you all enjoyed it since this story is already very dear to me.
updates will either come out weekly or bi-weekly, depending on how fast I finish chapter 3 since that’s the only chapter left to be written.
thank you for all the love and support, each and every single form of interaction means so much to me. I love you all! :)
connect with me on tumblr! @itachisarchive
Chapter 2: Middle of Somewhere
Notes:
playlist (in no particular order):
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5DLgZ8oGApOupBUhI5OAO0?si=3yvljHJyTdCvVSRQikQwiQ&pi=1b5m7cLNQa268
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Fifteen years ago, the Nine Tails attacked the Hidden Leaf village, destroying many homes and families.
The attack brought irreversible damage to the village, leaving traumatized villagers, and many children without parents.
Two of those children were you and Tanaka.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
"Children and civilians, please follow us!" a Chunin screams, waving a hand to help bring everyone to safety.
Your mother sits down, her knees shaking as she rests them against the ground. She kisses your cheek while your father stands to her right, his hand resting on her shoulder.
"Mama and Papa will be right back, okay? In the meantime, be good for the adults." Your mother's palms rest on either side of your cheek, but you see what she doesn't tell you.
She is just as afraid as you are. Yet she still puts up a strong front for you, just so you won't worry.
"Okay, Mama," you say quietly.
It's like a part of you knows what's about to happen.
Your mother stands up, and your father picks you up in his arms. He plants kisses all over your face, and rests his cheek against yours.
"We love you so much, baby. Don't you ever forget that." His fingers run through your hair and he places one last kiss on your forehead as he slowly lets you down.
You do not cry.
Shinobi do not cry.
You don't ask them to stay, even though that's all your heart is saying. Even though it's all your mouth is aching to scream.
You stay quiet and nod.
This is their duty, you tell yourself.
Your parents wave at you, tears in their eyes as they turn around and take flight.
You walk to the Chunin, joining the other civilians and children walking to safety.
It isn't long before the adults start to freak out, and trample smaller children like you just for their own safety.
Someone steps on your foot, and you trip.
Just as your face is about to hit the ground, you feel someone's fingers wrap around your arm.
They're small like your own, so you can tell it's someone your age.
Your mother always tells you how observant you are. Even at five years old, you never fail to miss anything. She tells you that you are a gifted child.
The unknown hand pulls you up, and you're finally back on your feet.
Your feet move forward on your own, the civilians around you rushing for reasons of their own, but you turn your head to look at the person who helped you.
You want to at least tell them thank you before you get lost in the stampede of people.
The hand around your arm loosens and you rip your eyes from the contact of skin to find the face that belongs to the person who saved you.
Your eyes lock onto the dark ones that are staring at you, and you quickly murmur a quiet thank you before giving him a soft smile. The boy has a baby right above his stomach, his hand resting underneath its head.
The boy returns your smile with one of his own. His grip loosens completely, now letting go of your hand.
His face slowly disappears into the crowd, and you turn your head back to face the front, your pace now matching the crowd's.
When you finally reach the underground shelter, you sit alone, your hands locked on to each other over your folded knees. Your head rests on the wall, your eyes staring up at the ceiling. You wonder when your parents will come back.
A boy your age takes a seat next to you. His dirty blond hair is messy and his eyes are red from what looks like crying.
"M—my parents left me," he wails, wiping his tears away from his face. "I begged them n—not to go!" he stutters.
You frown, not knowing what to say. You pat your shoulder, offering him a place to rest his head on.
He quickly slides over, and rests his head on your shoulders, hiccuping as his cries continue on.
"What's your name?" you ask.
"T—Tanaka," he says, the back of his hand still wiping tears away from his face.
"Okay, Tanaka. My parents left me too, so we're in this together," you say trying to offer him comfort.
"Really?"
"Mhm. They'll be back, though. Just you watch," you say, pride resting in your chest.
Your parents are strong, so they'll come back.
You know they will.
But as the night goes on, and your eyes begin to grow heavy, your parents do not return.
Tanaka's head cozily rests on your shoulder, as he sleeps. Occasionally, you hear his sniffles, but his sobs have quieted down.
You don't know how many hours you spend staring at absolutely nothing, but your eyes start to hurt, and you force yourself not to sleep.
"Everybody! The Fourth Hokage has settled the attack, and we all are now safe!" Tanaka jerks awake at the Chunin's words. "We will now be making our way back up to the village."
Tanaka rubs away the sleep in his eyes and looks at you. "What about our parents?" he asks, his eyebrows furrowed together.
"I guess we'll find out when we get up there," you say calmly, even though your own curiosity is biting at you to ask someone.
You remain patient as everyone makes their way out, standing only when there are a few people left in the room.
You stand before Tanaka, offering him a hand when you're fully up. He takes it in an instant and you both walk out behind the others.
Your steps are measured, even though the beat in your heart falters behind your ribs.
As you both move forward, Tanaka's hand tightens against yours.
You remain steady. Maybe it's so you don't worry him, or maybe it's because you can't move even if you tried.
When you both finally reach the top of the stairs, you quietly step out of the underground hideout. You're met with destroyed houses and rubble all over the ground.
In a distance, you see several people crying varying in ages. Your heart only begins to beat faster at the sight.
Tanaka lets go of your hand, running up to a Jonin in a sense of urgency. Your eyes stay on his back.
You wonder if that's his father, but your heart sinks when he turns to look at you and shakes his head, tears already reforming in his eyes.
Your feet move before your brain tells them to, and you run to the Jonin.
"Excuse me?" you say, a lump in your throat building. "My parents—they were also here fighting. Can you tell me where they are?"
"What are their names?" the Jonin asks, his eyebrows furrowed.
Your voice comes out quiet as you tell him your parents' names, and slowly, the Jonin shakes his head. "I'm sorry…" He closes his eyes, still shaking his head. "They—they didn't make it."
Your vision becomes blurry as you stare up at the Jonin. You can feel Tanaka's eyes on you. He isn't wailing like he was before, but you can hear his soft sniffles.
"I'm sorry," the Jonin repeats, bringing a hand up to his forehead and rubbing it. "I'm so sorry."
Your knees begin to tremble and the Jonin's words become distant as you fall to the ground.
You grip your head, shaking. You close your eyes tightly until you see stars.
This has to be a dream, right?
But when you open them, Tanaka is still at your side, and the Jonin's expression is still as apologetic as it was before.
You clutch your shirt right above where your heart is, and take deep breaths.
Shinobi do not cry.
The words ring in your ears as your heartbeat finally slows.
You stand, thanking the Jonin and walk away.
You do not cry in front of anyone.
Because even if it is a rule for shinobi not to cry, maybe it won't hurt breaking it when you're alone.
Your sobs break out when you finally reach your home, the memories of your parents already starting to feel unreal.
"Come on, Tanaka! You can do better than that!" You smirk, dodging yet another kunai Tanaka has thrown at you.
"I'll get you this time!" Tanaka runs up a nearby tree, doing a backflip as he throws two kunai in your direction.
You run towards a tree, landing on its branch. Focusing all your chakra on the soles of your feet, you jump up, dodging one of the kunai as you land on another tree. With your right hand, you dig your hand into your pouch, pulling out a kunai of your own. As Tanaka's weapon makes its way towards you, you throw your own in its direction.
The kunai whooshes as it takes Tanaka's kunai with it, landing in the middle of the trunk of the tree in front of you.
You jump down, making no noise as you land, bowing in Tanaka's direction, one hand behind your back and one on your stomach.
"And that's how you do that, folks!" you say, though there is no audience watching you.
Tanaka scoffs. "Show off."
He jumps down from his own branch and pats you on the shoulder. "Good job, though," he says walking towards the gallon of water you both set out incase you got thirsty.
He sits on the grass as he pours the water in a glass, and motions for you to sit next to him.
Being quite thirsty yourself, you skip towards him, taking a seat next to him.
Once he is done drinking, he pours water for you, and hands you the glass.
You grab is eagerly, the glass being cool to the touch. You gulp down the water, wiping your mouth quickly after.
Tanaka places his palms on the grass, and brings his eyes to the sky.
"What are you thinking about?" you ask.
"How long has it been?" he says quietly. "Since the attack?"
You sigh, trying to avoid the tragedies of the attack and focusing more on tracking how long it's been. "Seven years?"
Tanaka hums. "I guess at least one positive thing happened that day," he mutters, picking at his pouch.
"Yeah? What's that?" you ask, one eyebrow raised.
"Seven years of our friendship." Tanaka brings his pinky up, and you interlock yours with his.
"That's right," you say, your thoughts now no longer on the attack.
"Are you still planning on leaving the village?" Tanaka asks, bringing his hand down but not letting go of your pinky.
You nod slowly. "This village holds too many memories that make me weak." Your gaze flickers away from him. "And anyway, I need to find Tsunade-sama. She's the only one I can trust to make me strong."
Tanaka stays quiet for a moment before he speaks in a low voice. "I'll come with you."
"You will?"
He nods. "Where you go I go."
You turn your head to look at him. "Okay then, where I go you go," you say, letting your body stretch on the grass when you lay down.
Your hands graze the dirt, your nose brushing against the unclean ground. You can feel the wet mud underneath your knees as you try not to let anything get in your mouth.
"Please, Tsunade-sama!" you plead. "I have sought you out for years, just because being even a fraction of how strong you are will bring me at peace!"
Above, Tsunade scoffs at you. "Never thought anyone would kneel for me just for training," she says, her voice cold. You hear the click of her heels as she turns around to walk away.
"Please," you say, your voice quieter now. "I want to be strong so I can protect my loved ones."
Tsunade's retreating footsteps stop abruptly. Her silence feels deafening as you try to stay down on the ground.
"Get up," she says, a softness lingering in her voice.
You shake your head quickly, your hair grazing the dirt. "Not until you say you'll train me."
"I said get UP!" she says, slamming her heel on the grass. The ground underneath you shakes as you finally lift your head.
You should be scared, you really should be. But your lips form a smile as your eyes go wide. "Tsunade-sama, you are so cool," you say, your eyes wide and mouth dropped in absolute awe.
She rolls her eyes. "It is not going to be easy. So if you're not up for it, I suggest you leave now. Otherwise, welcome to the team." Tsunade offers you a hand, helping you up.
"You're training me?" you say, not believing her words.
It took you several months to get hold of her, and weeks to even get her attention, and now your dream will finally be fulfilled.
You'll be able to protect Tanaka and others in your life.
"I'm sure that's what I said."
Your lips stretch from cheek to cheek, crinkling the corners of your eyes. "Thank you so much, Tsunade-sama!"
That night, when you go home, Tanaka has already made dinner. He sits comfortably on the floor, stuffing his face with the food.
"Scho ‘f I’m he’ring you righ’… she f’nally said she’d tra—mmph—train you?" Tanaka mumbles around a mouthful of rice, barely pausing between bites.
"Don't speak with your mouth full," you say, arms crossed, yet still nodding eagerly. "She said we'll start tomorrow!"
Tanaka swallows his food. "That's great." He pats your knee. "I know how long you've wanted this."
Tanaka doesn't know why you've wanted this.
He doesn't know you're doing it all so you can protect him in moments he won't be able to.
He doesn't know you're doing this so you don't lose him, just like you lost your parents.
You'd rather die than have to live with another regret.
You don't plan on telling him any of those things either.
When you get into your futon, you look around at the raggedy walls, wondering how you'll live in this place any longer.
"Once I become a medical ninja, I'll make us some money so we can live more comfortably," you say, a twinkle in your eye.
Tanaka doesn't reply, his breathing even.
He must be asleep.
You wrap yourself in the blanket and close your eyes, hoping to get enough rest so you'll be ready for your training in the morning.
For the next couple of weeks, time loses all shape. Mornings bleed into nights without warning, meals become optional, and sleep is something you stole in fragments—leaning against doorframes or slumped over scrolls.
Tsunade isn't easygoing. She simply calls your name, hands you a rusted basin of cold water, and says, "Scrub the floors. With your chakra." No further explanation. No nod of approval when you got it right. Just the steady throb in your palms and the sharp sting of failure when you didn’t. You learn quickly that with her, nothing is arbitrary. If she makes you carry water up a hill, there is a reason. If she tells you to repeat something a hundred times, it isn't to test your patience—it is to break it, and rebuild something better in its place.
So even today, as you shake your hands to get rid of the pain in your knuckles, you still remain patient.
You can’t feel your arms anymore. Not after slamming your fist into the earth for the fiftieth time, maybe sixtieth—there’s no counting anymore, not when your bones vibrate like tuning forks.
Above you, Tsunade crosses her arms, eyes sharp as scalpels.
"Again," she says, like the crater you’ve already made in the dirt isn’t wide enough.
Your legs ache from hours of chakra control drills, your fingers still shake from last night’s nerve-repair exercises. But she’s watching, and you know better than to argue. So you inhale, gather what little chakra you have left, and slam your fist down again.
The earth fractures beneath you. Barely. Her eyebrow lifts.
"That wouldn’t even dent a ribcage," she mutters. "You want to save lives? Then be someone they can count on not to die before the second wave hits."
You want to snap back, but your throat is dry. And somewhere deep down, you know she’s right.
Later—hours later—she tosses you a medical scroll and points to a wounded boar on the table. A practice patient, real flesh.
"Internal bleeding. Damaged organs. Fix it without killing it."
