This fic was spawned from a particular chapter in the manga in which Madara, speaking of the sacrifices Itachi made for the village, mentions Itachi killed his lover. If I am calculating correctly, Itachi was barely a teenager when, under orders from Konoha, he murdered his clan. The last few lines of this fic came to me first, and originally the piece was supposed to be about the tragedy of young love. It still is in a way, but it kind of morphed into something else as well. I'm not entirely sure I'm happy with it - I feel it may be a bit OC at times, although Itachi's character has changed so much throughout the manga it's difficult to say. I will admit that I am a tad obssessed with tragedy that is Itachi.
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He first meets her in the spring, the grass new green and damp in the gathering gloom of evening as paper lanterns light up around the periphery of his parent's yard. She stands apart from the hum of the clan, quiet and unassuming, like some demure garden statuette. During the long months directly after his exile, Itachi would always remember that she wore a pale green kimono that complimented exquisitely the dark sweep of her hair and the striking emerald of her eyes, an unusual color amidst the normal stoic black of the Uchiha. He is thirteen, and it is spring, a season and an age when little boys and little girls begin to feel the tiny, hopeful flutter of young love beneath their ribcages.
Except Itachi isn't little anymore and he hasn't held the company of peers his own age since he graduated from the Academy six years earlier to tread his way up Konoha's ranks with an alacrity startling reminscent of his older, equally talented cousin. In fact, Itachi's growth had perfectly paralleled Shisui's until after his acquisition of the Sharingan, upon which their paths diverged like a river forking round a rock, one branch strong and steady and true, the other chaos roiling beneath a deceptively calm surface. The clan elders watch and whisper about the boy with the jaded eyes that burn crimson, and wonder if their secrets are safe.
Doubtful loyalty aside, on this breathless evening, with the paper lanterns aglow like pods of fireflies nestled amongst his mother's rose bushes, all of the Uchiha clan gather here to celebrate Itachi's recent indoctrination into Konoha's Black Op forces, the elitest of the elite. Beneath his black formal kimono, the scarlet tattoo etched into Itachi's left shoulder itches faintly, a constant reminder of the solemn oath he swore on bent knee to the Hokage the night before. Itachi accepts the congratulations of family and friends with the graciousness expected of the clan head's son, their genteel words washing over him like tepid bath water. But the girl, she remains apart throughout. Itachi is intrigued - he can''t remember ever having seen her before.
So, when the guests are preoccupied with idle conversation and his father's brooding gaze has at last fled Itachi's back, he makes his way to the corner of the garden where she stands beneath a flowering cherry tree and stops a few feet away. A handful of petals litter the ground around her feet, and the air smells of sweet grass and the perfume of flower petals. Itachi thinks vaguely that if he were Shisui, he wouldn't have just walked straight up to this girl. If he were Shisui, he would have spent the entire evening appraising her from a distance, slowly winding his way towards her under the pretense of good company and empty conversation, a detailed beehive dance of coy glances and small smiles that maps the distance of attraction between them. But Itachi is thirteen, and Shisui, already eighteen and tall, has had five years of practice and a number of love interests with which to perfect the art of flirtation. As such, Itachi flatly approaches her and doesn''t say anything, because he always finds too few words for every situation. Instead, he looks at her. She is small-boned and likely the same age as he, with barely a hint of a bosom. If given a few years, she will become one of the Uchiha's more beautiful brides, but of course, Itachi doesn't care. He's more interested in the fine blush creeping along her pale throat beneath his considering gaze.
Itachi knows things. He knows that beneath the fifth tatami mat in the clan shrine there is a secret room, and it is there that his father goes on moonless nights to discuss things better left unsaid. He knows that his mother cries on those nights, her muffled tears echoing against paper walls. He knows that the elders watch him like a cat might watch a hawk, their unacknowledged fear hidden beneath blank, calculating faces; that they send Shisui to stalk him in shadows. And he knows that Shisui knows he has already forfeit his life for a bond and a promise greater than those of blood.
The party blooms around him, and Itachi is pleased to find that though the girl blushes and stutters, she does not avert her gaze. Her eyes are full and green and brimming with a hopeful sort of curiousity that makes Itachi's stomach clench uncomfortably. He takes the last few steps until he is mere inches from her, until he can reach out and touch the silk of her kimono. She catches her breath and turns even redder. Itachi wonders if this will be worth it. But he has precious few months left before he'll draw the village council's edict like a line of fire through the Uchiha, to purge in the name of peace. So he catches her wrist with his hand, tilts his head, and leans in.
In the spring, Itachi steals his first kiss beneath the sakura.
And in the autumn, under the quaking harvest moon, he slits her throat, thinking only of how spring never lasts.