Reflection
Palms down on the desk, he leaned forward, dark hair barely brushing slightly against the reflective surface before him. A droplet of sweat slid from beneath his forehead protector, indicating the secret fear he always had of their missions. His shoulders rose and sunk with his labored breathing. His eyes, closed, playing back behind the lids his brush with death. They hadn't messed up this bad in a long time.
Slowly his eyes slid open, staring into themselves, glaring at the two pairs of black dots which drifted in a sea of red. Two. Only two. Taijutsu, his weakness.
He had never seen Sharingan other than his own with only two dots. It was always a harsh reminder. So what if he'd been young then? He was already a Genin, only a Genin, only two dots.
Jounin, Clan Head, Police Chief, Father.
He had inherited his face from his mother. Those strong, deep permanent wrinkles of his father were absent from his cheeks. What would his face look like if he had been born with them?
A twinge of pain raced down his arm as teeth closed on skin, blood flowing from his thumb. Searching back, he called up the memories of his father that he kept hidden away; a Pandora's Box that he peeked into only when he felt he would be able to grab the hope that lay within before being consumed by the pain. A gripping sensation in his heart, recalling the man's face in front of his own.
Slowly he traced the wrinkles on his face, the darkened lines adorning his father's face now on his own. For only an instant, he still saw himself staring back from the mirror. Then, without shifting a bit, the face warped.
ANBU, Captain, Betrayer, Akatsuki Member, Brother, Itachi.
He was always behind. Wherever he excelled, Itachi did more so. Whenever he advanced, Itachi had always gone twice as far. Two dots. Only two. Two levels behind the pinwheel. The Mangekyou. Itachi.
Only now, only now were they the same. He ran his finger across his forehead protector, imitating the gash of betrayal on his brother's. Now, only now. Only now did he have Itachi staring back at him, the exact same as him. Sharingan with only two dots. No uniform of rank. Shaking and sweating from a mere C-rank mission. For this moment, Itachi was no higher than he was.
He reached out for the figure before him, hatred flooding his veins. Maybe he could never reach Itachi's level. But if Itachi was brought down, he could be killed. Once they were even, his hatred was more than enough. One who has been in a shadow for so long has no greater desire than to finally see the light they've been denied.
His hand hit the mirror, and the spell was broken. He stood, palm pressed up against the cool glass, shocked back to reality. The wrinkles were nothing more than blood. The forehead protector was still loyal to Konoha. Dark, almost blue-tinted hair. Long, messy bangs. Sharingan with only two dots. Only two.
Genin.
Orphan.
Second Place.
Avenger.
Sasuke.