You reach for your chakra, hands trembling, mind reeling from exhaustion. But there’s no room for failure under her. Not when her silence is sharper than shouting, not when her approval is so rare it feels like sunlight after a long winter.
You've heard what the others say about her. How she's harsh, brutal, and even a little cruel.
But when she kneels beside you and guides your hand just once—steadies your wrist with her own scarred fingers—you understand.
She doesn’t train you to be soft.
She trains you to survive.
To heal people who have already given up on living.
To stand in the blood and ruin and still have enough strength left to pull someone else out.
She’s building a shinobi who won’t flinch in the middle of war.
And you're more than grateful.
After hours of healing the boar, and trying your best not to fail, you finally succeed.
And for the first time ever, Tsunade's lips form a smile.
"Good job. Now you're ready for the next step."
You nod, the sweat clinging to every part of your skin, excited to finally go home for the day and tell Tanaka about all the training you received.
You fly through the forest leading to your house, and quickly land, too enthusiastic to be tired.
"Tanaka!" you yell, the eagerness in your voice making its way out without you even noticing.
You hear his voice filter through the walls, and walk inside your house to see him on the floor doing sit-ups.
"How is your training going?" you ask, ripping the hair tie out of your hair, and letting it fall loose.
"Good. You?" he questions, face red as he continues to work out.
You take a seat next to him, and he immediately stops moving, turning his head to look at you, giving you his full attention.
"Tsunade-sama smiled at me today. Can you believe it?" You bring your hands up to your face, the heat from the training still lingering.
Tanaka flashes you a smile. "You must be a good trainee, then." He brings his hand to your hair, ruffling it a bit before pulling it back. "I'm proud of you."
You close your eyes, leaning into his touch. You bring your knees to your chest once his hand retreats. You place your elbows on them, watching him continue his workout.
"Did you hear?" Tanaka abruptly stops. "About the Uchiha massacre?"
Caught off guard, you turn your head to look at him, and raise an eyebrow. "No? What are you talking about?"
"Do you remember Itachi Uchiha?"
"The prodigy?"
Tanaka nods. "He's the one who did it." A lump forms in your throat as Tanaka continues. "Monsters, these people, I tell you. Who would have known someone we went to the Academy with could turn out to be such a terrible human being?"
You nod, but don't say anything. The questions forming in your mind beg for a way to make their way out but you thin your lips, forcing them to stay shut.
This is none of your business.
You're not a part of that village anymore.
You'd never be a part of anything that couldn't protect your parents.
But still, something tugs at your heart, like none of this can be right.
"Come back with me," Tsunade says, her voice neutral, but a softness beneath it that almost sounds like a plea.
"I can't—I won't ever go back to that place, Tsunade-sama," you say, avoiding her gaze.
You know if you look at her, she'll convince you somehow.
"You're so stubborn." Tsunade shakes her head, bringing a hand to her forehead and rubbing it.
You finally lift your gaze from the ground, stopping right above her chest. Your stomach turns. "Your necklace," you say, voice coming out too quiet. "It's gone."
Tsunade's fingers lift to where the necklace hung before, now grazing at nothing but her neck.
"Result of a bet I made," she says, smiling to herself.
You quietly look at her. The smile that is on her face is one you have never seen before. It seems almost like she's let go of her past traumas, though not completely, never completely. But the ease that rests on her face makes you realize you'd rather her go back to the village than make her stay with you just for her to regret her decision.
"If you're happy, Tsunade-sama, then I will not stop you from choosing a path that brings your heart at peace." Your voice cracks, because even if you are trying to be supportive, Tsunade is still like a mother to you.
You've spent five years training with her, and now she's leaving you for the very village that killed your parents. She's leaving you for the very boy that holds the nine tails inside him. Who carries the beast that killed your parents.
Part of you wants to resent him for taking her away, but you know when Tsunade makes a decision as big as this, it must be important.
So you take a step forward, and fall into her arms.
"I'll miss you," you say.
Tsunade's arms wrap around you as she runs her hand down the back of your head.
"I'll miss you, too," she says softly. "Visit me some time, okay?"
You nod, your cheek rubbing against her skin.
You both know it's a false promise, but something in the moment still lingers as you wave her a final goodbye.
You feel Tanaka's presence behind you as he lands. "What happened?"
"Tsunade-sama just left," you murmur. "To become the fifth Hokage."
Tanaka raises an eyebrow. "Didn't she… hate that place?"
You look at the sky, already wondering how you'll go ahead and take the next step of your life now that there is no mother-like figure left in your life.
"I guess things change," you say, your jaw tightened.
You both take flight, due to night approaching, and dive into the familiar forest that you've passed by many times before.
"So, what's the plan now?" Tanaka asks as his foot grazes a branch before he jumps off again in the direction of another tree.
You stay quiet, not knowing how to answer his question. Because even you're not sure what the plan is.
You, who plans out everything in advance, has no idea what to do now that Tsunade is gone.
You're left feeling emptier than ever, the only thing remaining in your life being the passion and skills you've gained.
Your medical ninjutsu.
The air whooshes around you as you speed up, while still wondering what you'll do now that you will no longer be surrounded by Tsunade and Shizune all the time.
Now, it's just you and Tanaka again, like it was back then.
"We need money," you say, your voice thoughtful as you move forward. "Since your taijutsu has improved, maybe you could pick up some missions to fight, and I could take some missions that require healing."
Tanaka's arm grazes yours when he elbows you lightly. "Whatever you say, ma'am," he teasingly says.
You scoff, shaking your head.
You ubruptly stop as you see something in your peripheral vision.
"Wait, Tanaka. What's that?" you ask, pointing to something laid across the ground, almost looking like a corpse.
"I'm not too sure. Just leave it. I'm hungry, so let's go home." Tanaka's voice is urgent, like he doesn't trust whatever it is on the ground, but your instincts take over, and you jump back towards another branch, hitting the ground soon after.
You slowly walk towards the body, making sure not to make too much noise. Your hand rests against your pouch, ready to take out a weapon if needed.
You look at the black cloak draped above the body. Red clouds are spread alongside it. You walk closer, kneeling as you softly move the cloak away from the unknown person's head.
The first thing you notice as you move the cloak is the slashed out headband.
The second thing you notice is the design on the headband. The Hidden Leaf village logo stares back at you.
You move the cloth away and tuck it underneath the man's neck.
His body is crumpled, his shoulders hunched like they’re bearing something too heavy for bone. Sweat slicks his forehead despite the chill in the air, and his cloak is torn at the collar, clinging to him like a second skin.
You can't help but think you recognize him from somewhere.
You cautiously crawl forward. "You need help," you say, quietly—carefully, like you’re speaking to something feral.
The man's eyes are closed at first, lashes damp, jaw slack with pain. But the second your knee shifts in the dirt again, he moves.
Too fast.
A flash of silver. The sharp rasp of metal drawn.
Before you can even blink, a kunai is pressed against your throat—his grip iron despite the tremor in his arm.
His eyes are open now, dull but glowing with something old and trained: instinct, memory, threat. And you see the thing that brings back memories of why he's so familiar.
His eyes flash—red and sharp, and you see three black tomoe orbit the iris, impossibly precise, sharp as blades.
The sharingan.
Itachi Uchiha.
You finally remember why he looks so familiar.
He’s breathing hard, labored, like even this act—this defense—is costing him something. His hand doesn’t shake from fear. It shakes from the effort of staying conscious.
Still, the blade doesn’t waver.
"Don’t," he rasps, voice low and broken at the edges. "Stay where you are."
You freeze, pulse thudding in your ears.
He studies you for a second longer—then his brow furrows, and he sways. The kunai drops an inch. His fingers twitch, as something flashes behind his eyes.
Familiarity, maybe.
His body is betraying him faster than you could.
You wonder if he remembers you from the Academy. Part of you wishes he does.
You don’t move, at least not yet. You just watch as he fights to stay upright, breath hitching, skin pale beneath the strain.
"I’m not your enemy," you say, slow and measured. "Let me help."
His eyes narrow like he’s trying to see through you, through whatever past or danger you might be carrying.
Then the kunai slips from his grip completely, falling soundlessly into the moss.
You slowly bring your hands to his chest, hovering above it as you focus your chakra towards them.
Green light emits from your hands, and Itachi sighs in relief, his eyes closing.
Behind you, you feel Tanaka approach.
Itachi's eyes remain shut, though his posture straightens, bracing for betrayal.
"He's with me," you say, almost too fast. "He won't hurt you."
The truth is, are you trying to convince Itachi or yourself?
Tanaka scoffs behind you, almost amused.
"He's a criminal," he says bitterly. "You're healing a criminal."
You shake your head, still focusing on the chakra emerging from your palms. "Criminal or not, a medical ninja's duty is to heal," you say, swallowing hard. "Not to injure."
Tanaka says nothing as you continue. "Plus, he didn't even try to hurt me." Chewing the inside of your cheek, you continue to focus, though it becomes harder with each passing moment. "He was just taking safety precautions. We'd do the same."
Tanaka's lips press into a thin line. "I should get going. There's nothing here for me to do."
Behind you, the click of his shoes echoes as soon as you nod. Deep down, you know he'll be watching from afar, just incase you get yourself into trouble.
And for that, you're far more grateful than you'll ever admit.
Finally sitting back, you let the green light formed from your chakra disappear. "What's the reason for your weakness?" you ask, twisting your fingers in your lap. "This is no injury from a fight."
Itachi stays quiet for a long moment before his mouth opens, but no sound makes it out.
You raise an eyebrow, motioning him to continue.
"I'm ill," he says quietly.
A sharp pang twists low in your stomach. "What do you mean?"
Itachi shakes his head, still resting against the grass. "I'm not too sure. I just know I'm ill."
You nod slowly, and before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out. "Would you like me to inspect it?"
"Will you be able to help?" he asks, his voice a plea.
"I'll only know once I can see what I'm working with."
So, from then on, you start to bury your head in books and blood samples and all the things you need to diagnose him. You do your best to figure out what kind of illness could make someone so strong, someone like Itachi, so utterly helpless.
Tanaka starts to keep his distance. He still looks at you the same, still talks to you the same, but when conversations about Itachi happen to make their way out of your mouth, he withdraws quietly.
You don't know the reason he could be acting like this, but you make yourself believe it's because of Itachi's past.
But even with Itachi's past, you can't seem to judge him no matter how hard you try.
The only thing you see whenever you look at him is the quiet, kind boy who every girl had a crush on in the Academy.
But as you get to know him more, your doubts begin to grow.
How could someone so kind like Itachi ever do something as monstrous as that?
You know deep down there must be some reason, and even if that reason may not completely take away from the horrific acts he committed, they would still set your heart at peace.
"Itachi-san, I'm afraid you only have two years left to live," you say, opening your scroll to reveal all the notes you've taken in the passing weeks.
He tries to stay still, but you notice his hands curl into fists at his side.
"Is there any way to make me live even a year more?" he asks, his voice too even for the news that was just broken to him.
You unroll the scroll a little more, pointing at a diagram.
"If we give you this medicine, then yes, you'll be able to live for a year longer," you say, your hand brushing his as he pulls the scroll towards himself.
He nods slowly. "I'll do it."
You shake your head. "The side effects are disorienting," you say, bringing the pen to the written words on the side of the diagram. "Your thoughts can blur together, and the world gets… hazy. Plus, the herbs are almost impossible to acquire unless you have the money to pay for it."
Itachi's eyes scan the letters formed by the ink, quietly inspecting. "The money won't be a problem." He brushes a hand through his hair. "But the side effects…" Itachi pauses for a long moment before his eyes meet yours.
He nods, certain this time. "I'm willing to do this. As long as I get at least a year."
You lean back into the chair, arms crossed while you nod back at him. "Okay." You hesitate before bringing your hand to meet his and squeezing it. "I'll make sure this works."
You expect him to pull back, but he just looks at you with that similar hope in his eyes, that maybe what you said is true and you will figure everything out.
Collecting herbs take you months, due to having to negotiate with landowners. Making the medicine takes even longer. You make sure to perfect everything.
And when finally, you pour the first tube of medicine down Itachi's mouth, you know you've succeeded.
The side effects catch you off guard.
Itachi shares things with you without knowing. He says things you know he'd never say if he was sober.
A few months into his treatment, he spills everything about the massacre. You stay quiet, not saying a word to Tanaka. Letting him believe that Itachi is a monster, even if it hurts you to hear him speak so ill of Itachi all the time.
Just a couple weeks after that, you finally learn why itachi wants to extend his life.
You learn the true reason he's so eager to live, even if it is just a year longer. You learn that he is the most giving person you've ever seen in your life. And the person who hates him the most is himself, even outdoing the others that have heard about what he did.
Slowly but surely, your heart begins to soften towards him without you even knowing.
You start to spend extra time next to him.
You tell him you're only doing this for safety precautions, and maybe you say it out loud to make yourself believe it, too.
"Just to be safe," you say in a quiet voice.
But you don't understand why your heart beats a little faster when you touch his arm to get samples. Or why you start to look forward to meeting up with him.
Maybe it's because you understand him.
But deep down, beneath all the layers you've piled on to smother the truth, you know that isn't the complete reason.
The treatment works like a miracle at first, easing him quickly. Itachi starts to spend days without having any effects from his illness, but as the years pass and he starts to show previous symptoms, you know his time is coming to an end.
He becomes careless in taking his doses.
You can tell he's giving up.
And even though you try your hardest to keep going, just for a couple months, he becomes reckless.
He takes on too many missions given by the Akatsuki, and the meetings you both would have almost every day come to a halt.
Sometimes when you heal other people, your thoughts drift back to him, and you wonder what it is he would be doing in that exact moment.
You start to wait for a crow to show up, just so you could see his face again.
Yet you still remain clueless about the heaviness in your heart whenever you think about him.
Tanaka notices it all. Even from a distance, he tries to cheer you up. He tries to take you on more missions with him, just so you can get your mind off of things.
But in the end, when you cover yourself with the blankets and get into bed, your thoughts drift back to Itachi.
So every time he does call you, you spend hours with him, just because you don't know when or if you'll ever see him again.
You go above and beyond trying to do everything for him, just because you don't want to lose the little precious time you have left with him.
Stupidly, you do everything you can to research and come up with ways to make medicine.
But with no luck, you let Itachi live a quiet life whenever he's with you.
You let him finally be at ease, because you know he has never known that in his life.
Constant missions from the Village ever since he was a kid, and now, taking up more missions from the Akatsuki.
Itachi never lets himself rest.
He doesn't let himself talk too much with you. Sometimes he opens his mouth, shutting it just as fast, and you know he wants to say something but he doesn't.
Sometimes you wonder if it's a way for him to punish himself.
And that pains you, because you see him as everything he believes he's not.
You wish he will see himself the same way one day.
Notes:
since this story is pretty short, I wanted to bunch up mostly all of the moments that made Reader who she is in one chapter so it’s easier to understand her character.
this isn’t just a story about Itachi and her, it’s about who she is as a person and what she’s willing to do for people she cares for.
I had so much fun writing this chapter, and I hope you guys enjoyed it just as much! Once again, every form of interaction is appreciated.
for more info on updates, or just to connect with me, find me on tumblr! @itachisarchive
Chapter 3: Cry Baby
Notes:
playlist (in no particular order): https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5DLgZ8oGApOupBUhI5OAO0?si=3yvljHJyTdCvVSRQikQwiQ&pi=1b5m7cLNQa268
Chapter Text
Are you in love with him or something?
Tanaka's words ring in your ears, making it harder for you to focus on quite literally anything else.
And your brain keeps going back to his words, wondering if they're true.
Maybe you are in love with Itachi.
You never let yourself explore the word love. You were too scared that you'd lose the only person you would give your heart to, just like you lost your parents.
The only reason you wanted to get trained by Tsunade was so you could protect Tanaka when he needed you.
So you wouldn't be weak like you were the day your parents passed.
Your whole life, you'd been set on giving everything to others, to the point you forgot it was your life, and not theirs.
You sigh, laying your head on the book underneath you.
Tanaka has been distant ever since that day, and you haven't had any contact with Itachi either.
You've been alone, trying to figure out your feelings, trying to understand Tanaka's words.
How could he so easily know he is good for you, when even you don't know what's good for you?
How is it so easy for him to give his heart to you, and why can't you do the same for him?
He's perfect for you, and you know this.
He's kind, and respectful, and best of all, you've both known each other since you were children, so there isn't a thing about him that's hidden from you.
But will you ever be able to reconcile his feelings?
Will you ever be confused about him the way you are about Itachi?
You've never been this confused about anyone else.
There have been men who told you their feelings, and asked you out on dates, but it's always been easy to turn them down.
But honestly, you don't know if you would be able to turn Itachi down if he ever asked you.
"Oh, God," you murmur, tangling your fingers in your hair. Your head still rests on the book sitting on your dining table, and you start to wonder if you'll ever escape being so selfless.
Because even now, the book underneath you highlights formulas and herbs you need to make medicine.
Because even now, you are still trying to find out more about Itachi's illness, so you can add more years on to his life.
Even now, as you struggle with feelings of your own, you are still doing whatever you can to not give up on Itachi.
Or maybe, you're doing it for yourself.
Maybe it's because you're selfish.
Maybe it's because Tanaka was right and you are in love with Itachi, and you're trying your best to have him to yourself even if it means him being in your life for just a couple more years.
You slowly raise your head from the book and run your hand over the page filled with notes.
Ever since your last meeting with Itachi, you've been burying your head in different books to find any sort of cure for him.
Your eyes blur as you trace the ink, but it’s not from exhaustion.
You’ve read these pages so many times they’ve begun to lose meaning, the words turning into strange shapes that swim before you. Still, you keep looking. Still, you keep hoping that maybe you missed something the first time. Or the second. Or the tenth.
Because if you stop looking, what does that say about you?
You close the book slowly, the sound of its cover shutting echoing in the quiet room. It feels heavier than it should, as if the weight of its useless knowledge is pressing down on your palms. You’ve learned so many ways to ease pain, to slow the inevitable, but never to stop it. And that truth gnaws at you in a way that leaves your chest hollow.
The silence around you is suffocating. It’s the kind of silence where your own heartbeat feels too loud, where every breath sounds like a reminder that time is moving forward and you can’t slow it down. Not for yourself, and definitely not for him.
You think of Itachi—his calm voice, the quiet pull of his presence, the way he watches you as if he already knows what you’re going to say but lets you say it anyway. There’s a gravity to him that you’ve never been able to name, a stillness that makes you feel steadier and more unsteady all at once.
Tanaka’s face flickers in your mind right after.
His smile. His frown. His voice the day he asked you that question, as if the answer was already carved in stone somewhere, waiting for you to admit it.
You hate that he might be right.
You hate that you can’t give him what he’s given you.
Why can't you give him what he's given you?
His actions and words made it quite clear what he felt for you, so why can't you do the same?
Your fingers drum against the table. It’s not lost on you that you’ve spent more hours thinking about Itachi in the past few weeks than you’ve spent thinking about yourself in years. When was the last time you wanted something, truly wanted it, without weighing what it might cost someone else?
You let out a shaky breath, rubbing your eyes with the heel of your palms.
You want him to live. You want him to stay. You want him in ways you don’t have words for.
And you’re terrified of what wanting him says about you.
The thought makes your stomach twist, so you push the book away and stand, pacing the small length of the room. Your fingertips graze the shelves lining the wall, brushing over spines you’ve memorized by touch alone. Titles blur together, but you pull one down anyway. Another medical text. Another chance to keep going, even if it’s just to keep your hands busy.
Because if you stop moving, if you stop searching, you’ll have to face the truth you’ve been skirting around since Tanaka spoke it aloud.
You run your thumb along the edge of the book, the familiar scrape of worn paper grounding you in a way your own thoughts can’t. You tell yourself you’ll read another page—just one more—before you give up for the night.
But then it comes.
A sharp tap-tap-tap.
Your head lifts, the sound slicing clean through the silence. It’s not loud, but it’s deliberate. Purposeful.
Another tap. Louder this time, with a faint scratch that makes the glass shiver.
You don’t move right away. You don’t need to. The sound is enough to tell you who it is.
Or rather, whose it is.
A heaviness gathers in your chest, slow and steady, the way storm clouds roll in before rain. Your fingers curl against the tabletop as you turn toward the window.
There—perched on the sill—is the crow.
Its feathers are blacker than midnight, edges glossed with the faint sheen of reflected light. It doesn’t startle when your eyes meet its; instead, it tilts its head, watching you with that deep, unnerving stillness that only something truly intelligent can hold. You’ve seen it before—once on the ledge outside your apartment, once in the branches of the tree near the training grounds, once in the shadowed edges of a rooftop when you thought you were alone.
Itachi’s crow.
Your throat tightens at the recognition. It’s not just the fact that it’s his—it’s what it means for it to be here, now, when you haven’t heard from him in days. Not since…
You pull in a slow breath, but the air feels thick.
The crow pecks again—three short, measured beats—before stepping to the side as if to make room for you. The unspoken message is clear: open the window.
You cross the room on quiet feet, each step measured. When you slide the latch, the chill of the outside air slips in first, curling around your wrists. You push the glass open enough for the crow to hop inside, its talons clicking softly against the wooden table.
It gives one brisk shake of its wings before standing tall, its head angled toward you like it’s taking your measure. That’s when you see the letter. A tightly rolled piece of parchment, bound with a thin strip of cord, held delicately in its beak.
Your stomach drops.
The sight of it is somehow heavier than if he were here himself. You don’t know why—maybe because a letter means he’s somewhere else. Out of reach. And that knowledge comes with its own kind of ache.
The crow steps forward, the faint scrape of its talons the only sound in the room. You extend your hand, palm up, slow and deliberate. It studies you for a beat before leaning down and placing the parchment into your hand with surprising gentleness.
The paper is warm from where it’s been held, the edges slightly crinkled.
The crow doesn’t linger. It gives one last look before hopping back onto the sill. A single beat of its wings lifts it into the pale sky, where it becomes a moving shadow against the clouds until it disappears entirely.
You’re left standing by the open window, the wind whispering against your skin, the letter lying like a weight across your lifeline. You close the window slowly, but you don’t step away.
You can’t seem to move.
Your thumb brushes the edge of the parchment, tracing the fibers. You already know whose handwriting you’ll find inside. You already know that once you read it, you won’t be able to go back to not knowing. And maybe you’re not ready for that.
But your fingers betray you anyway.
You turn from the window and sit, laying the letter on the table before you. The air feels different now, as though the room itself is holding its breath alongside you.
Your pulse has been steady this whole time, but now it begins to climb.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, you reach for the cord.
It's knotted, but not tightly. As if he didn’t want you to struggle with it.
As if he knew you would hesitate long enough without that extra barrier.
Your fingers work at the knot, careful not to tear the paper. The parchment is smooth, the faint texture catching against your skin in places where the ink inside has bled ever so slightly. You can almost feel the weight of the words before you see them.
When the cord falls away, you roll the parchment open slowly, like it might shatter if you move too fast.
His handwriting greets you instantly, though usually elegant and measured, it's moments like these that it's sloppy.
It's moments like these when he doesn't have enough power in his hands left to focus on the precision.
You read the first word and stop, the ink blurring faintly as your eyes threaten to sting.
You blink hard.
No.
You’re not going to start there—not before you’ve even read the rest.
Your eyes scan the page again, starting over from the top.
I hope this reaches you before you start worrying.
You have a tendency to do that.
The faintest huff of breath escapes you—half a laugh, half a sigh. He knows you too well.
There are matters I must attend to soon. I'm sure you are aware of what I am talking about. I'd like to meet one last time before we depart for good. Not only for the medicine, but for you.
if you choose to come, meet me at the very first hideout where you cured me, in three days.
I'll be waiting.
Your chest tightens at the careful choice of words.
He's really going to do it.
If you find yourself with questions, keep them. For now, the answers will not help you. I will explain what I can when we meet.
It’s such a maddeningly Itachi thing to say that you almost crumple the parchment out of sheer frustration. He leaves you with words that sound like comfort but give you nothing solid to hold on to.
And yet—your fingers smooth the paper like it’s something fragile. Like it’s him.
The final lines are shorter, more deliberate. The kind you can tell he thought about longer than the rest.
Do not neglect your own rest.
And do not stop looking after yourself.
You swallow, the edges of your vision tightening as if your body is trying to contain everything at once—relief that he’s alive, anger that maybe he won't be for long, the ache of how much space he takes up in your mind even when he’s not here.
The very last line is smaller than the rest, almost hesitant, almost like it wasn’t meant to be written at all.
I am grateful for you.
Your thumb hovers over the words, afraid to smudge them.
You read the letter again and again. As if somewhere between the lines you’ll find what he didn’t write.
By the fourth time through, you realize you’ve been holding your breath.
You fold the letter carefully, sliding the cord back around it, and press it to your chest before you even think about it.
Tears start to well up in your eyes, almost hesitant due to them not ever falling.
Your heart is heavy. You don't even know what to think. Maybe it's because you're in denial.
Or maybe it's the fact that you know you will never be able to let him go.
Your throat tightens as your vision becomes heavy, the tears in your eyes refusing to fall, but still there.
You continue to hold the parchment close to your chest, as if that will help connect your heart to Itachi's.
Taking deep breaths, you close your eyes, not allowing the weakness to take over you.
And it's now you realize that Tanaka was right.
You do love Itachi.
The quiet moments when you'd sit right next to him and slowly pat his shoulder as he slept, and how you never asked for anything in return once you figured out how much he had done. Even when he insisted on paying you, you never took it, not even when you and Tanaka were struggling. You just took up more missions. But you never wanted him to feel like you were only there for the money.
Because you weren't.
You were there for him.
And it's the note telling you your next meeting will be the last is what makes you realize that.
And now, the question isn't if you're in love with him, it's how long it's been that way.
How long has your heart allowed itself to be given to the one person you couldn't fall for?
How long has it been since the admiration for Itachi turned into love?
How long has it been since your heart went against everything you trained it to do, and fell in love with someone who was never going to live long enough to give you the life you craved?
Even after all you knew about Itachi, your heart still chose him.
It didn't choose a safer, more happier option, but everything else.
That time you met Itachi again in the forest, he had two years left to live, and even though you were able to stretch out his life to three years, his time is coming to an end too fast.
And now you'll suffer because your heart decided to fall for someone who was never meant to be yours.
You run your hands through your hair, pulling on the strands slightly as a way to remind yourself that this is infact real.
A lump forms in your throat as you clutch the letter in your hands, gripping it so hard that it wrinkles.
Your lips tremble as you force yourself not to cry, or at least try to. You bring the parchment to your heart, almost letting it feel its beat. The letter sits right above your chest, your fingers rubbing circles around it.
You had known this day would come, so why does your head feel so empty?
Why does your heart feel like it has stopped beating, but at the same time, it slams against your ribs so hard you think it might shatter you from the inside out?
For the past three years, so much of your life had been occupied with Itachi, that you had forgotten exactly why you were treating him.
It's like your mind decided to shut down the fact that he was dying.
Or at least, planning to die.
Your ears ring, and you feel the pace of your heart against your fingers as your chest rises too fast.
You can't let him go through with this.
You have to tell him that he doesn't have to punish himself this way.
You have to show him the way you see him, even though it is completely the opposite of what he sees.
And even if you can delay him from going, that would be enough, because even spending another day with him would give you more time to research.
It would give you more time to find something—anything—that may help him.
You can't give up.
You will not allow yourself to.
The knock on your door jerks you awake.
Lifting your head from the pile of books laid across your desk, you feel the warmth on your cheek.
You don't know how long you spent researching, since you never allowed your fingers to rest as you forced them to continue the note taking.
Not all of it was useless, though.
The circle on the open book that was just underneath your head moments ago causes your lips to form just a tiny smile.
You had spent the past two days researching Itachi's illness. Though you hadn't found much, there were several other medical procedures that could be performed to help prolong his life just a little more.
You still aren't aware of what his illness is, but that doesn't stop you from finding similar cases to his and searching for ways to prevent the inevitable.
The knock on your door returns, this time louder.
You hear Tanaka's voice call out your name, a softness lingering in it.
Ever since that awkward argument you both had a month prior, he had given you space. He only came home after long missions, but even then, he'd still cook some food for you, and place it right outside your door without disturbing you.
So it catches you off guard when you hear is voice outside the door calling your name.
"Come in," you say, rubbing your eyes as you stretch.
The door opens slowly and Tanaka steps inside, a plate of food in his hand.
His eyes drop to the several books on your desk, and the sudden disappointment in them causes you to look away from him.
He doesn't say anything, but you know what he's thinking.
You know this is hard for him.
You know it's hard for him to see you ruin yourself over someone who isn't even worried about his life half as much as you are.
But that never stopped you, and it never will.
Itachi and Tanaka both know how stubborn you are.
"I brought you food," Tanaka says, his jaw tense. "It's your favorite."
He places the plate in your lap. With his hands now empty, he gently closes the books on your desk and motions for you to put the food on the table.
"Eat up." His voice filters through the silence. Your eyes soften when he clasps his hands behind his back, a habit of his that makes its way out without him knowing whenever he's nervous.
Your eyes meet for just a moment before he finally turns around, his hand taking hold of the doorknob as he slowly twists it.
Your hand moves before you can think, closing around his arm to hold him back.
Tanaka takes only a second to turn right back around, and this time, there's worry in his expression. With his eyebrows furrowed, he does one small gesture.
He just shakes his head.
You let go of his arm, placing your hands on your desk. Putting all your weight on them, you rise to your feet. Tanaka stands still, almost waiting for you to take the lead.
"Tomorrow." Your voice comes out steadier than you had imagined. "He wants to meet tomorrow—at the hideout where he received the first ever dose of my medication."
His fists curl on his side. "And I suppose you'll be going?"
You slowly nod. "How can I not?" The words come out almost like a plead. But it's true, how could you not?
Since you received his letter two days ago, you'd been packing and studying.
With dark circles forming under your eyes due to not letting yourself sleep, you look down in front of your feet.
There lies your bag. It's small, but it contains everything you may need.
You had copied almost all the information you'd found during your research onto a piece of paper, hoping that it'd be enough to convince him to not give up his life.
Deep down in your heart, you genuinely believe that he will listen, so the thought of him saying no never occurred to you.
"You don't have to—you know—go…" Tanaka says quietly. "You don't always have to give in to his wishes."
Your gaze lands on Tanaka. His dark eyes are on you already, pleading with you in a way you don't think you could ever understand.
"I'm not giving in to his wishes, Tanaka," you say sharply, in order to make your point clear. "I'm going because of me. Because if he needs me, then I'll be there. That's my duty. If I were to fail him, I'd never forgive myself. You, of all people, should know that by now."
His eyes turn soft as he blinks twice before giving up. He looks towards your bag, not daring to meet your gaze any longer.
"So you do love him," he says quietly, almost to himself.
Your heartbeat speeds up at his words.
Because it's one thing if you know your feelings, but when Tanaka does, there's no going back.
He knows you more than yourself, so if he's saying this right now, it only means it must be true.
"And what about you… Do you—" you trail off, because maybe this isn't the right moment to ask the question that's been lingering in the back of your head ever since that conversation with Tanaka.
Maybe you shouldn't ask him, because if you do, that too will become real.
That too, will be something you have to face.
"Do I what?" His eyes is still turned towards the ground. His hands rest behind his back once again, and that gesture makes your throat become dry. You don't know what to do or think anymore.
On one hand, you're finally aware of your feelings toward Itachi, and on the other, you don't know what it is you feel for Tanaka.
You don't know if the love you feel for him is just friendly, or if it's something more romantic.
You've taught yourself how to not feel for so long, that now when it is time to feel, you don't know how.
Shinobi do not cry. Shinobi do not let their emotions get in the way.
You lived with those words playing in the back of your head constantly, so now that it's time to push them away, your brain doesn't know how.
Your thoughts must have kept Tanaka waiting for some time, because he raises an eyebrow and repeats his last sentence.
"Do I what?" he says, more tenderly this time.
You curl your hands into fists, clearing your throat slightly before speaking. "…Love me?" you ask, your voice almost a whisper.
Tanaka's lips turn into a soft smile as he finally meets your eyes, no longer afraid of the weight of your gaze.
As your eyes meet his, you see it all. You see how much he's held himself back all this time. You see every inch of his composure finally snapping.
"I thought it would have be obvious by now, don't you?"
Biting your bottom lip, now it's your turn to look at the ground.
You shut your eyes, because this is all too much.
Why did it have to be Itachi, out of all people?
Tanaka was and would be the safer option.
Being with him—living with him—wouldn't even be half as difficult as it would be with Itachi.
Itachi has a number attached to him like a leech following him everywhere he goes.
A number that determines how much longer he has to live.
But Tanaka, he's safe. Safe to love, safe to be with, safe to trust.
But you don't want him.
You want Itachi.
Your heart aches for Itachi.
Suddenly, you hear Tanaka's voice, which snaps you out of the heavy thoughts that have taken over your mind.
"When do you leave?" he asks, crouching down to pick up your bag.
"In an hour, more or less." Your eyes follow his hand, which is now clutching your bag tightly.
"Well," he says, patting the bottom of your bag lightly to rid it of the dirt. "You'd better get going, then."
He slowly walks behind you, his hand now resting around the bag's strap, and helps you put it on.
He brings one of the straps over to the front and you slide your arm in the loop. He does the same with the other side, and once your bag is secured on your bag, you feel his hands make their way up to your shoulders.
"Stay safe," he says. And right after, he gives you a slight push towards the door, letting go once you stumble forward.
You turn your head to look back at him one last time.
Your gaze lingers on Tanaka longer than you meant it to. His hair is a mess of dark, uneven strands that fall into his eyes, too stubborn to be tamed, too soft to ever look severe. That unruly frame gives him an untouchable kind of beauty, the sort that seemed almost accidental. His features are sharp in their own right—cheekbones that catch the light, a jawline cut with quiet strength—but what always draws you in are his eyes. Deep, dark, and unreadable, they carry a heaviness that makes you feel as though he knows far more than he ever lets on.
For a moment you let yourself look at the curve of his mouth, the weariness in his face, and the storm that lives in his gaze, memorizing all of it with the knowledge that this isn't where your heart will stay.
Not now.
Not ever.
As long as Itachi lives, you're afraid you'll always choose him.
You raise your hand, giving him a small wave. He returns it with one of his own, and soon, you finally step out of the comfort of your room into the living room, and then, opening the main door, you leave your shared home with Tanaka.
You don't know when—if—you'll be back, but all you can hope for is that it will be in different circumstances.
Maybe one day, you'll return to this shared home of yours, and finally be over Itachi.
Maybe one day you'll return to it with a different motive.
Maybe it will be to see your best friend that you spent all your life with, but you won't be alone.
Maybe that time, you'll be hand in hand with Itachi, and maybe if you really get lucky, he'll be healthy.
Maybe you'll break into laughter when he cracks a joke, because he of all people doesn't do that often.
And maybe when you enter the house that stands quietly behind you, Tanaka will greet you both with warmth.
But deep down, you know these are all maybe's. Itachi doesn't even know how you feel for him.
You don't even know if he returns your feelings. All you're running on for the moment is hope.
Unconsciously, you focus your chakra on the soles of your feet, jumping up to the nearby tree.
You know you feel Tanaka's heavy stare, but you don't look back to see, because if you do, you're not sure if you'll be able to leave.
You hope to return with three things done:
Convince Itachi to not waste away his life just for his brother's revenge.
Convince itachi to trust you enough to make medicine for him that may help prolong his life even more.
And tell him about your feelings, in hopes that he feels the same.
Part of you thinks he does.
You've seen the way he looks at you sometimes.
You've seen how his eyes linger on yours just a moment too long before finally realizing the depth of the situation.
But also, you can't blame him for not taking the first step.
You know all his life has revolved around is pain and suffering and missions.
You know he hasn't had time for love.
And maybe the only reason you're going to meet him today is to see if you can change that.
The journey there is short. This time, you let yourself rest throughout the night.
You know he'll be needing your medical ninjutsu, so you force yourself to reserve as much chakra as you can.
So even though part of you wants to get there as soon as possible, you let yourself rest up and relax.
The hideout isn't too far from your house. It takes you only one night of residing in the forest to reach there.
You're used to traveling for long periods of time, so it feels like nothing.
When you finally reach the hideout, it looks just as you had left it before.
There's no protection.
No one knows about it but you, Itachi, and Tanaka.
And you trust Tanaka enough to know he would never tell anyone.
Once inside, you are already able to sense his chakra. It's weak, but it's there. You hurriedly step over to the back of the hideout where his room is, and you see him there.
He's laying on his bed, his forearm resting on his forehead. You know he's aware of your presence, but like always, he lets you take the first step.
"Itachi-san," you say quietly.
He raises his arm from his forehead, looking up at you from the bed.
You can tell he's weak, and it hurts you so much to see him like this.
He nods at you, softly saying your name as a greeting before attempting to sit up.
But his elbows give out when he places them on the mattress to stable himself, and he gives up, slowly laying right back in the spot where he was.
"I'm sorry," he says softly.
You quickly shake your head. "No, no. Don't be."
Your hand finds the bag that is resting lightly against your back, and you pull it over to the front. As you are about to kneel down to the floor to take out his medicine, Itachi's hand finds yours and he pulls.
With his other hand, he pats the space next to him on the bed. "Sit here," he says, his voice raspy. "Not on the floor."
You oblige, letting your hand stay in his for as long as he lets it, and slowly sit in the spot Itachi had made space for you in.
Rummaging through your bag, you find the flask filled with red liquid, the marking on it reading: Itachi.
You unclasp the cork, and slightly shake before bringing it near Itachi's mouth.
"Ready?" you ask.
He just nods and opens his mouth just enough so the liquid will pass through.
He doesn't flinch, even though you know the medicine tastes horrible. He doesn't even make a single expression. He just lays there, swallowing the medicine that you are slowly pouring down his mouth.
His hand is still in yours, but now the grasp is a little tighter. It's not because of the medicine. That liquid would never make him act like this.
It's like he's holding on to you so you won't disappear. It's almost like he believes you are a dream.
The silence cuts through you like a sword. You want to say something, because this all feels like too much. Your ears are ringing.
Part of you wants to tell him everything about how you feel, but you don't even know how, so you decide against that. Instead, you start the conversation the only way you know how.
"So… you're leaving?" you say, the parchment he had sent you a few days prior now fresh in your mind like you had just stared at it.
"Yes," he says tenderly. "I just… wanted to see you one last time."
Your pulse skips at his words. Maybe you weren't wrong at all for thinking he may reconcile your feelings.
"When?" you say. It's all you manage to ask him. Your throat is too dry to make out anything more. Whether it's the thoughts about him reconciling your feelings or leaving, you don't know.
"In a bit, once I regain most of my chakra," he says quietly.
You stand up suddenly, stumbling back a little, his words catching you off guard. You knew he'd be leaving, but tonight? It's too early.
You stay silent. Your throat is still too dry, the lump in the back of it forcing you to swallow several times.
Sensing your withdrawal, he continues. "I need to be a convincing opponent."
You nod slowly. Your body is giving out, and you don't know if he can understand why you're so quiet. You don't know if he even understands what you feel for him.
Of course his life has always revolved around missions, but has he ever loved anyone the way that you do him?
It's a question you're afraid you won't ever be able to get the answer to.
Still quiet, you feel your knees start to give out. They wobble as you focus all your energy in trying to stay standing.
You can't be weak.
Not now.
Not around Itachi.
You have to let him know what you've been researching. You have to tell him everything you've been too afraid to bring up previously.
But when you open your mouth to speak, all that comes out is a soft exhale, like your body has completely forgotten how to form a sentence.
It's pathetic, really. You're a strong woman, but now you stand as helpless as always in front of the only man your heart has allowed to fall for.
"Are you… okay?" Itachi asks, raising his eyebrows, his voice hinting his worry.
You don't speak.
You just shake your head.
Because, no. You aren't okay. You haven't been okay since you met him in that forest three years ago.
Or maybe it was when you found out he had massacred his clan, but you never believed it was for his own personal gain.
Or maybe you haven't been okay since the academy days when you would quietly watch him train while you pretended to study.
You don't know when all of this started, but all you do know, is that you understand your feelings, and all your heart is telling you to do is stop him.
You don't know if your body has finally regained its ability to talk, or if it's the adrenaline rushing through your veins, but your hand reaches into the pocket of your bag, and you pull out the piece of paper that holds all the information you had been researching about since your last meeting with him.
You unfold the paper slowly, your eyes resting on it for just a second before you bring out your arm to hand it to Itachi, not daring to look at it too long.
"Take it," you say. "Maybe it'll change your mind."
He brings his hand out, taking the paper from you, and grips it lightly. When his eyes meet yours for just a moment, you know he already suspects what will be written on it.
You watch him as he scans the words and diagrams all over the page. You watch him lightly run his finger over the paper, like it means more than you could ever know.
But when he finally rips his eyes off it and looks at you, you feel the defeat creeping in.
"I can live longer?" he asks. You don't know what it is that's behind his monotone voice, but you do know that something is up. Something he never thought would happen.
You nod. "I've been researching, and… though nothing matches the symptoms of your illness, I've found antidotes for somewhat similar illnesses. And even though I can't save you, I can help you live longer."
"How long?" he asks simply.
"Ten years, maybe? Or more. It all depends on how your body will react to the drugs." You walk forward, your knees finally responding to the demands your brain is making. You reach out and put your hand on his shoulder. "I will do whatever I can to make this work, Itachi-san."
He stays quiet. He doesn't look at you. He doesn't utter a word. He doesn't even let his breathing falter, and finally, after what feels like ages of waiting, he speaks.
"No," he says. "No."
"No?" you ask. Your hand falls from his shoulder to your side. "What do you mean, no?"
"No, I can't." He stands from the bed, stumbling back towards the window to the right of the mattress, losing control of his body.
"Why?" you plead. Your voice comes out shakier than you want it to. "Why can't you?"
He shakes his head. "I can't… I promised."
"Itachi-san, please sit down," you say, rushing towards him.
But he holds up a hand, still shaking his head. "Don't come near me," he says, furrowing his eyebrows, a frown forming on his face. "I don't want to do anything I'll regret."
You continue moving forward anyway, because you know even if he thinks he's doing something he'll regret, it may be a positive outcome for the both of you.
And maybe that's a bit selfish of you, but when you near Itachi, and see the Sharingan coming to life, you know he's everything you need, and you can't let him go no matter what.
"Do it," you say, cupping his face. "Do the thing you'll regret. I don't care! But please, don't go!"
There are tears forming in your eyes. You can't remember the last time you cried. Maybe it was when your parents passed, but it's been so long since then that you can't seem to remember any of it.
"Be selfish for once," you continue. To your surprise, your words cause Itachi to lean into your touch instead of repelling it. That causes you to near him, but slowly, like you don't want to scare him away. "You can live, Itachi-san. You can be selfish. You can stay here… with me." You meet his eyes, and again, he shakes his head, but this time, it's not as intense as the others. He's trying his best to not let your hands fall away from his face.
There's a pit forming in your stomach at every shake of his head. You're losing him. You know you are, and you don't know how to make him stay.
That's the only reason you came to meet him. You only came here to make him stay. You can't let him go. You can't fail him like that.
"Please, live for yourself for once. And if you don't want to do that, live for me."
This time, he doesn't shake his head, he just stills. Itachi's back, which is pushed back against the hideout's wall, starts to slide down as he lets himself fall to the ground. You let go of his face, quickly sitting down with him.
"You don't understand," he says softly. "I have to do this. This is why I've lived so much longer than I needed to already."
You shake your head slowly. "You should never feel guilty for living, Itachi-san."
"Sasuke needs—"
"No, he doesn't," you say sharply. "What he needs is an explanation of why you did what you did, and I'm afraid that's not your duty."
"You—you know?" he asks, surprised.
"I've known for a while now," you say quietly. "I didn't want to tell you, because I know how hard you are on yourself. I know you'd beat yourself up over something that slipped out when you couldn't control it."
"God," he sighs, bringing his hand up to his forehead and rubbing it. "No wonder why you weren't afraid to stick with me."
You huff. "I never doubted you. Not when Tanaka told me about you, not even when I met you in that forest. My brain would tell me one thing, but my heart—that, always lay with you."
Itachi’s lips twitch, the barest shadow of a smile—fragile, fleeting, as though he’s not sure he’s allowed to have it. His arm lifts, slow and deliberate, the motion carrying a quiet invitation rather than command. When it settles around you, the warmth of his touch is steady, careful, protective, and yet you can feel the hesitation in the way his fingers brush your side, as if he’s memorizing what it feels like to hold you.
You shift closer, heart thudding unevenly, and ease yourself forward until your knees bracket his legs. The movement is unhurried, almost reverent, like you’re afraid to break the spell by rushing. At last you lower yourself into his lap, the closeness overwhelming in its simplicity. His chest rises beneath your palms, solid and grounding, and the steady rhythm of his breathing seems to seep into you, calming and undoing you all at once.
"So don't go, Itachi-san," you say once again.
"Itachi," he says quietly. "Just Itachi."
You nod, letting it play in your head before it makes its way out of your mouth.
"Itachi," you say softly.
He sighs into your neck, and you shudder. His hand is on your back, patting it gently as you quietly sit there for God knows how long.
Eventually, the tears start to make their way out of your eyes, and your sniffling catches Itachi's attention. He shifts beside you, his hand settling at the back of your head, fingers combing gently down the length of your hair.
"Please," you plead again, choking on the word. "Please."
"I have to," he says. "You've known this ever since we met."
"I—I know, but you don't have to," you say softly. "You can stay. Just stay."
"I can't," he says. "You know I can't," Itachi whispers, his voice shaking now. Like deep down, even he doesn't want to go.
And that only makes you feel even more desperate.
You grab Itachi's cloak, fists tangling in the fabric. You pull him towards you, even though it seems like you have no power left in your wrists. There are tears streaming down your face, and you keep repeating the same phrase over and over.
"Don't go!" you say, a hiccup forming at the back of your throat. "Please!"
Your voice cracks on the word, shattering in the stillness between you. His body goes rigid, his hand hovering at your side as though he doesn’t know whether to hold you or push you gently away.
But he doesn’t move.
He only looks down at you, eyes unreadable, though you think you see something flicker—something soft, something that hurts worse than silence. His lips part like he might speak, but no words come.
You bury your face against his chest, sobs shaking through you, and the fabric of his cloak grows damp beneath your cheek. Your fingers tighten, clinging, as though sheer will might be enough to anchor him here.
"I can’t lose you," you whisper hoarsely, the words trembling against him. "Not like this. Not when I—" Your voice breaks again, swallowed by the sob you can’t keep back.
At last, his arm shifts. Slowly, carefully, it winds around you. He pulls you closer, holding you against him, his chin resting lightly atop your head. He doesn’t shush you. He doesn’t tell you it’s going to be alright. He just holds you, steady and unyielding, like a wall against the storm of your grief.
His hand slides down the length of your hair, smoothing it gently, rhythmically, as if grounding you with every stroke. The motion is almost imperceptible, but it anchors you—an unspoken acknowledgment, a wordless apology.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low, frayed at the edges.
"I never wanted to hurt you."
That’s all. No promises. No excuses. Just the truth, stark and devastating.
And somehow, it makes your tears fall harder.
Your breath hitches, breaking against him. You tilt your face upward, tear-stained and desperate, searching his eyes. "Then don’t," you plead, voice softer now, stripped bare. "Don’t hurt me. Stay. Just stay."
The silence that follows is unbearable.
It stretches, heavy and suffocating, filling every inch of air between you. His face is only inches away, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across your skin, but he feels impossibly distant. His dark eyes don’t waver, though—they’re locked on yours with an intensity that roots you to the spot, leaving you nowhere to run, nowhere to shield yourself.
You can’t tell if he’s going to answer. Maybe he won’t. Maybe this silence is his answer, and maybe it’s worse than hearing the word "no." Your hands, still clinging to his cloak, tighten reflexively, knuckles aching, but you can’t let go. You’re holding on like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
Your chest feels like it’s caving in. Every sob, every plea rattles inside your ribs until you think you might break apart right there in front of him. And still he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He just watches you with that unreadable expression, like he’s carving your face into memory, like he’s already saying goodbye in ways you can’t bear to name.
The tears don’t stop. They fall hot and relentless, sliding down your cheeks, catching on the curve of your mouth. One lands against the corner of his hand where it still rests gently at the back of your head, and you swear you feel him flinch. His thumb shifts, brushing along your hairline—soft, tentative. Almost as though he’s trying to soothe you, though his hand trembles faintly against your skin.
The smallest crack in his armor.
It’s enough to make your throat close up. Your lips part, a shuddering breath catching in your lungs, and all you can manage is a whisper that dissolves into his chest.
"Please."
The word fractures. It’s a child’s cry, a lover’s prayer, something primal and aching, pulled straight from the hollow of your chest. You hate how weak it sounds, how desperate—but you mean it with everything you are.
His eyes close, lashes sweeping against his cheeks like he’s in pain. You think he’s going to pull away—you feel it in the way his body shifts, in the way his shoulders rise with a tense breath. And if he does, if he turns from you now, you don’t know what you’ll do. You don’t know how you’ll survive it.
But then he exhales, slow and shaky, and when his eyes open again, the look in them is different. Softer. Rawer. The walls you’ve always known him to have are splintering before you, one piece at a time, until what’s left is the man you’ve been reaching for in every broken plea.
His gaze dips, almost imperceptibly, down toward your mouth. He hesitates there, hovering in the space between choice and surrender. His hand at the back of your head tightens slightly, as though anchoring himself to you, grounding himself in the same breath that’s unraveling him.
You feel the shift before you hear it—the shift in the air, in him, in the moment.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. Fragile, even. It doesn’t sound like the voice of a man who’s already made his decisions; it sounds like the voice of someone standing on the edge of a precipice, terrified of falling but unable to step back.
"Can I," he murmurs, the words catching faintly as though he’s afraid to release them into the air, "kiss you?"
It steals the breath from your lungs.
For a moment, you think you’ve misheard him. That your mind, drowning in fear and grief, conjured the words you’ve always secretly wanted but never thought you’d hear. But no—his lips are parted, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your mouth, the faintest tremor running through his hand where it cradles you. He means it. He’s asking.
Time collapses.
You’re still crying, tears streaking down your cheeks, but you can’t bring yourself to care. All you can focus on is him—the way his eyes search yours like he’s waiting for permission, the way the question hangs heavy between you like it could undo the world if answered wrong.
Your throat tightens. You can’t speak, not with so much caught inside you. All the words you want to say—how long you’ve wanted this, how much you love him, how you can’t lose him—they crowd your chest, choking you.
So you do the only thing you can. You nod.
The movement is small, fragile, but certain. Your chin dips, your breath stutters, and you let the gesture speak for everything your voice can’t.
His eyes soften in an instant, like the earth giving way beneath both of you. Relief flickers there, but it’s muted by something heavier—by the ache of all that’s come before, by the weight of all that’s still to come. He looks at you like you’re both his salvation and his undoing.
His hand shifts, steady against the back of your head, guiding you slowly forward. He takes his time—agonizingly so, as though every inch is a battle he’s fighting with himself. His other hand hovers near your cheek, stopping just shy of touching, fingers curling slightly as if he doesn’t trust himself not to hold you completely.
You can feel him. The warmth of his breath brushing across your lips, mingling with your own ragged exhales. The faint tremor in his chest where it presses against yours. The hesitation that clings to him, not because he doesn’t want this, but because he wants it too much—and he knows what it will cost.
He doesn’t look away. His gaze stays locked on you, on your tear-stained face, until he’s so close you can see the storm breaking in his eyes.
He moves so slowly, that it feels like he might pull away. Or maybe he's waiting for you to.
But you don’t let him.
Your hand finds his chest, right over his heartbeat, and you hold him there. The world falls away until all you can hear is the soft rhythm beneath your palm and the sound of your own uneven breathing.
When his lips finally brush yours, it’s barely there—like the shadow of a kiss, weightless and trembling. It feels more like a confession than anything spoken aloud. He lingers at that fragile edge, letting the possibility stretch between you, waiting for you to close the space.
You do.
Tilting into him, you press your mouth to his with a certainty that surprises even you. It’s soft, hesitant, but the kind of hesitation that hums with longing—like the first cautious step into something vast.
His breath catches.
Then his lips move against yours, answering.
The kiss builds slowly, carefully. He’s gentle but intent, kissing you like he’s trying to memorize every angle of your mouth, every shift in your breathing. His thumb brushes along your jaw, drawing you deeper, while the rest of his hand cradles the side of your face as though you might break beneath the weight of him.
You melt into it, every nerve awake, every part of you aware of how close he is. The taste of him lingers on your tongue—warm, grounding, unshakable. The tears that ran down your cheeks earlier continue rolling down. You don't exactly know why, but you can't help but only think about the kiss for now. You can't tell if this kiss is a goodbye, or a beginning, but you can't stop your hand from curling higher, sliding up to the side of his neck, your fingertips brushing the edge of his hair.
A low sound escapes him—almost a sigh, almost a surrender—and he leans in further, deepening the kiss with unspoken urgency. It’s still unhurried, but it grows heavier, the kind of kiss that makes time bend around it. The world outside doesn’t exist. There is only him, his breath, his mouth, and the fragile tremor of restraint that runs through his body.
When he parts from you, it’s only barely, his lips dragging against yours before he pulls back enough to breathe. His forehead presses to yours, eyes shut, as though it takes everything in him not to fall apart right there. His lips form a sad smile as he brushes his thumb along your cheek, wiping the fresh tears away from your face. You keep staring into his eyes that are still painted red from the Sharingan, because you can't seem to look away even if you wanted to.
You can feel his breath against your lips, unsteady now, quieter than before.
"I shouldn’t want this," he whispers, almost broken. He hand parts from your cheek and tangles back into your hair, and this time, he tugs at it slightly, a gesture that makes you groan quietly.
He doesn't wait for you to answer, he just kisses you again.
This time there’s no pause, no hesitation. His mouth claims yours with quiet intensity, fuller, deeper—like he’s decided that if this is the only moment he’s allowed, he’s going to take all of it. His hand at your jaw tilts your face up, angling you closer, and your lips part instinctively, letting him in.
The kiss deepens further, slow but consuming, and you can feel the warmth of his breath mingle with yours, the faint tremble in his hand betraying how much he’s holding back.
You lose yourself in it. In him. In the way the world softens and sharpens all at once, in the way your body leans into his without thought, in the way the kiss feels less like something beginning and more like something you’ve both carried with you for years.
And when he finally breaks the kiss again, his lips lingering against yours, you swear you can feel the shape of words he hasn’t yet spoken.
Words that, if he said them, might undo you completely.
His lips linger against yours, still so close that every uneven breath you take brushes across his mouth. You can feel it in the tiny tremors that pass between you, in the fragile thread that binds you in this suspended moment, fragile as glass and just as breakable. You’re terrified to move, terrified to breathe too deeply, afraid that the smallest shift will shatter the world you’ve built in this kiss.
Because for once, he let you have him.
For once, he didn’t turn away.
Your eyes flutter close as though shutting them will stretch this moment longer, but it doesn’t stop the ache building inside your chest. His forehead comes to rest against yours, barely touching, yet heavy enough to weigh down your thoughts. You feel the warmth of him seeping into you, and for the briefest heartbeat, you almost believe. Believe that the press of his lips, the way he pulled you in, the tremor in his hands when they cupped your face—maybe it all means he’ll stay.
But then, there’s his silence.
That silence that is louder than words, louder than any kiss, pressing down on you like a stone. You know Itachi’s silences—how they always hold more than his voice ever dares to speak. And this one is heavier than all the rest.
Still, you try to ignore it. You try to cling to the heat of his mouth lingering on yours, to the phantom press of his lips like an afterimage you can’t blink away. You want to live there, in the space where he gave you a part of himself you’ve been waiting for without even knowing.
But your heart is traitorous. It’s racing too fast, pounding against your ribs like it knows the truth: that this moment isn’t a beginning, but an ending.
His breath feathers against your cheek, unsteady now. Not because of the kiss—though you felt how he melted into it, how the walls he always keeps so high wavered for once—but because of what comes after. What always comes after.
You open your eyes, blinking through the dampness that blurs your vision. His are already on you, impossibly dark, impossibly close. He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t move. His gaze traces your face, drinking you in like he’s memorizing you, cataloguing every line, every tear, every shiver of your lips as though this is the last time he’ll allow himself to look.
And maybe that’s what cuts the deepest—how tender his eyes are. How much they hold when his words refuse to.
You swallow hard, your throat raw, your voice trapped somewhere between a sob and a whisper. The kiss gave you courage—or maybe it simply broke down the last of your defenses, leaving you bare. Either way, you can’t stop the truth from trembling at the edge of your mouth.
Because he kissed you like you mattered.
And yet, you know he’s still going to leave.
Your fingers are still knotted in his cloak, clutching it as though it anchors you, as though holding him tighter could root him here. But even now, even pressed so close you can feel the rhythm of his heart, you know he’s already slipping away.
Your chest aches with the weight of everything unsaid. You want to tell him you love him—that you’ve always loved him, in all the quiet, unspoken ways you could. You want to scream it, confess it, pour it into him until he can’t ignore it. But the words stay lodged in your throat, stuck there by fear.
Because if you say them and he leaves anyway, you don’t know if you’ll survive it.
So instead, you lean into him, pressing closer, your tears dampening the fabric of his cloak. You cling to the echo of the kiss, to the fleeting warmth of his breath, to the way his forehead hasn’t moved from yours. It’s almost enough to trick you into believing he won’t let go. Almost.
But not quite.
A tremor runs through your body, and when you speak again, your voice is not the shattered cry it was before. It’s softer now, pleading in a different way, the kind of plea that comes from a place deeper than desperation. From love. From the aching knowledge that even if the world burns around you, you’d still choose him.
And one last time, you plead again, hoping this time something in your tone will change his mind. Hoping that maybe you are enough for him to stay.
"Please, Itachi." You wrap your arms around him, and he stills, almost involuntarily. "Don't go," you say, sniffling as the tears reform.
He stays quiet for a moment, and you stay there, your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms thrown over his shoulders, your lips still swollen from the kiss. You stay quiet, holding your breath and the tears that are ready to fall at any coming moment, waiting for an answer, hoping it will be different this time.
"Alright," he says. You pull back, still not letting your arms fall away from him. "I'll stay."
Chapter 4: Leaving Tonight
Notes:
playlist (in no particular order): https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5DLgZ8oGApOupBUhI5OAO0?si=3yvljHJyTdCvVSRQikQwiQ&pi=1b5m7cLNQa268
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
His hand moves slowly up your back, warm and open-palmed. It lingers at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. You feel his nose brush the side of your head, the slope of his jaw pressing lightly against your temple.
Then, softly, like it might come apart if he says it too loud, he murmurs, "you’re shaking."
You hadn’t noticed. But now you feel it—every tremor—the way your body can’t quite settle.
His other hand finds your waist, grounding you. "Come here," he says, even though you’re already close.
Still, you shift. Crawl up, slowly, until your face is nearly level with his. You don’t speak, and neither does he.
There’s something quiet between you. Not silence, but intention. Like the hush before the tide rolls in.
But for now, you don't focus on it.
You only focus on how he's staying. His words ring in your ears.
He's actually staying.
His hand finds your jaw. And when he kisses you this time, it’s not an accident. It’s not a stolen moment.
It’s a choice.
It’s a yes.
You melt into it, breath catching. His mouth is soft but certain, and the warmth of it shoots straight down your spine. He kisses you once—twice—then deeper, more hungrier. It's like he’s trying to taste you before time runs out.
You kiss him back like you’ve wanted to for years.
You kiss him like your chest has been aching for this since the day you saw him again in that forest, bloody and worn, and something in you cracked open just trying to heal him.
How was it, that even though you didn't fully understand him back then, your heart still ached for him?
Your hands slip under the edge of his cloak, and he lets you—lets you push it back off his shoulders, lets you feel the shape of his ribs through his thin shirt.
He’s solid.
Warm.
He's real.
You press your palm flat to his stomach, just to feel him breathe.
His hands are under your shirt before you realize he’s moved. His fingertips skim the skin at your waist, slow and deliberate. It sends a shock up your spine. You gasp into his mouth, and he groans softly in response—low and quiet, like it slips from him before he can stop it.
"You okay?" he murmurs, voice rough.
You nod, but your voice comes out thinner than you want. "Yeah… Just—keep going."
His hands move higher, brushing up your sides, over your ribs. His thumbs ghost over the underside of your bra, and you twitch against him, your thighs tightening. You’re aware of every inch of your body—how close he is, how warm, how slow he’s going like he’s memorizing you.
"Okay," he says. His voice is steadier now, but low. Almost hoarse. "Tell me if anything’s too much."
You nod again, but he’s already leaning in—already kissing down your neck, slow and open-mouthed, his breath hot on your skin. You feel him drag his tongue just under your jaw, and your hips shift instinctively. You want more. You want all of him.
"Itachi," you whisper, breathless.
He freezes for just a second when you say his name like that—like it means something. Then he exhales hard against your skin and presses his mouth back to your throat.
"Say it again," he hisses.
You scream his name again, but it comes out slurred, drunk on pure pleasure as his teeth graze your jaw in all the right places.
"'tachi!"
He doesn’t speak, but you feel the way it hits him—his breath falters, and his fingers curl tighter at your waist like he’s trying to stay tethered to something. Or maybe trying to hold back.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he tilts your chin up and kisses you again—harder this time. He kisses you with less restraint. His lips part yours like he’s starved for you, and you match it, kissing him back with the same need. You shift in his lap, your thighs straddling his, and the groan he lets out is low and ragged and buried in your mouth.
His hands drag up beneath your shirt again, this time bolder. His palms are pressed flat against your back as he pulls you against him like he wants to feel all of you at once.
You push your hips forward, tentative at first, but the friction earns a sharp inhale from him.
Encouraged, you do it again, slower, more deliberate, and this time he breaks the kiss to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing heavy.
"I’ve wanted this for so long," he murmurs, and the quiet honesty in his voice sends your pulse into a sprint.
You ease back just enough to tug your shirt over your head, heart thudding. You’re half-bare now, and suddenly breathless for a different reason. He watches you—with no hesitation, no flicker of nerves. Just heat. And something softer under it.
"You're beautiful," he says, voice like gravel, and leans in to kiss down the line of your throat, across your collarbone. Then lower.
He takes his time. His mouth maps a slow, burning trail, and when he reaches your chest, he looks up at you for permission.
You nod, eyes locked to his, and he dips down—warm lips closing around your nipple. You gasp at the contact, your hand flying to his hair, and he groans against your skin when you tug gently at the strands. He sucks, then grazes his teeth, slow and careful, and you arch into it with a breathless, "Oh, God—"
Your other breast gets the same attention, but he moves slower this time, teasing, like he wants to draw this out. Like he needs to.
And maybe he does. Maybe he’s just as scared as you are that this might be the last time.
Because even if he's no longer leaving to fight Sasuke, he's still sick.
And you're not even sure if your medication will work.
But you do know one thing: you will not allow yourself to fail.
His hands grip your hips again and guide you against him. You grind forward—heat meeting heat—and the friction makes both of you exhale sharply.
You look down between your bodies. You can see the way he’s hard beneath you, the fabric of his pants strained, and it hits you all over again that this is real.
You reach down, hand brushing over him, and he jerks slightly—hips twitching up.
"Are you—" you begin.
"Yes." His voice is tight, controlled, but barely.
When your fingers trail up, over the waistband of his pants, undoing the tie with deliberate slowness, he watches you, eyes dark and trained on your face like he doesn’t want to miss a single second. The moment you get it undone, he leans back just enough to shrug out of his shirt. You pause to take him in—how lean and strong he is, how his breath stutters a little when your hands rest on his bare chest.
You trail your fingertips down the middle of his torso, feeling the warmth of him, the faint scar over his ribs. When your hand dips beneath the waistband of his pants, he grabs your wrist—not to stop you. Just to slow you.
"You don’t have to," he says, almost like it’s a question.
"I want to," you say, your voice dazed.
He exhales, like that undoes something in him. And he lets go.
You lean forward, pressing a slow kiss to his lower abdomen, and his stomach tightens beneath your lips.
He whispers your name—barely audible. Not rushed or demanding, but raw and real.
You pull his pants down slowly, and he lifts his hips slightly to help you. You move carefully, watching his body, how his breath shortens, how his hands clench in the sheets.
And then he’s bare for you.
You pause to just look at him. He’s already hard, the tip flushed and glistening, his length heavy against his stomach. Your mouth waters, but more than that—your chest tightens. You’re not doing this to seduce him. You’re doing this because you love him. Because he lets you see him like this. Because he’s letting you in. Because he's staying. Just for you.
You pull him free, and your breath catches at the sight of him—hard and hot in your hand, and already leaking at the tip. You wrap your hand around him, slowly, watching the way his eyes flutter shut for just a moment. He’s warm in your palm, and the quiet, barely-there breath he exhales makes heat coil low in your stomach. You stroke him once, experimentally, and he hisses through his teeth, hips twitching up again.
"Fuck—" His head lolls back. It’s the first time you’ve ever heard him swear, and it does something to you. You keep going, slow, twisting your wrist on the upstroke like you’ve always imagined, and he groans—low and wrecked and entirely undone.
You lean in.
The first touch of your tongue is light, tentative, as if introducing yourself to a part of him you’ve never met. He draws in a sharp breath, thighs tensing slightly under your touch. Encouraged, you drag your tongue along the underside of him, slow and deliberate, until you reach the tip.
You kiss it—just once—before wrapping your lips around him fully.
He groans—soft, almost strangled—and you feel his hand brush your shoulder, then grip it, fingers tightening just enough to ground himself.
You take more of him slowly, easing down as far as you can go, then pulling back, letting your tongue swirl over him on the way up. The way his hips shift ever so slightly, the way his fingers twitch against your skin—it’s like music. A language without words.
He’s so quiet, but it’s not because he’s unaffected. You can feel the tension in every part of him. You can hear it in the rough way he exhales your name. You can see it in the way his jaw clenches, in the way his eyes don’t leave your face for even for a second.
You hollow your cheeks a little, pace growing steady, and his hand slides to the back of your head. He doesn’t push, doesn’t guide. He just holds it, like he’s afraid to lose the feeling of you.
"It’s—" His voice is rough. "You really don’t have to…"
You pull back just enough to whisper again, "I want to."
And then you sink again, deeper this time, taking him in until you feel the edge of your throat catch. His grip tightens, but he’s still holding back. Always holding back.
So you hum—soft and low—and the sound vibrates through him. His whole body jerks slightly beneath you, and a curse slips past his lips before he can swallow it.
Your hands are steady on his hips as you set a rhythm, bobbing your head, using both your mouth and your hand now, twisting slightly as you rise, squeezing gently as you lower. The muscles in his thighs are trembling now. His breath is ragged.
You peek up at him.
His head is tilted back against the wall, lips parted, throat taut, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow. There’s a flush blooming high on his cheeks and neck, a thin sheen of sweat at his temples. You’ve never seen him like this—unmade, undone.
It’s devastating and beautiful all at the same time.
When you take him fully into your mouth again, moaning softly around him, his control finally begins to fray. His hips shift without meaning to, his hand tightening in your hair as he exhales your name like a prayer.
"Wait," he breathes suddenly, his voice wrecked.
You pause, pulling back slowly, lips still brushing the tip of him.
His eyes are heavy when they meet yours, glazed with lust but brimming with something else, too—something softer. "If you keep going, I won’t last."
You blink slowly, breathless. "That’s okay."
But he shakes his head, sitting up, pulling you toward him until you’re straddling his lap. "No," he murmurs, voice hoarse. "I want to be inside you when I come."
The way he says it, like it’s the last thing he’ll ever give you, makes your heart stutter. There’s so much pain buried under the want in his voice, so much sorrow wrapped inside his hands as they run along your thighs.
His hand comes up to cup the side of your face. "Come here," he murmurs again, and when you lean in, he kisses you like he can’t help it. Like it’s instinct.
Then he moves—shifts you gently, guides you backward until you’re lying beneath him. You open your legs for him without thinking, your breath quickening when he slots himself between them. You're still clothed from the waist down, and he grinds into your core through the thin fabric of your underwear.
You moan softly, nails digging into his shoulders.
"Take these off," he whispers, nudging your underwear with a hand that’s barely steady.
You lift your hips to help him, and he pulls them down slow—kissing the inside of your thigh as he goes, as if he can’t stand the thought of rushing any part of this.
His mouth finds you a moment later, and when his tongue slides through your folds, you arch off the bed with a sound you’ve never made before.
He groans in response like he likes hearing you fall apart.
His mouth moves with purpose. Not rushed, not clumsy—just slow, deliberate pressure as his tongue traces you in soft, maddening strokes. He learns what you like quickly. How your thighs tremble when he flicks you a certain way, how your breath catches when he pauses to suck—slow and focused—like he’s memorizing the sound of your moan.
You bury your hands in his hair, your hips lifting to meet the rhythm of his mouth.
"'tachi—please—" you breathe.
He groans into you, and the vibration makes your head spin.
You feel like you’re unraveling, fiber by fiber, everything tight and hot and right there. And he doesn’t stop, he doesn't look away. He just keeps holding you with one hand firm on your hip and the other splayed wide across your stomach like he’s anchoring you to the world.
"I—I’m going to—" you gasp, and he only hums in response, licking you harder.
The pleasure crests like a tidal wave. You cry out, your body jerking under his hold as you come, hips rolling, mouth open with a ragged moan. He keeps going through it—softening the pressure only when your thighs start to twitch in oversensitivity. And when he finally pulls away, his lips are wet with you, and his eyes are dark and blown wide.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then leans up and kisses you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You taste yourself on his tongue, and it only makes you kiss him harder.
You reach between your bodies again, guiding him back into your hand. He’s so hard it must ache, and when you stroke him, he lets out a breathless, choked sound you’ve never heard from him before.
"I need you," you whisper. "I need to feel you."
His forehead presses to yours. "Are you sure?"
You nod. "Yes."
He closes his eyes for a beat, like he’s grounding himself. Then he shifts, reaches down between you to line himself up. You feel the blunt head of him against your entrance—hot, thick, and real—and your whole body tenses in anticipation.
"I’ll go slow," he says, voice barely more than a rasp.
And he does.
The first inch steals your breath. The stretch burns, but it’s laced with something sharper—want, need, the kind of hunger that’s waited years to be fed. He goes slow, watching your face the entire time, stopping when your breath hitches and easing in again when you nod.
By the time he’s fully seated, he’s shaking with restraint, jaw clenched like he’s holding something back.
"Fuck," he murmurs, and it sounds like a prayer. "You feel—oh, God, you feel so good."
You’re so full. You’ve never felt so full before, like he’s inside you everywhere all at once, like there’s no part of you untouched.
He doesn’t move yet. He just breathes with you, and lets your bodies adjust. His forehead rests against yours again, and you both stay like that for a long moment, your breaths tangled, your hearts racing.
Then he pulls out halfway—and thrusts back in, slow and deep.
You gasp, clutching at his shoulders, and he groans like he’s losing his mind.
"I’ve wanted this since I saw you again in the forest," he breathes. "Three years. I tried to push it down. Pretend it was just—gratitude. But I couldn’t. I’ve loved you since then."
The words hit you like an open wound. You don’t speak—you can’t speak—but your body answers for you. You lift your hips to meet his next thrust, wrap your legs around his waist, hold him tighter.
He kisses you again, desperate now. The pace builds—not frantic, but intense, deep strokes that make you feel every inch of him. You cry out when he hits just right, and he does it again and again, chasing that spot like he wants to make you fall apart over and over.
"Say my name," he pants.
"Itachi," you breathe.
"Again."
"Itachi—Itachi, please—don’t stop—"
He doesn’t.
You lose track of time. The rhythm of his body, the sweat at his brow, the way his hand slips between you to circle your clit again—it’s too much, and not enough, and everything.
Your climax hits you harder than the first, shattering you with a high-pitched moan as you tighten around him. He groans, his movements faltering, and then he’s gasping your name like it’s the only thing he’s ever known.
"Can I—inside?" he asks, voice tight.
You nod, almost delirious. "Yes—yes—please—"
He thrusts once more, deep and sharp, and then you feel him spill inside you, heat pulsing in waves as he comes with a groan so raw it echoes in your chest.
He collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you, both of you panting, sweat-slicked, tangled together.
Itachi doesn’t move for a while.
His weight is warm, grounding. You feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours, the ghost of his breath where it brushes the crook of your neck. Your arms are wrapped around his back, your legs still loosely tangled around his hips, unwilling to let him go.
Eventually, he lifts his head, just enough to look at you.
You’re both flushed, chests heaving, skin slick with sweat and sex and salt from the tears you had cried before. His eyes search your face like he’s memorizing it. Like this is the last time he’ll ever see you.
"Are you okay?" he asks, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.
You nod, lips parting on an unsteady breath. "I'm—yes. More than okay."
His expression shifts, just a little. Relief, and something sadder underneath.
You reach up, brush the damp strands of hair from his face. "You’re really here," you murmur, like it might vanish if you say it too loud.
He presses his lips to your palm.
"I’m here," he says.
He pulls out gently, slow and careful, and you shiver at the loss, at the warmth trailing down your thighs in the aftermath. He moves to your side and draws you with him, curling around you so your back is to his chest, one hand on your hip, the other laced with yours over your stomach.
His breath brushes the shell of your ear.
"I didn’t want to show you this part of me," he murmurs.
"Why?"
He hesitates.
"Because I wouldn’t have been able to let you go."
Your chest aches, the softness of his voice burrowing deep in a place you thought was long-since hardened. You squeeze his hand.
"You don’t have to go anywhere."
His nose presses to your neck. "I wish that were true."
Silence falls again—comfortable, but heavy. You stare at the wooden beams above the ceiling, the pale blue light filtering in through the thin paper walls. This place feels suspended outside of time. Like the village doesn't exist. Like Sasuke doesn’t exist. Like the two of you could just be.
"I’ve imagined this before," you say softly. "Us. Being together. But I never thought it would feel like this."
He hums against your skin. "Like what?"
"Like peace."
You feel him smile, just barely. "You were always peace to me."
You roll to face him. His eyes are half-lidded, dark lashes resting on flushed skin. There’s a slight sheen of sweat at his temple, and you brush it away, trailing your fingers down the line of his jaw, the slope of his neck, his collarbone, his chest. He catches your hand there and kisses each fingertip, slow and deliberate.
"I want to remember this," you whisper. "Exactly as it is."
"You will."
There’s something strange in the way he says it. Something too certain. Too final. You open your mouth to ask—but then he kisses you again, and the thought slips away.
His lips are slower now. Gentle. Less hungry and more reverent. He shifts to hover over you again, and this time, when he enters you, it’s with an aching slowness, a softness that pulls tears to your eyes.
It’s not about need now. It’s about presence. About memorizing the feeling of skin and breath and weight and warmth. You hold onto each other like you’re afraid the world will pull you apart the moment you let go.
He makes love to you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to.
You feel it in the way he grips your waist. The way he murmurs your name against your throat. The way his lips tremble just before he comes again, spilling inside you with a groan and pulling you with him into one more slow, devastating release.
And when you both lie still, tangled again in the silence, you don’t ask him why it felt like goodbye.
You just bury your face into his chest and listen to the steady beat of his heart.
You aren’t sure when the shift begins—only that it’s so subtle, you don’t notice it at first.
It’s warm. His arms are around you. Your cheek rests against his chest, and his fingers are moving slowly over your spine in lazy, soothing circles. The air smells like pine and sweat and something faintly sweet. His breath is steady. The world is still.
And then, it isn’t.
His fingers stop moving.
You lift your head.
"Itachi?" you whisper.
He’s looking at you—but his features are softening, unfocusing, like ink bleeding through paper. You blink. Blink again. But the lines of his jaw, the lashes around his eyes, even the strands of his hair—everything is dimming, draining of shape and warmth like sunlight slipping underwater.
"Itachi?" your voice breaks this time.
His hand cups your face. His thumb brushes your cheek one last time.
Something is… off.
You don’t know what it is at first—just that the warmth on your skin has vanished too suddenly, too cleanly. Like someone pulled a blanket off while you were sleeping.
Your body doesn’t ache like it should. it doesn't feel used, or held, or loved.
You blink against the faint light filtering through the paper screen.
You’re on your side, his blanket tucked right below your chin. Fully clothed. The robe you wore hours ago is still knotted at the waist, your sleeves undisturbed. Your hair lies flat across your shoulder—no tension, no tangles. No sweat on your skin. No scent of him on the sheets. No breath at your nape.
But the memory is still vivid. The heat of his mouth. The way he groaned your name. The way you held his face and said—
"Itachi…"
You sit up.
Your heart stutters.
He’s standing near the door, backlit by the pale light of morning, cloak falling in crisp, perfect folds around his frame. Not a wrinkle out of place. His hair rests neatly at his shoulders—untouched.
But his cheeks… they’re flushed. Just barely.
Enough to remember the kiss. That first one.
Nothing more.
You open your mouth. It stays empty.
He meets your eyes.
Soft and guilty.
"I had to," he says quietly, voice rough. "If I’d let you stop me… I never would have gone."
Silence drops like a stone between you.
"So you let me believe that you stayed," you whisper, your voice hoarse, "that we had one night together. That you loved me like that."
"I do love you like that." His jaw tightens. "That’s why I did it."
You stare at him, chest rising and falling, breath catching on something brittle inside you.
"Why would you do that?" you ask, but it comes out more as a plead.
He doesn’t answer. He doesn't flinch or argue. He just watches you, like this hurts him too—but not enough to stay.
You look down at your hands, still resting in your lap. You clench them. They shake.
"You lied to me."
"I gave you something real inside it," he says. "I wanted to leave something behind that you could hold onto. Something I never had time to give you outside of it."
You stand slowly.
"I didn’t want something perfect," you say. "I just wanted you, Itachi."
He lowers his eyes. You don’t move.
"Was the first kiss real?" you ask. "Before you trapped me in the genjutsu?"
He nods once. "It was real."
You take a breath. It rattles.
"Then I’ll remember that one. Not the rest."
He looks like he might say something else. But instead, he just offers you the faintest smile—thin, hollow at the edges.
He turns toward the door.
But your knees suddenly give out.
The world lurches sideways—your vision blurs at the edges, and a low, dragging weight pulls at your limbs like your body no longer belongs to you. The aftershock of the genjutsu, slow and cruel, seeps in like venom.
You gasp as the floor rushes up to meet you.
But you never hit it.
He’s there, his arms around you in an instant, steady and warm. You feel his cloak brush your cheek, smell the faint scent of pine and something older, deeper, uniquely him.
Your hands clutch weakly at his chest, but you can’t hold on. You’re fading.
"Stay," you try to say, but your lips barely move.
He leans close, his breath against your hair.
"I love you," he whispers, voice breaking. "I’m sorry."
Then comes the softest press of his lips to your forehead.
He lowers you gently to the bed, careful and reverent, as if placing down something sacred.
Your fingers—slack, trembling—catch the edge of his cloak. You hold on, barely.
And that’s where the darkness takes you. Wrapped in the last real piece of him you’ll ever touch.
"You're cruel, you know that?"
Itachi hears that familiar voice.
Tanaka.
"I'm aware," Itachi says softly, shoving the closet door open and grabbing another cloak from within.
"She loves you, Itachi. Why can't you just stay?" Tanaka says, his hand pointed towards your unconscious body.
You're asleep, and Itachi knows by the time you wake up, it'll be too late.
He'll already be gone.
"I don't deserve someone like her," he says simply.
He slowly slips the cloak over his back, and slides his hand into the sleeve. Itachi can still hear your faint whispers, pleading with him to stay.
But he knows he can't.
if it's one thing Itachi can't be selfish about, it's you.
"You're damn right about that," Tanaka says, dropping his arm to his side. "You've put enough people through shit, but don't put her through it, too."
Itachi's jaw tightens. "That's exactly why I need to do this."
He says it like it explains everything, but even Itachi knows this is wrong.
But he's had this planned ever since he took the decision to massacre the clan.
He just never expected you to appear in his life.
You were unexpected, but you felt so real, so refreshing. You felt like everything he could never allow himself to have.
And when he finally started to see the shift in your behavior, he knew leaving would only become harder.
But he can't go back on his word. He has to do this. This is what's expected of him.
He's already ruined you and himself by staying this long. He can't stay and ruin your life more.
You deserve someone better.
Someone like Tanaka.
"I don't understand you, man." Tanaka rubs his forehead, sighing.
Itachi turns his gaze to you, and back to Tanaka, and then back at you.
Someone like Tanaka.
That's it.
He can see Tanaka likes you. No one looks at a friend the way he looks at you.
He looks at you just like the way Itachi looked at you when he was sneaking looks.
"Tanaka-san, only you can give her the life she wants," Itachi mutters, walking closer to him.
At Itachi's words, Tanaka goes still. His hands go still at his sides as he curls them into fists.
Itachi catches it, the way Tanaka's hand moves towards him, but he doesn't move.
He deserves this, for everything he's done to you.
For how he let you stay even when he should have cut off all contact with you.
Because he knew this would only hurt you both in the end. Yet he stayed, selfishly, because you were—are the only thing he's ever wanted for himself. And now, it's all going to ruins.
Tanaka's fist hurries towards Itachi's face.
He doesn’t dodge.
It barrels toward him, wild with fury, shoulder thrown forward with more emotion than technique. But Itachi stands still, calm in the eye of it all, his cloak rippling faintly around his ankles from the movement in the air. There’s no flicker of his Sharingan. No twitch in his stance. No flinch.
Then the punch lands.
A brutal, cracking sound breaks through the silence—a heavy thud of Tanaka's knuckles colliding with his cheekbone. Itachi’s head jerks sideways, strands of his black hair whipping across his face, the momentum tugging at the high collar of his cloak. For a second, he just sways. A single drop of blood beads at the corner of his lip.
Tanaka's chest heaves. Rage still burns behind his eyes, but it’s dulled now—dimmed by the cold, eerie stillness in the aftermath. Itachi’s feet haven’t moved an inch.
Slowly, deliberately, he turns his head back to face him.
His dark eyes are unreadable. Not angry. Not surprised. Just accepting. Like he’s taken worse. Like this, too, was deserved.
The silence stretches.
And then, with a voice low and toneless, Itachi says, "I won’t stop you. If you need to do that again."
He doesn’t raise a hand. Doesn’t blink. He just stands there—an unmoving shadow with blood staining the edge of his mouth, and a quiet that feels heavier than the punch itself.
Tanaka breathes heavily, and a faint smirk appears on his face. "You better not."
He points towards you. "And for that matter, I know only I can give her the life she wants," he pauses for a moment, his smirk disappearing. "But I'm not you, Itachi. And she only needs you."
Itachi's eyes drop to the floor.
He wants to say how he needs you too. He can't live without you. How he'll do anything just to live a peaceful life with you.
But he knows that even if he stays, he'll only hurt you more when he dies of his illness.
He's hurt you enough.
He's done so much damage.
He doesn't want to do anything more.
Itachi turns around, taking one last glance at you. He wishes he could have just had you. Just taken you for himself. He wishes that for once in this world, he was allowed to be selfish. He wishes he could just run away, but that's not an option for him.
He's Itachi Uchiha.
Even if he were to run away, he'd still be known.
You'd never be able to live a peaceful life with him.
Sick or not. Fighting Sasuke or not.
It had all been settled.
Ever since the moment he was born, it had been settled.
Itachi could never want something and have it.
But all he'd ever wanted was you.
Itachi faces the door, his back to you and Tanaka now. "Take good care of her," he says.
Then, he slowly takes a step out, and disappears into the forest.
The sound reaches you before anything else—the soft patter of rain against the windowpane. Gentle. Relentless. Like fingers tapping glass, asking to be let in.
Your lashes flutter.
Everything feels thick, like your body’s caught beneath layers of water, weighted and slow. You shift slightly, and the rustle of fabric near your face draws your attention. You’re still in your clothes. The ones you wore when you begged him to stay.
You turn your head. The room is dim. Gray morning light filters through the curtains, veiled by the steady curtain of rain outside. It’s quiet.
Except you’re not alone.
Tanaka sits in the chair beside your bed. His arms are crossed loosely, legs angled out, head tilted just slightly—watching you. He doesn’t flinch when your eyes meet his. Doesn’t rush to speak. His expression is unreadable at first, until it shifts—shoulders easing, jaw loosening, a breath released as if he’d been holding it for too long.
"You’re awake," he says softly.
You blink, and the room wavers. Your throat is raw. You swallow, but it doesn’t help. Something inside you is trembling, a thin edge of panic or heartbreak trying to claw its way up.
You sit up slowly. The motion sends a jolt through your chest—tight, sharp. You glance down.
You’re holding something.
It’s his cloak.
Your fingers are tangled in it like they’d never let go. Still warm. Still carrying the faintest trace of him.
You remember—his arms around you, his lips on your forehead, the way your fingers curled into the edge of his cloak as the world pulled you under.
The tears come before you can stop them.
They spill out of your eyes, sudden and hot, tracking down your cheeks faster than you can catch your breath. You press your face into his cloak, and the sob rips through you—ugly, aching, full of something too big to name.
Tanaka is already on his feet.
You don’t even see him move until his arms are around you. No questions. No hesitation.
You collapse into him.
He pulls you close with one arm around your shoulders, the other hand bracing the back of your head, and you fall apart there—chest heaving, breath stuttering, every inch of you breaking open against him. His shirt dampens quickly beneath your face, soaked in a grief you hadn’t even realized you were holding until now.
"I—" you try, but your voice fails.
"You don’t have to explain," he murmurs. His voice is quiet but firm. "Just breathe. I’ve got you."
And somehow, that makes it worse.
Because you don’t want him.
You want someone who isn’t here anymore.
You want someone who was never here to begin with.
You want—
"I thought he…" you whisper. Your voice fractures. "It felt so real."
Tanaka’s arms tighten just slightly. "I know."
But he doesn’t. He can’t.
How do you explain the echo of the touch that still lingers on your skin, the way your body still hums with the memory of warmth that never existed outside your own mind?
How do you tell him the person you love kissed you, held you, gave you everything—and took it all away in the same breath?
He rocks you gently, like you used to when you were younger and everything felt too heavy to carry alone and he'd find your arms. You cling to his shirt, and he doesn’t let go.
The rain outside grows louder for a moment, wind pressing against the glass.
Inside, the silence returns.
Broken only by your breath against his collarbone, and the quiet sound of your heart cracking open in his arms.
You don’t know how long you stay like that.
Time feels suspended—held in the hush of the rain, the quiet steadiness of Tanaka’s embrace, the way your breath shudders and slows against his chest. There’s nothing but the weight of everything you can’t say pressing against your ribs, and the warmth of someone not asking you to explain it.
Your fingers are still tangled around Itachi's cloak.
You wish you could let go. But your body won’t.
It holds too much meaning. It's the one thing he's letting you have, and you'd be a fool to let go of it.
Eventually, your sobs taper into silence. Not because the pain is gone, but because your body has grown too tired to keep breaking. What’s left is a fragile kind of emptiness, like standing in the eye of a storm after it’s already torn the roof off.
Tanaka doesn’t move.
You think, vaguely, that his shirt is probably soaked with your tears. That his legs must be numb from the angle he’s holding you. But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t adjust. He just keeps his arms around you, the way someone might hold a child after a nightmare—close and quiet and without condition.
A minute passes. Maybe more.
Eventually, you breathe in and whisper, "I’m sorry."
His hand moves, gently smoothing over your hair. "Don’t apologize."
"I just…" Your voice trails off. You blink hard, trying to keep more tears from spilling. "It felt like he was still here."
Tanaka’s breath catches faintly. You feel it in the way his chest stills. But he doesn’t interrupt. He just listens.
"He said—" You stop yourself again. You don’t want to say it out loud. Not because it didn’t matter, but because it mattered too much. Because if you speak it, it makes it real—and real things can be taken away.
You press your forehead into his shoulder.
"It wasn’t a dream," you say, voice so low it almost vanishes. "It wasn’t. I was awake."
And somehow that’s worse.
You had his arms around you. You felt his breath against your neck. You touched his face. You tasted his mouth.
You loved him in the dark, and for once, he let you.
And still, none of it was real.
Tanaka’s hand is a steady anchor at your back. His fingers are warm where they press between your shoulder blades. You can feel his pulse. Slow. Grounded.
"I thought I could do it," you say after a while. "I thought I could let him go."
You feel the way his grip shifts. Not tighter. Just more present. Like he’s reminding you: I’m here. Even if the person you wanted isn’t.
"I don’t think you were ever meant to let him go," Tanaka says softly. "Not like this."
The words hit something deep. You don’t know what it is exactly—grief, regret, love, maybe all of it—but it unspools inside you in one long, quiet breath. You close your eyes and exhale.
The rain keeps falling.
Outside, the wind sighs against the window, like the world is grieving with you.
For a while, neither of you speak.
You just sit there in the stillness, surrounded by the scent of damp cotton and worn wood, the echo of something beautiful and terrible that refuses to leave your chest. You’re exhausted, but you’re not alone.
You don’t know how long you sit, breathing in his scent—faint soap and rain—until the tears dry sticky on your cheeks and your limbs feel heavier than they should.
There’s no more crying left in you. Just the hollow ache that always comes after.
You shift slightly, pulling back just enough to look at him. His shirt is wrinkled from where you clutched it. His dark eyes search yours, calm and unjudging. Like he’s waiting for whatever you need to say, or not say.
Your throat feels sore, but you still ask, voice almost shy in the quiet, "can you… stay?"
It’s not eloquent. It’s barely more than a whisper. But it’s enough. Because the moment it leaves your lips, you see it soften something in his face—something that’s been braced, on guard, ever since he found you like this.
"You want me to sit here?" he asks gently. "Or lie down with you?"
The question makes your chest tighten unexpectedly. You know what he’s really asking. He's asking you what's safe? What’s too much? What do you need—without crossing the line?
You don’t even hesitate. You lift the blanket beside you and nod, just once.
His reply is a quiet breath. Not a yes, not a no. Just acceptance.
Tanaka moves with care, almost reverently, as if he’s afraid of making the bed creak too loudly. He slips off his shoes, then slides in beside you—fully clothed, facing you, his head on the pillow next to yours.
Itachi's cloak is bunches up right next to your chest, your hands still not allowing you to let go. It stays there, acting like a barrier between you two as Tanaka stares at the wall behind you, not daring to look you in the eye.
Neither of you speaks.
The silence isn’t heavy now. It’s just there, like the hush of the rain outside.
He doesn’t touch you at first. He keeps his hands folded near his chest like he’s waiting for a signal. But something in you—worn raw from loss and longing—leans forward. You shift across the small space between you and press your forehead against his chest.
And just like that, his arms come around you again.
You feel your body slowly begin to release something. Not completely—there are still sharp places inside you that haven’t softened—but enough to feel like the world is holding still for a moment. Like maybe it’s okay to rest.
His palm settles between your shoulder blades, his thumb moving in soft, slow circles.
"Thank you," you murmur.
"For what?" he says, so quiet it nearly vanishes.
"For not asking me to explain."
Tanaka exhales like he’s been holding that breath for hours.
"I figured… when it matters, you will."
You close your eyes and let yourself listen to the rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek. It’s not the one you lost. But it’s still a reminder that someone is here. Someone stayed.
You don’t know what tomorrow will look like.
You don’t know how long this ache will stay inside you, how long it’ll be before the memories stop feeling like a second skin you can’t peel off.
But tonight, you are warm.
You are held.
And when sleep finally pulls at your limbs again, it’s not heavy or cruel. It’s just quiet.
And this time, no one fades away.
Notes:
who is itachi without his morally gray actions and selflessness???
no, reader did not move on, at least not yet. tanaka has been there ever since she can remember, and taking refuge in someone who’s willing to give it to you so easily in such a period of grief can make a person really weak. she knows itachi is dead; she’s hurt and tanaka being the only person who understood what itachi meant to her gives her peace since she knows there isn’t a literal bomb ticking away at his life.
also, if anyone cares, the genjutsu started right before he said “I’ll stay,” in the last chapter. Everything after that was not real.
my tumblr, for updates and the silly things i post every now and then: @itachisarchive
Sodaoda on Chapter 1 Mon 01 Sep 2025 11:19AM UTC
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itachisarchive on Chapter 1 Tue 02 Sep 2025 01:27AM UTC
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